Fully Loaded - Blake Crouch [74]
Music bled through from the next room, something mid-tempo and synthesized from the 80’s—Air Supply or worse.
They kept dancing after the music had stopped, a mutual drunken stagger, Arnold working them back toward the wall, where his hand fumbled for the light dimmer.
She woke in the middle of the night with a violent thirst, and even lying on a pillow it felt like someone had caved her skull in while she slept, the red digits of the alarm clock continually descending into place, like the endless motion of a barbershop pole. The bulk of a man snored beside her, his rank breath warming the back of her neck. She lay naked with a cover twisted between her legs. Couldn’t recall passing out. The events after returning to this room lay in shards of memory—slamming shots of Absolut out of tiny bottles. A fast, hard fuck that didn’t approach the hype. She wondered if she’d said anything to undermine the evening’s lies, and just the threat of it, considering the man whose bed she shared, broke a cold sweat across her forehead. She shut her eyes. Heard her father’s voice—all cigarette growl and whiskey-tongued—that whispered to her on nights like these, lying in the beds of strange men and the darkness spinning, or a lonely cell, cursing her back to sleep. Words that, deep in her heart, she knew were true.
Threads of light stole in around the blinds.
9:12 a.m.
A line of painful brilliance underscored the bathroom door, the shower rushing on the other side. She sat up in bed and threw back the covers and brought her palms to her temples, pressing against the vibrant ache.
Out of bed, onto her feet, listing and nauseated. Stepped into her knit cashmere dress and pulled the straps over her shoulders. Last time she’d seen that leather briefcase full of money, it was sitting on the floor beside the loveseat, but it had since been moved. She got down on her hands and knees and peered under the couch, then under the bed.
Nothing.
As she opened the closet, Arnold yelled from the shower, “Letty, you up?”
The briefcase leaned against the wall on the top shelf inside the closet, and she had to rise on the balls of her feet to grasp it.
“Letty!”
Pulled the briefcase down, walked over to the bathroom door.
“Yeah, I’m up,” she said.
“How do you feel?”
“Like death.”
She squatted down, fingering the clasps on the briefcase.
“I didn’t mention it last night,” he said, “but I’ve got this meeting to go to.”
“This morning?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Is this with the think tank?”
“Yeah, exactly.”
Her thumbs depressed two buttons. The clasps released.
“I wanted to have breakfast with you,” she said and opened the case.
“We could do dinner.”
Twenty-five thousand in cash didn’t look all that impressive—just five slim packets of hundos.
“You staying here tonight?” she asked, lifting one, flipping through the crisp, clean bills, breathing in the ink and the paper.
“I would,” he said, “if you wanted to get together again.”
The shower cut off. She heard the curtain whisk back. Tossed the packet into the briefcase, grabbed the manila folder, leafed through the contents: floor plan, house key, one page of typewritten notes, and a black-and-white photograph of a woman who couldn’t have been more than a year or two past thirty. The shot was candid, or trying to be, Daphne in the foreground, in startling focus, surrounded by clusters of blurry rhododendron. Her hair long, black, straight. Skin preternaturally pale. A remote and icy beauty.
Arnold was toweling off now.
“We could definitely meet for dinner tonight,” Letty said as she scanned the address on the page of notes: 712 Hamlet Court.
The tiny motor of an electric razor started up. She closed the briefcase. Her heels lay toppled on the carpet at the foot of the bed, and she stepped into them, slung her duffle bag onto her shoulder.
“Maybe we could grab dinner downtown,” Arnold said over the whine of his razor. “I’d like to see