Page 21 of Little Spider

I hit send, watching as she flinches when her phone vibrates. She doesn’t check it right away, just curls tighter, like it might protect her.

When the bus pulls up to the next stop, she stumbles off, looking over her shoulder, as if she knows. I stay on for another block, then slip out the back, keeping to the shadows.

She’s heading to the motel at the edge of the district. Smart. Or it would be if I hadn’t already paid the guy at the front desk to let me know when she checked in.

I lean against the side of the building across the street, watching her struggle with the motel door, her hands still shaking. The moment she disappears inside, I let out a breath, the tension winding through me like a coiled wire.

I light another cigarette, the smoke swirling around me. I’ll let her settle in. Let her think she’s safe again.

Then, I’ll remind her that no lock, no door, no room will ever keep me out.

I hum softly, the melody slipping from my lips like a promise.

“Incy wincy spider, weaving through the night,

Little spider’s running, but she’ll never leave my sight.

Caught up in the web now, every thread’s my own.

And when the night is over, she’ll know she’s not alone.”

I can’t help but grin as I watch the motel light flicker through her window.

Tomorrow, I’ll make her see me. Really see me.

And when she does, I’ll make sure she knows—no more running.

Once a spider catches something, it cannot escape.

I wait. I can wait for a very long time.

As the night deepens and the city thins out, the stragglers stumble home from bars; cabs slow at red lights with drivers nodding off behind the wheel. I lean against the cold brick wall, letting the cigarette burn low between my fingers, eyes fixed on the motel window.

The curtains are drawn tight, but her pacing back and forth is clearly visible. She’s nervous. Good. Fear makes people predictable.

I tap out a message on my phone.

Are you comfortable, Little Spider? Do you feel safe?

I see her pause, head snapping toward the phone. She hesitates before picking it up, and I almost laugh. I can picture the way her hands are shaking, how she’s biting her lip raw. She reads it. Doesn’t reply.

I expected that. She’s learning, trying to take control back. It’s cute.

My phone buzzes. A message from my guy at the front desk.

She asked for an extra lock. Should I give it to her?

I smirk, typing back.

Sure. Let her think it’ll help.

I toss the cigarette, grind the ember out under my heel, and push off the wall, making my way to the side of the building where the fire escape creaks in the wind. The rusty metal groans as I climb, slipping through the shadows until I’m level with her window.

She’s still pacing, phone clutched to her chest, muttering to herself like she’s working through a plan. I can’t hear her, but I don’t need to. I know that look—desperation mixed with hoping she’s not really losing her mind.

I dig out my phone, snapping a quick photo through the gap in the curtains. Her body turned away, head bowed, like a doll left abandoned. I send it.

Her reaction is instantaneous—she drops the phone, stumbling back until she hits the bed, eyes wide and darting. I watch as she picks it up, face pale even in the dim light.