Page 100 of Stalked

“Can't keep driving like this,” I mutter to myself, rubbing my eyes.

When I spot a flickering neon sign advertising the “Sunset Motel” with vacancies, I signal and take the exit. It's a typical roadside place—single-story, rooms facing the parking lot, paint peeling around the edges. But right now, it looks like paradise.

I pull up to the office, grab my purse, and reach for my phone, only to find its screen black and unresponsive. Dead. Perfect timing. I'd been so focused on the road, I hadn't noticed.

The night clerk barely looks up from his magazine as I enter. A small TV behind him plays a rerun of some sitcom, laugh track echoing in the empty office.

“Need a room,” I say, my voice raspy from crying and disuse.

“Single?” He doesn't wait for confirmation before sliding a registration card across the counter. “Sixty-five plus tax.”

I fill out the form mechanically and hand over my credit card. He runs it through the machine, the receipt printing with a whine that makes my head throb.

“Room 14. Down at the end.” He hands me a key attached to a plastic tag. “Check-out's at eleven.”

The room smells of cheap detergent and cigarettes, despite the No Smoking sign on the door. I drop my purse on the bed and lock the door, sliding the security chain into place. My reflection in the bathroom mirror is startling—pale skin, red-rimmed eyes, hair a tangled mess. I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the memories of what I witnessed.

I should call someone—my parents, maybe, to warn them I'm coming. But my phone is dead, and I'm too exhausted to care. Tomorrow. I'll figure everything out tomorrow.

I collapse onto the bed fully clothed, not bothering with the covers. Sleep comes instantly, my body surrendering to exhaustion.

I jolt awake to thunderous banging, my heart racing as I try to orient myself in the unfamiliar room. The digital clock reads ten forty-five PM. I've been asleep for less than an hour.

The pounding continues, relentless.

“Lia! Open the goddamn door!”

Vane. My stomach drops. How did he find me?

I stumble from the bed, momentarily disoriented. Maybe if I stay quiet, he'll think I'm not here. But the banging only grows more insistent.

“I know you're in there. Open up or I break it down.”

Against my better judgment, I move to the door, my hand shaking as I slide off the security chain. I crack it open just enough to confirm my fears.

Vane stands there, his face a storm of fury and worry. His hair is disheveled, his eyes bloodshot. He looks nothing like the controlled, calculating man I saw wielding those pliers hours ago.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” He demands.

I try to slam the door shut, but his boot wedges in the opening. I back away as he forces his way into the room.

“Fuck off, Vane. Leave me alone.” My voice breaks, betraying the terror and heartbreak churning inside me.

He reaches for me, but I flinch violently away from his touch. Those hands—those same hands that tenderly held my face this morning had methodically tortured a man, had cut flesh with practiced precision. I can almost see the blood still beneath his fingernails.

“Don't touch me,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself. “I saw what you do with those hands.”

His expression shifts. “Why were you at the warehouse?”

“I saw everything,” I say, my voice stronger now despite the trembling in my limbs. “I saw what you're capable of. The violence. The... enjoyment.” I shudder at the memory. “How could you?”

Vane's face hardens. “You don't understand what you saw.”

“I understand enough. You tortured that man. You were going to kill him.”

Vane runs a hand through his disheveled hair, his eyes never leaving mine. “You want the truth, Lia? Fine. There's darknessinside me. Violence is part of who I am—who I've always been.” His voice drops lower. “It's how I survived. How my brothers and I built everything we have.”

My back presses against the wall as he takes a step closer.