Killing Mila (wildfire: rewritten)

6. Paranoia

By midnight, the painkillers have completely worn off. My throat burns with each shallow breath and my whole body aches like one giant bruise. Exhausted, I limp out of the bathroom in Room 34, crawling onto the freshly made duvet on the double bed.

I sit with my head bent between my legs, dry-heaving a little, fingers scraping my hair back from my sweat-slick forehead. I know Clay will kill me if he catches me slacking like this, but it's a struggle to muster up the energy to care. I sit like that for a long while, doubled over, forcing myself to suck in slow, even breaths until the pain and dizziness abates a little, and the panicked thoughts crowding my brain retreat to a distant buzz.

Then, somehow, I summon the energy to move. I tidy away my cleaning supplies on the cleaning trolley, tucking the mopping bucket on the bottom tray, wrinkling my nose at the familiar smell of ammonia. I'm just rising to my feet when a car pulls up outside, the headlights illuminating the room in a flash of pale, silver light.

An uneasy feeling steals over me. I stumble to the window, peering out through the blinds. This side of the motel is usually quiet during off-season; given how far it is from reception, most of these rooms go unused, unless someone specifically requests extra privacy. Clay still makes me clean them regularly, though, which means I know exactly how many of them currently lie empty. There's no reason for someone to park out there.

Room 34 is on the second floor, which allows me a bird's eye view of the lone, black sedan with tinted windows parked haphazardly across two spaces beneath the open-air hallway. I watch as one of the car doors opens, and a man wearing a black baseball cap and grey overalls emerges. It's hard to make out his face in the streetlights, but I'm pretty sure I don't recognise him.

My unease grows as he strides to the back of the sedan, whistling to himself. He opens the trunk and withdraws a large toolbox with one hand, then slams the trunk shut with the other.

And then he looks right at me.

I gasp, releasing the blind with a graceless snap. My heart starts to pound. Outside, the whistling continues, along with the trod of heavy footsteps across the tarmac. I tell myself I'm being ridiculous; there are any number of reasonable explanations for his presence. Normally, Clay logs any maintenance visits with our cleaning schedules so we're not underfoot when they're carrying out any works, though night time visits are few and far between – unless it's an emergency. And with my being late – and Lexie's absence – it could easily have slipped Clay's mind to remind me.

But no one has stayed in these rooms for weeks – and I've spent the evening turning on lights and flushing toilets without any issues cropping up. There's no emergency.

There's only me, and what I saw.

A girl dangling from a meat hook, swaying like a storefront sign in a gentle breeze. Blood oozing down her torso. And her insides, bubbling and dissolving in acid.

I back away from the window, lurching toward the cleaning trolley. It takes me three seconds – four, tops – to make sure all of the equipment is secure, before I grab the keycard from the nightstand and hastily smooth away the crinkles on the duvet.

My heart is pounding like a kettle drum as I back out of the door, pulling the trolley with me. The whistling stops below me, but then I hear him start to mount the stairwell.

Swallowing hard, I steer the trolley in the direction of reception and push hard, my wrists rattling as I stride back down the hallway.

"Hey!" I hear him call from behind me. He sounds calm – friendly, even – but I don't slow. "Hey –"

The sound of quickening footsteps pushes my heart into a violent sprint. I stop abruptly and spin to face him, only just managing to keep hold of the rattling trolley. He stands a few paces away, clutching the toolbox, watching me with a bland smile.