Page 87 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
Glass crunched under his boots as he surveyed the darkened store. Food lined the shelves, and along the far wall, a beverage refrigerator glowed blue. Overhead, an alarm wailed, the noise barely audible over the drum of rain on the roof. It’d turn off eventually, and he knew it wouldn’t send anyone running in his direction anytime soon. Not unless they had a boat.
He grabbed a bag of Cheetos off the shelf and squatted down against the counter.
Now it was just a waiting game.
* * *
Inglis dropped her suitcase onto the linoleum with a dull thud. “We should get some rest while we still can.”
Jessica watched as he stepped back into the hall to retrieve his bag. But instead of bringing it into the kitchen with hers, he carried it into the lounge and set it carefully on the sagging sofa in the corner.
She frowned. The thing was ancient—water-stained fabric, fraying seams, the base so worn it nearly touched the floor.
“You’re not sleeping on that,” she said. “We can share the mattress.”
He hesitated, jaw working slightly. “Are you sure?”
She exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. It wasn’t like she was propositioning him for a night of wild sex. “Yes, I’m sure.” She bent down to drag her suitcase into the bedroom. “But if you snore, you’re back on the couch.”
Inside the bedroom, they stripped the dusty sheet off the mattress. She tried not to notice the patchwork of old stains, all roughly at groin level. The pillows were worse—mildew-spotted, damp to the touch. She tossed them into the corner.
Without hesitation, Inglis took the worse side of the bed. She stretched out on the other, facing the wall.
Sleep felt impossibly far away. The longer she lay there, the further it drifted.
She glanced over her shoulder. Inglis had his back to her, lying as close to the mattress edge as he could without falling off. He wasn’t sleeping either.
Outside, the storm raged; it crashed against the sides of the house like waves upon a cliff. But in here, in this dark, airless room, it was as if they were in a box at the bottom of the ocean, weighed down by unimaginable pressure.
She stayed perfectly still, fighting the urge to toss and turn. Sleepless nights were never good for her. That was when her past came creeping in, flickering like a cruel film reel behind her eyelids, each scene a reminder of what she’d lost.
Not the house. Not the money. Not even her mother or sister, though she sometimes let herself imagine a fresh start with them.
No.
Mostly, it was two faces.
Sebastián.
Daniel.
Their names were carved into her ribs, pressed deep into the hollow spaces of her chest.
She wiped a hand across her wet cheeks, thinking she’d been silent. But then the mattress dipped.
Inglis sat up carefully.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask if she was okay or offer some useless reassurance. He just rose from the bed, walked to the door, and slipped out, closing it gently behind him.
Jessica let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
She turned onto her back, stared at the ceiling, and went back to counting her losses.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Roach linedup the beer can with the sight on his handgun and pulled the trigger. It exploded like a geyser, spraying beer in a wide arc, then landed on its side and spun until its contents joined the growing puddle on the floor. Fourteen other cans and several ruptured tubes of Pringles made up the snack graveyard.
He picked up the half-empty bottle of Dewars and took a long pull. He’d found it in a drawer in the back office after he’d finished prying the safe from the wall.
