Chapter 3: Hallway With No Footsteps
Marta didn't move from the doorway. Her cart was wedged half into the room, one wheel locked against the marble threshold, and she kept both hands on the handle like it was the only thing keeping her standing. The two men had taken those two steps back, but not far enough. The shaved one was still close enough that I could see the zipper pull on his leather jacket catching the window light.
I was upright against the wall now. My back had found the plaster while Marta was shouting, and I'd dragged myself up without remembering how. My hands were still at my collar, holding the blue piping closed. The fabric was stretched out of shape where he'd pulled it.
The front hall was behind them. If I ran for the front door I'd have to pass both of them and then cover twenty feet of open marble with nothing between us. I'd seen how fast he moved across that floor. He'd be on me before I got to the entry table.
The bathroom was three feet to my left. En-suite, pocket door, lock I'd used a hundred times.
I pushed off the wall and went left.
The shaved man turned with me. "Whoa, hey — hey, you're okay, let me —" He stepped forward, hand half-raised like he was going to help, his voice suddenly soft and concerned. It was worse than the shouting.
Marta shoved the cart forward two inches. The metal edge hit his shin.
"Don't follow her," she said. Her English broke a little when she was scared. "You stay. Stay there."
He looked down at the cart, then at her, and his face tightened. He didn't push past it, but he didn't back up either. The other one, the one with the long hair and the vest, had his hands up now, palms out, like this was all a misunderstanding.
"She's upset," he said to Marta. "We're just trying to talk."
I had my hand on the bathroom door frame. My legs felt like they weren't mine. I slipped inside and pulled the pocket door closed.
The lock was a small brushed nickel thumb turn. I turned it. It clicked.
For a second I just stood there with my forehead against the wood, listening to my own breathing. It was loud in the tile. Too loud. I could hear every inhale catching in my throat and then letting go in a shaky puff. I hadn't realized I'd been holding it.
The bathroom was cold. White tile, same marble as the bedroom but smaller squares, the large window from the bedroom continued here as a frosted glass panel up high. Warm daylight cut across the sink in a hard rectangle. My phone was on the counter where I'd left it that morning, face down next to the soap.
I picked it up with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. My collar had come open again. In the mirror over the sink I could see what he'd done. The light pajamas had a small dark pattern I couldn't name right then, and the blue piping along the placket was twisted. The fabric was pulled so the top button gaped, and there were red marks on my chest where my own knuckles had pressed and where his fingers had dragged. On my shoulder, a separate red print where the other man's hand had gripped me from behind.
I didn't change. I didn't wipe anything. I opened the camera.
The first photo was blurry because my hand moved. I braced my elbow against the sink and tried again. I held the collar open just enough to show the stretched fabric and the redness underneath, and took three shots of my chest, then turned sideways for the shoulder. The shutter sound was loud in the quiet. I took one of the pajama bottoms too, where I'd been on the floor and the marble had left a cold imprint on my knee.
My breathing fogged the mirror a little with each exhale. I could hear them outside, muffled through the door.
"Come on, Marta, move the cart," the shaved man said, that concerned voice cracking a little. "She's freaking out in there for no reason. Let me talk to her."
"You stay out," Marta answered. She was closer to the door now. I could picture her holding that cart like a barricade. "I call Mr. Lancaster. You stay."
"We didn't do anything," the long-haired one said. "Ask her. She hit him first."
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No one knocked. He didn't try the handle, which scared me more than if he had. He just stayed there on the other side, talking like he was being reasonable, waiting for me to unlock it myself.
I locked the phone and held it against my chest. The pajama top was still bunched in my other fist. The tile was cold through my socks. I slid down until I was sitting on the bath mat with my back against the tub, knees up, phone in hand, breathing audible in that small room, and stayed there where the lock and Marta were between me and them.
