Page 7 of Corrupted Queen

“Are you lost?” he asks.

I clear my throat and try what I hope is a friendly smile. “I, uh, saw what happened. I just wanted to come over and say that I’m sorry for your loss.”

Looking at them, you wouldn’t think someone had just wheeled a dead body from their room. The girl stares off somewhere into the distance with glassy eyes, sucking on her cigarette in a way that reminds me of the caterpillar inAlice in Wonderland. I half expect her to turn and blow a perfect smoke ring around my face while asking who I am.

The man answers for both of them. “Thanks, but we didn’t know him. He was looking for a place to crash and had gear on him.” He drags on his cigarette, blowing a thick cloud of smoke toward Harry and me. I angle the stroller away, which brings a smile to the junkie’s cracked lips.

“Was it purple heroin?” I ask.

He nods. “He very kindly died and left us with the rest of his stash.”

“You should be careful.” I don’t know why I bother cautioning him because I can tell that he doesn’t care. He has a mercenary air about him.

The man lets out a hoarse, papery laugh. “Someone has been watching the news. Yeah, I’ll be careful, Mom.”

I frown. “I don’t get it. You know how dangerous it is, but you’re still going to do it?”

“Of course I am,” he says, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “I beg and steal and barter for scraps and dimes. This shit is half as expensive as regular heroin. That just sounds like good economics to me.” He tosses the cigarette on the ground, stomping it out with his stained sneaker. “And if it kills me in the process? I guess that’s a win-win for everybody.”

I doubt the majority of users share his cavalier attitude toward life and death, but it makes sense that they would continue using if they can buy twice as much for the same price. I wish I could sit down with this man for a proper interview. There’s something about him I want to share with the world—something about the combination of his dirty fingernails and the gleam of cunning in his eye.

“Go inside, Sherry,” the man orders the girl.

She floats away and disappears back into their dark nest.

He turns his attention to me. “Now, as for you.” His lips peel back into a menacing smile.

My stomach turns, and I shake my head. “That’s all I wanted to know. Thank you for your time.”

I start heading back toward my room, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I hear his footsteps echoing behind me across the parking lot, and I feel for the knife hidden in the stroller’s handlebar.

I did not expect the situation to take a turn like this, but I’m ready for it. I am never again going to play the part of damsel in distress, and if this guy wants to try one on me, he’s in for an unpleasant surprise.

I make it to the stairs, but his fingers clasp around my wrist. I swing back around, whipping the knife free and holding it at his neck. I glare up at him.

“Let me go,” I say in a cold voice.

His smile drops, and he releases my arm and backs away. “Frigid bitch,” he mutters. “I saw the way you were looking at me. What, are you the type who just likes to flirt with danger?”

This man doesn’t know the first thing about me. I don’t justflirtwith danger. I go all the way with it, fall madly in love with it, and then rip my own heart from my chest just to escape it.

I wield the knife in front of me. “Fuck off.”

He shakes his head but finally leaves. I wait until I see him disappear into his room before I exhale a sigh of relief. I haul Harry’s stroller up the stairs, and when we get back into the room, I set the deadbolt and slide my back down against the door.

I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I have reached a point where I am so bored that I now actively interrogate scary addicts for kicks. That’s not normal.

I fish my phone out of my pocket and dial the number for Debbie. When I was a journalist for theNew York Union,she always assigned me fluff pieces while dangling meaty assignments over my head, and she was the one who promised if I wrote a good article on Gabriel, I could finally have those jobs.

I don’t know why I’m bothering to try her again. I have called her at least twice a week for the past month, left a dozen voice mails, and sent just as many emails. She could be dead for all I know, and that thought sends a ripple of unease down my spine. I hate that I now live in a world where if someone doesn’t return my calls, it is entirely possible that they are lying in a shallow grave somewhere.

Debbie doesn’t answer. No surprise there. I hang up the phone and grab the bottle of wine, shoving it into the ice bucket to cool while I unstrap Harry from the stroller.

My phone rings, nearly vibrating off the desk before I get to it. It’s Debbie.

“Hello?” I answer hesitantly.

“Och, hello to you too,” Debbie says snippily. I have missed the timber of her thick Glaswegian accent. “You could do to sound a little happier to hear from me. You have been harassing me for weeks.”

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