My feet seem glued to the floor as I watch Sloane stride down the hallway, tossing the strap of her bag across her body as she goes.
“Gotta be… what?” I jog after her and match her stride, examining her profile as she marches down the hallway with a shit-eating smirk. “‘Be somewhere?’ Where?”
“Somewhere, Rowan. Or did you forget this is a competition?” she asks. She tries to hide that growing grin but she can’t.
My heart slams my chest wall as I realize she’s a little more done up than usual. A white cashmere sweater. Her makeup is the same as she’s worn it the last three days since we arrived, with winged eyeliner and black mascara and matte red lipstick, but she’s changed out her multiple earrings to a different set of gold pieces, some with stones that shine beneath her dark locks.
My mouth goes bone dry.
“Are you going on a date?” I ask as we turn a corner and head for the wide stairway that leads to the lobby.
Sloane sighs. “I wouldn’t call it a date, per se…”
“Then where are you going? You know, for like…safety purposes and whatnot…”
Sloane snorts. “You think I need your protection, pretty boy?”
No. But also yes.
“I should come with you, just in case. Wouldn’t want something like Briscoe’s to happen again,” I say as we enter the lobby. Sloane draws to a halt and turns to face me.
“No, Rowan, you can’t come. What if it is a date? That would be so awkward.” She pats my chest and grins. “Don’t worry, I’ll fill you in on all the gory details later.”
With a final tap on my chest that’s really more like a slap, she turns and strides away.
“But… I was the one who was supposed to be gloating,” I call after her as she reaches the lobby exit.
“Sorry, not sorry,” she chimes. She flips me the bird before she slips through the doors, leaving only an echoing thud behind.
I stand in her wake, stunned. A wave of confusion and worry and jealousy crashes through my chest. In one fell swoop, I’ve been filled with a fucking ocean of it.
What the fuck?
“Sloane,” I call out after her, marching to the door. I thrust it open with more force than necessary and let it hit the door stopper with a satisfying thud of wood against the rubber-coated metal. “Sloane, goddammit…”
I look left and right. I hold my breath and listen.
Nothing.
My hand drives through my hair. I’m not sure if I’m more irritated that I might be on the losing end of our first game, or that Sloane is on a maybe-date with some wanker from buttfuck nowhere.
I strain to hear anything but crickets, but there’s still no sign of Sloane.
“Fuck.”
I barrel toward the lobby door and toss it open with more force than necessary as I stalk back into the hotel and head to my room. I pace there for a while as I consider my options. Maybe I should go out and find the local pub and get shitfaced. But what if she runs into someone like Briscoe or Watson? Briscoe must have landed a lucky hit—the bloke was as sedentary as a fucking boulder. But Watson was a crafty bastard. What if she’s cornered by someone like that? What if she’s trapped and I can’t find her? What if she calls for help and I’m pissed drunk at the tavern singing Country Roads?
I never expected I’d be pacing my room as I stress over the whereabouts of the fucking Orb Weaver, my heart racing and palms sweaty, worried about whether she might get hurt.
The ding of an incoming text is the only thing that stops me from wearing a hole into the floor.
I’m fine.
I snort.
I wasn’t concerned.
A complete lie, obviously. I sit on the edge of the bed as I try to resist the urge to resume my track across the room, my knee bouncing.
Oh good.
In that case, don’t wait up!
“What the fuck…”
I barely temper the urge to hurtle my phone against the wall, electing to clutch it in an iron grip and punch the mattress instead. It’s wildly unsatisfying to punch a fucking mattress, by the way.
So I resume pacing.
After a while, I give up on the walking and try to do some research on the local area, but I come up with next to nothing, just like all my efforts over the past three days. The only thing I’ve found of significance is a handful of news articles. Random stories, nothing to tie the pieces to a suspect. A missing hiker, just like Francis said. Another dead body in a ravine. A car with New York plates dredged from the Kanawha River. How the fuck Lachlan put together that there’s a serial killer in the area, I have no idea. In fact, I’m starting to think he sent us here as a hoax.