Page 90 of Roaming Holiday

NINA

Maximo shoves and locks me into an office next door.

A sob rips from my throat. Wesley has killed people. He hunted them. My stomach turns as I realize that the same hands that caressed me had taken lives.

Had he strangled someone the way Anton Robert tried with me?

I touch my neck with trembling fingers, shutting my eyes as tears escape.

But all I can picture is how attentive he was to me that night. The necklace, my hair pins, washing my hair, playing a card game.

That’s my Wesley.

I trust him. The pleading in his eyes before Maximo took me away was genuine. He is genuine. I hold my hand against my stomach and steady my breath.

I can’t stay here and let them torture Wesley. The thought of him getting any more scars fills me with rage.

The room has a tiny window and a desk with a jacket strewn over the arm of a small couch. I scan the room for an idea—anything—that might help us. Arlo said to put me next door, and we only walked about a hundred feet down the hallway. I crank open the window only to see nothing between the ledge and concrete five floors below. With a huff, I shut the window and empty my crossbody bag onto the desk. Hand lotion, hand sanitizer, a lighter, a hair tie, my wallet, and a bracelet. I bought the lighter and bracelet at a souvenir shop; the former is probably more helpful here.

I need a distraction and a way to get to Wesley. I could try to unlock the door with the bobby pin, but I know nothing about picking locks. The lighter could be useful; do I really want to set a fire? I glance around the office again. It’s not abandoned; someone works in here at least sporadically. There’s a mug, a cup of pens, and a notepad. I yank open the drawers to find sticky notes, more pens, an empty stapler, and—jackpot. Literally. I pull out a bottle of half-empty Jack Daniels whisky. If I go the fire route, this will be essential.

Possible distraction, check.

Now, I need to reach Wesley.

The window isn’t an option. Is there an air duct? Hopefully one like the movies, large and sturdy and a direct path to where I need to go.

Yes, but no.

In the upper corner of the room, there’s an air duct that looks about as wide as my hips. And not an inch bigger.

“Fuck.”

It’s not screwed in, so I only have to tug it from the wall after standing on the chair. I perch as high as I can on my toes, straining my ear for any sign of other voices.

“Who was?—”

The distant voice, followed by muffled noises, is faint but I know it’s Arlo. His extreme rasp is distinct. After slowly pushing the couch in front of the door and the desk under the duct, I tie my hair into a low bun. I climb up high and crawl into the tight space.

I hate letting any part of my skin touch a public chair or wall, and I’m shoving my entire body into a building’s air duct that likely hasn’t been cleaned in years and has dead bugs—or worse—inside.

A shudder runs through me as the space gets tighter. Go someplace else. Picture somewhere new. As I wiggle ahead toward the voices, I squint and pretend I’m under a blanket. A really large fucking blanket. Sparks slice up my core as panic strikes. I can’t.

Not here.

I pause and shut my eyes, flicking back to my night with Wesley. My breath staggers in my chest. It was more than the sex. It was the comfort that wrapped around my heart from knowing I’m loved.

But the quick, cutting reminder of what Arlo is doing to Wesley urges me ahead. Anger is a much better motivator.

After ten minutes of wiggling, I finally reach the room where Wesley is. I passed a couple of suspicious… things on the way—a dead roach or something alike—but I closed my eyes each time. There’s an alcove in the duct that reveals Wesley, Arlo, and Maximo below.

“You want this over with, I want this other with. Tell me who killed Santiago.”

Wesley says nothing. Maximo winds back and punches him across the face. In the stomach. In the chest. I squeeze my eyes shut and fight the sob threatening to release at the sounds of Wesley’s labored breathing.

Behind my eyelids, I see the evening we spent at his grandparents’ house. I see him staring back at me, promising that no one would ever hurt me again. The invasive sounds of flesh punching flesh blur the memories. Wesley coughs, struggling to catch his breath. I hear Arlo chuckle.

“Following you the past month was fun,” Arlo says. “Watching you fall in love with the woman you’re supposed to protect. Tricking yourself into thinking it could last. You’re ex-communicado. A shunned soldier. What was it Santi said to me? Ah.” He lowers in front of Wesley. “He’s useful for one thing. Killing who I tell him to. It’s interesting. Everyone says you’re the deadliest man there is, but all I watched you do is hold Miss Laffley’s purse and look at her like she’s the eighth wonder of the world.” He leans closer. “Tell me who shot my brother so I don’t have to kill her the same way.”

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