Page 90 of Mayhem and Minnie

Minnie remains in front of the door, studying it. I can tell the wheels in her brain are turning.

She’s a smart girl. If she brushes her hand against the right part of the door, a screen will light up, asking for log-in credentials.

Fuck.

Then I’ll be truly fucked.

Odd how my last concern is the fact that she might go to the cops. No, my only concern is how she’ll react if she knows this side of me.

So what if she also hurt someone in the past? That was legitimate self-defense. What I’m doing here might technically be considered self-defense by proxy since I’m defending her and women like her, but I doubt she’d understand my reasoning.

Lately, I barely understand it myself.

She touches the door again, dangerously close to the screen.

This is it. I need to make a decision.

Taking off my goggles, gloves, surgical gown, and all the stained equipment, I dump them on top of one of the buckets and cover them neatly with the towel.

The plan is to convince her to go back without inquiring about this room. The Pollockesque charade is a last resort.

Making sure I look presentable and that there’s not one drop of blood on my body or clothes, I go out.

I open the door and close it behind me, not giving Minnie any time to see what’s inside.

“Marlowe!” Minnie squeaks, jumping back when she sees me. “What are you doing?”

“Why are you here, Minnie? You should be sleeping.”

“I didn’t hear you come home,” she mentions. “Where were you?”

“Who says I went anywhere?” I counter.

“Your car was gone.”

I smirk.

The little heathen’s been tracking my movements? Beneath that facade of nonchalance lies some interest.

“I was out.” I shrug.

She glares at me.

“Out where?” she asks in a low voice.

“You ask a lot of questions for someone who’s barely spoken to me this week, Minnie,” I note.

“Where were you?” she repeats more emphatically, taking a step toward me. Her eyes blaze at me, so much so I feel like she’s going to jump me any moment now.

“Do I have to give you a rundown of all my whereabouts?” I raise a brow.

“Where?” she asks again, aggression oozing from her tone.

I roll my eyes and sigh.

“If you must know, I was at a pub.”

“You don’t drink,” she mentions, her eyes narrowed.

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