Page 138 of Wicked Dreams

I sigh. “What kind of secret?”

“What happened to Margo’s dad? Where’syourmom? You’ve been bottled up about all of it for so long?—”

I grab her by the throat and shove her against the passenger window. She makes a gurgling noise, fingers scrambling on my hand.

“You’re going to cut the fucking shit, Amelie, and then you’re going to leave.” I lean in, trying to curb the urge to squeeze until she turns purple. “And if you don’t, I’ll tell everyoneyourdirty little secret.”

Her eyes widen.

The fear I’ve been craving flashes across her face.

Honestly… it doesn’t do as much as I thought it would. Margo’s fear has ruined me.

“Okay,” Amelie wheezes. “Jesus. Room thirty-one.”

“See how easy that was?” I release her, then lean around her and open the door.

She falls out of my car, landing on her ass with her feet in the air. She glares at me for a long minute, seeming to want to say something.

Now’s not the time, and I’m not the person.

I make a shooing motion. “Run along, Page.”

She climbs to her feet and purses her lips. Without a word, she storms off.

I head to the second floor, where room thirty-one awaits.

The lights are off, but I bang on the door anyway. It’s late. Maybe she’s sleeping. I wait a minute, then try again.

“Caleb?”

I turn. Amber Wolfe stands at the top of the stairs. Her dark hair is in a high bun, and there’s dirt smudged on her forehead. She wears an absurd number of layers. A hoodie under another sweatshirt with a jacket on top, and a scarf wrapped around her throat. There’s probably another shirt underneath, too.

“Thought that was you.” She comes closer, shuffling her feet.

I step back and let her unlock the door.

Her fingers tremble on the painted wood. She’s frailer than I would’ve thought. Her eyes are sunken. Her cheeks are sucked in.

We enter the room, and she unwinds her scarf.

I bite the inside of my cheek. There’s a ring of bruises around her neck.

Handprints.

It strikes me that I should be concerned. And yet, I can’t muster any sympathy for the train wreck of a woman in front of me.

Disgust travels up my throat.

Even through the addiction, the similarities between her and Margo are obvious. They have the same hair, the same smile. Same face shape, even though Margo’s still has traces of her childhood in her cheeks, and her mother’s is extreme in the opposite direction.

“What brings you here?” She goes to the mini fridge, kneeling and pulling out a bottle. She offers me one. “Come to steer me right, son?”

“Don’t call me that,” I snap. “And no, I’m not.”

She giggles. She removes her jacket, revealing a sweater that she probably got from a thrift store. It’s two sizes too big and hangs on her frame, even with the hoodie under it. She starts taking off the sweater, too. The stream of noise coming out of her seems uncontrolled. Her movements around the room are jerky.

Nausea turns my stomach.

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