Page 30 of Blood Debt

We stop in front of Room Five.

He taps a keycard. The lock clicks.

The door opens with a gentle push. He holds it open for me without a word.

I bow my head. “Grazie, signore,” I murmur, barely above a whisper.

He nods, then walks away.

I don’t exhale until his footsteps vanish.

The scent of linen and cleaning solution lingers in the quiet. The room is plain but immaculate. A single bed sits beneath the far wall, the sheets folded in corners. A wardrobe, modest in size, rests to the left. A small desk beside the window. Pale curtains drawn halfway, filtering out the gold of the late afternoon sun.

My steps are soft on the tile.

I walk toward the wardrobe, pass the bed—turn slightly. My eyes drift upward. A small black disc sits flush against the crown molding.

Camera One.

I continue, chin lifting just enough to catch the smoke detector above the desk. The lens is smaller, set behind frosted plastic.

Camera Two.

I nod internally. Expected. Narrow angle. Just enough to see what matters. Just enough to make someone forget it’s there.

I maintain the act—quiet, passive. A maid with no history. No opinions. No reason to raise concern.

My fingers brush the edge of the desk. I turn toward the bathroom door.

The tile squeaks faintly beneath my shoes.

The bathroom is lit softly—an overhead bulb casting long shadows across pale walls and ivory tile. The mirror above the sink is small, rimmed with dull chrome. The shower curtain hangs motionless.

I scan—corners, vent, beneath the counter.

No lens. No wiring. No sound. I close the door.

The sound of the latch engaging feels louder than it is.

I let the silence settle—then I sink.

One knee. Then the other. Legs folding beneath me.

My body lowers onto the tile. Cold, clean. My palms splay flat against the floor. My shoulders shudder. My breath is clipped.

My lungs don’t fill. The air sticks in my chest, heavy and sharp. I gasp—soft, fractured. Again. Short, uneven.

My fingers curl into fists against the tile. My forehead drops forward to rest on the space between them.

My body pulses. I’m not breathing right.

The panic curls around my ribs like wire, squeezing tighter with every ragged inhale. I try to swallow. I can’t. My throat tightens.

A tear slips hot down my cheek.

Him.

Of all people—him. That man. That night. That stranger.