Page 25 of Ruin My Life
I told him that once. He took it as a compliment.
“I’m not really supposed to give out customer information,” Lilly says cautiously. “Not without permission.”
“I get that,” I say, nodding. “Rules are rules.”
I reach into my jacket and pull out a business card, laying it gently on the counter.
“If your boss gives you trouble, tell him to call me. Actually—have him call me anyway, so I can ask why he hasn’t turned the damn heat on for you.”
Her brows rise slightly.
I glance at the thermostat behind her—locked in a clear plexiglass case.
I nod once toward it.
Monroe moves without hesitation. He walks over, flips his pocketknife, and smashes the lock with the handle. The plexiglass box swings open, and he cranks the heat up to something more humane.
Lilly stares.
Then—just barely—she smiles.
She takes the business card and places it beside her monitor, then types something into her ancient beige keyboard. “Mr. Pietro is in Room 209,” she says. “Last door on the second floor.”
“Appreciate it.” I nod once. “Enjoy the heat.”
I give her a wink and head for the door.
The metal stairs creak beneath our weight as we climb to the second floor, the wind scraping past rusted railings and flickering hallway lights.
As we pass each closed door, a sound cuts through the cold—quiet at first, then clearer.
A woman’s cry.
Not sadness.
Pain.
I quicken my pace, my leather shoes hitting the concrete faster with each step until we reach Room 209.
ADo Not Disturbsign sways from the brass handle like a bad joke.
Her crying fractures again, interrupted by the sharp bark of a man’s voice—Oswald’s. A slurred command toshut upandstay still.
I slam my fist against the door.
The yelling stops. Only the faint whimpering remains.
“Can’t you read the sign?” Oswald snaps from the other side, his voice thick with arrogance.
Connor leans in beside me, speaking smoother than I’veeverheard him. “Apologies, Mr. Pietro. We’re with the front desk. There’s an issue with your credit card that needs your attention.”
Footsteps shuffle closer before the door cracks open.
He’s wrapped in a yellow motel robe, holding a credit card like a peace offering. “Here, try this—”
Then his eyes land on me.
And the colour drains from his face.
