Page 6 of Corrupted Queen

I decided to play it a little risky this time, setting up camp in Newark after our brief stint in Philly. It’s close enough to the city for Gabriel to toss a rock at me, but hopefully because of that, it is also one of the last places he will look.

I flick on the TV, surfing the channels while Harry sits between my legs on the bed, chewing on a plastic set of keys.

In the movies, when people are on the run, it always looks exciting. Eating Chinese food while bathed in the flickering light of the television, glancing furtively around every corner, rotating through a handful of crafty disguises.

In reality, it’s boring as hell.

I spend most of my days inside, playing with Harry, doing yoga while trying not to think about the stains on the carpet, watching mindless daytime TV, and practicing catching cheese puffs in my mouth. I feel like my brain is starting to rot from lack of use.

I’m also starting to worry about Harry. Normally, he’s full of laughter and loves nothing more than to make a mess and cuddle with his mom. Over the past week or so, though, I have started to notice a change in him, as though an internal light is dimming.

It scares me.

I land on the news, where a banner at the bottom announces that New York City is in crisis. Relaxing back against the pillows, I pluck the half-eaten bag of Doritos from the bedside table and toss a couple into my mouth as I watch.

A well-groomed news reporter with a strawberry-blonde bob and peach lipstick is delivering a report on something called purple heroin. I’ve seen mentions of the drug here and there over the past couple of weeks, but I never thought much of it. Apparently, we are in the grip of a purple heroin crisis.

“The drug is especially potent due to the addition of carfentanil,” the newscaster explains. “Carfentanil is ten thousand times stronger than morphine, and due to its potency, there is an alarming rate of overdoses among users of purple heroin. There has been a 30 percent rise in reported overdoses within the past week, with 80 percent of those cases resulting in death.”

I sit forward, watching intently. The crunch of the Doritos is making it harder to hear so I crank up the volume of the TV as they cut in footage of dark, grimy streets with addicts huddled together.

“The additional demand is exhausting emergency services throughout New York City, which is, so far, the epicenter of the epidemic. State officials fear the drug may soon spread to other highly populated cities along the East Coast. They urge police to crack down on the supply and distribution channels.”

This seems serious.

My hand goes to Harry, smoothing over his head, and I notice that he is watching the TV as well, having abandoned the keys entirely. I know he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing, but I can’t help but think he looks troubled, somehow.

I flick the TV to the kids channel, and bright colors burst from the screen where before there was darkness and fear. Harry looks up at me, smacking his lips, but still doesn’t smile. Does he miss Gabriel, I wonder? I never know what sticks in his little brain.

“Mommy needs a drink,” I say, leaning over to kiss his head.

I unfold myself from the bed and go to the fridge, where earlier today I stashed a bottle of gas station Pinot Grigio. The sun is still high in the sky outside, but it’s five o’clock somewhere. Besides, it’s not like I have anywhere to be.

I open the fridge and am dismayed to find the bottle lukewarm to the touch. As luck would have it, the fridge is just as broken as the vending machine outside. I sigh and turn to Harry.

“Want to go on an adventure?”

Though I am willing to start drinking in the middle of the day, I refuse to sink to drinking warm wine. There is an ice machine near the broken vending machine, and as long as I don’t get any of it in the wine, I should be able to avoid catching hepatitis.

I pop Harry into his stroller and grab the ice bucket from the desk. We journey out to the external hallway and down the stairs to the parking lot, making a beeline for the large white machine humming merrily next to the other set of stairs. The glass in the vending machine beside it is cracked, spiderweb fissures radiating from the central blow.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear sirens. The whole scene should make me feel quite uneasy, but after being captured, bound, and tortured by an Irish mob boss, I feel safer in most environments than perhaps I should. Yeah, this motel is sketchy as hell—but at least I’m not tied to a chair in a windowless room where no one can hear me scream.

I start scooping ice into the bucket. The siren grows louder, until it is no longer a part of the background noise and instead screeches through the air around me. I turn back and see an ambulance squeal into the parking lot. Just as the noise is about to become too much, the siren flicks off and a man and woman jump from the cab. The woman runs into a room on the ground floor, a black bag slung over her shoulder, while the man unpacks a stretcher from the back.

Harry is watching the scene with interest. Loud noises like sirens used to make him cry, but he has cried a lot less since our run-in with Andrew Walsh. Perhaps, like me, the experience galvanized his nerves, which is a horrible thing to happen to a child.

He should jump at shadows and spooky noises. He shouldn’t know yet about the real monsters lurking in the dark.

I balance the full ice bucket in the basket of the stroller and turn to watch the scene play out. Other residents have opened their doors, curious about the ruckus, and we all watch as the paramedics roll out the stretcher, a white sheet pulled across the body and face of the person on top of it. They do not rush.

I turn Harry away, even though he does not know that the shape under the sheet is a dead body. The ambulance drives away, and the curious guests slip back into their rooms.

Well, most of them do. I am surprised to see the door the paramedics went through slide open. A skinny, tattooed man lopes out, a disheveled woman dressed in all black following close behind. They huddle together outside the door and light up cigarettes.

I know I should just go back inside—put my wine on ice, browse through the phone book for some takeaway, maybe find a nice movie on TV—but it is as though a string attached to my rib cage is tugging me toward them.

I sigh and give in, walking toward the man and woman with measured strides. Their eyes flick to me instantaneously, glimmering with suspicion as I approach. Neither of them look like they have bathed in a long time, and their skin droops loose and papery from their bones. The man, who looks anywhere between thirty and eighty, grins at me with yellow, gnarled teeth.

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