Page 2 of Cashmere Ruin

I can’t facehimnow.

As if reading my mind, the man steps out of the shadows. Slow, at his leisure—as if taking a stroll in the goddamn park.

And then, when he comes in full view, my worst fear is confirmed. When he smiles that horrifying smile, teeth gleaming like fangs, I know there’s no one else this can be.

Only one person.

“You.”

1

APRIL

24 HOURS EARLIER

“Concierge, how can I help you?”

Looping the phone lanyard around my neck like the noose it is, I start folding the towels. Though “folding” is a strong word. An even stronger word? “Towels.” A dirty kitchen rug would be less of a health code violation than whatever passes for cleaning implements around here. One more round in Mrs. Tanner’s germ-breeding excuse for a washing machine, and they’ll end up developing a conscience.

Oh, well. At least that means somebodywould have one in this place. I don’t think my current bosses ever had that problem—certainly not Mrs. Tanner.

Or a soul, for that matter. You’d have better luck scanning for ghosts.

Though I would advise against waving around a blacklight. Some things are better left unseen.

“Bedbugs, you say?” I ask the caller as I pile up the clean laundry. Again, strong word. “Oh, those aren’tbugs, ma’am, notreally. If anything, I’d say they’re bedfeatures. Ever heard of a cat hotel? It’s a bit like that.”

Ms. Room 104 yells into my brain. It’s an ear-splitting screech, a cross between a banshee and a dial-up modem. Nothing I haven’t heard before. Ms. Tanner isn’t big on what we’d call “customer service.”

“A one-star review?” I try my best to gasp, but all I can manage is a yawn. “How terrible. So sorry your experience hasn’t been up to standard. Tell you what: I can recommend a good place to eat. I swear to you, the wontons are todiefor.”

I take the clean(ish) sheets up to the third floor and start my final round of cleaning. If it can even be called that. With how quick Mrs. Tanner expects me to be, it’s a miracle I manage to wash anything at all.

Probably because they weren’t expecting you to actually do it, I realize with a shudder.

I vacuum the carpets (if they can even be called that), strip the beds (again, if they can even be called that), mend a couple of mysterious holes in the sheets (again—), and so on. All the while, the customer keeps yelling my ear off.

Just another Tuesday, really.

“Oh, you—you wantmeto go die?” I blurt out as I empty the bin. I always try not to look, but it’s like watching a train wreck: you don’t want to see it, but you also kind of do. “That’s not very nice, ma’am. If you didn’t like Chinese, you could’ve just said so.”

Then I check under the pillows for drugs.

Not for me, of course. It’s just that the local cartel seems particularly fond of hiding things inside pillowcases, especially ifsaid things are expensive. And against the law. I suppose a motel in the middle of nowhere does make for an ideal storage space.

But I don’t want that kind of trouble here.

I’m done with gang activity. And this may be a short-term, shitty gig, but I don’t want anything jeopardizing it.

For now, at least, I need it.

I need a shitty boss like Mrs. Tanner, willing to turn a blind eye in exchange for me beavering away. As long as I don’t kick up a fuss, or turn up my nose at the—ahem—bedfeaturescrawling all around the place, she’ll let me keep my relatively clean room, my anonymity, and my hard-won freedom by not mentioning me to the authorities.

Or the newborn in my room.

That’s the crux of the matter, really. That’s the reason I don’t want to get involved with anything dangerous—with anyonedangerous—again.

Because it’s not just about me anymore.

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