Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
I tuck the empty syringe and the dirty napkin in my pocket and stand. A quick scan of the immediate area shows it’s still empty.
Time to make my delivery.
I hurry up the steps and walk down the long corridor, trying to stay in the shadows. I stop outside his room and crouch down to grab my small camera. No reason to leave evidence that could lead straight back to me.
Once I unfasten the camera and stick it in my pocket, I tap my knuckles against the door. My heart pounds wildly and an invisible band of fear tightens around my forehead—or maybe my wig’s too tight. Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck.
“Just leave it!” someone barks from inside.
I pitch my voice into something worthy of a helium-drunk cartoon character and garble a few nonsense words.
“What?” The door flies open.
Face-to-face with evil, he’s not all that impressive. Just another pathetic excuse for a human who enjoys taking out his anger on those who are weaker than him.
“Patrick?” I ask sweetly, holding up the bag.
His hostile attitude switches to interest as his gaze lands and stays on my chest.
“That’s me.” He opens the door wider. “Come on in.”
“Oh, we’re not allowed to.” I giggle like an airhead.
“Aww, come on, you can break the rules for a minute.” He snatches the bag out of my hand and peers inside, then back at me. “I just gotta grab my wallet for a tip.”
A ditzy, and possibly deranged, smile spreads over my face, “Sure, okay, then.”
I follow him inside, stopping to wad a piece of napkin into the lock so the door doesn’t close all the way.
The room’s disgusting—dirty clothes strewn everywhere, overflowing trash can of takeout bags, boxes, and wrappers—but Patrick seems to have no shame about inviting a stranger inside.
He sets the bag on a round table next to the curtained window and pulls out the milkshake.
My breathing freezes. Blood pounds through my ears in a steady, terrified rhythm.
He doesn’t so much as frown at the wilted whipped cream.
Come on, fucker. Take a sip.
He pokes a straw into the hole at the top of the dome and sucks a long, frosty pull from the cup.
A slow exhale passes my lips.
Fentanyl is an extremely potent opioid. With the amount swirling around in that cup, he should feel it soon.
He smacks his lips and sets the cup down. “What’d you say your name was?” he asks.
“Ashley.” I wait for his reaction.
A flicker of recognition at the name his wife chose for their daughter crosses his face, then disappears with a shrug of his shoulders.
Not one fuck given.
A wallet rests in the center of the table. He picks it up, flips it open and pulls out two dollar bills.
Really, you brought me in the room for two dollars?
He drops the wallet on the table and picks up the milkshake again.
Giddiness surges through me as he takes another long sip.
Lap it up, scumbag.
Still holding the cup, he approaches me with his arm outstretched, pushing the money at my face.
I swipe the dollars out of his grasp.
His gaze narrows on my gloved hand and his forehead wrinkles.
“What’re you...” He blinks rapidly and sways on his feet.
“Thanks for the tip.” I stuff it in my pocket.
As if he’d downed a case of beer, he staggers to the messy, rumpled bed and drops onto the edge. He sucks on the straw again.
The sugar rush isn’t going to clear your head. A giggle slips past my lips, and he frowns in confusion.
“What’s…” He clutches his stomach and the cup tips precariously to the side.
“Whoa, mister.” I grab the cup. No reason to spill potential evidence all over the place. “Maybe we should get some food in you instead of all that sugar?”
“Yeah…gimme one dem hot dogs,” he slurs and vaguely points toward the table.
“Sure thing.” Keeping as much distance between us as I can in the small room, I scurry to the table, set down the cup and unwrap one of the hot dogs.
“Here ya go.” I press the revolting onion-smothered hot dog to his lips.
His eyelids droop but he opens his mouth and takes a bite, sloppily chewing.
“How’s that?” I ask, peering into his eyes. “Better?”
“No.” He clutches his stomach and stretches his mouth into a wide yawn, like he can’t draw in enough air.
“Want some chili?” I ask.
“N…no.” He waves his hand through the air frantically.
I set the hot dog back on the table and stand with my back to the window, watching him struggle to breathe.
“Help…me…”
“No thank you,” I say sweetly.
Wretched choking sounds tear at his throat. He slides off the bed, hitting the floor with his knees and flopping over on his side.
I approach slowly, still wary he might be onto me and faking.
“This death is too good for you,” I whisper, staring down at him.