Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
The mud squeaks underneath the white sneakers, and they’re no longer white. My body starts shivering under the harsh wind, but I pay no mind to it. My only goal is to fucking find who’s behind the message and the video, although I have a pretty good idea who it might be.
It’s two or more people. The hospital is an hour away from the abandoned hotel they requested me to go to, and I highly doubt they’d send a video that’s old, since we would’ve found out about someone being in Noelle’s room by this point.
With a deep breath, I steel myself when I approach the hotel, stopping in my tracks to observe the eerie scene. The snow’s started to melt, and beneath is left dirty grass, some mud, and the trash that was scattered all around long ago.
The windows are broken, the door’s missing, and it doesn’t seem like anyone’s inside. The walls are filled with old graffiti, chalk drawings, and even burn marks.
The trip here was rather short. I left the building, took the first taxi I spotted, and had them drop me off a corner away from the hotel.
I researched online anything I could about this place, but aside from the fact that it’s been abandoned for years and is set to be demolished early next year, there’s nothing particular I could use.
I tried looking for the building’s outlines so I’d know where to go and find my way around. Unfortunately, there was nothing helpful, and I’m going into this whole thing blind. Right now, I’m starting to immensely regret that I didn’t tell Arlo I’d be gone.
The feeling of unease bubbles inside of me, and I take a deep intake of breath, my hand curling around one of the guns. It’s tucked in the pocket of my coat, the only means to protect myself if it comes down to that.
And somehow, I have a feeling it will get to that.
My feet start carrying me toward the entrance almost involuntarily.
The closer I’m getting to the hotel, the further I’m getting from the main road, and that makes shivers dance all over my body.
I have to remind myself to be on alert at all times, because this time, Arlo’s not here.
He won’t be able to protect me from harm.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Why did I have to run off like that again? It’s my fault, really. Sometimes, I need to start thinking before I act. Though, dwelling on my irresponsible, reckless nature won’t get me out of this situation.
With difficulty, I shove all the thoughts of doubt to the back of my mind. My hair’s still wet from the shower, and I can practically feel the stiffness of my neck tomorrow. If I’m even able to move it, that is.
I swallow a knot that forms in my throat when I take the first step inside. It’s too dark, and the street light isn’t reaching it. Quickly, I whip out my phone and turn the flashlight on, trying to see where I’m going.
It looks like an abandoned hotel would look. A receptionist desk, with a big hotel name above. It’s cracked in the middle, and one letter’s missing. The entire place is filled with cobwebs, dust, and dirt. Old newspapers scattered on the floor, and not a single piece of furniture around.
The coldness from the outside comes in a harsh blow, my back straightening, goosebumps appearing all over my skin.
“Alright,” I mutter into my chin. “Not the basement. Never the basement.”
I make my way toward the grand staircase that leads me up, and the first floor is just many, many rooms. There’s not enough time for me to search through every one, especially since there are another four floors I need to go through.
The red carpet under my feet stretches on, seemingly into a hallway that’s too long. My hand trembles while I hold the flashlight, the other one firmly holding the gun. I’m ready to use it, and I don’t care who I have to shoot.
The floor creaks somewhere in the distance, and I halt. I keep my breathing to a minimum, perking my ears, and doing my best to pinpoint the exact location of the footsteps.
It leads me to the third floor, which has a different outline than the rest of the hotel. It has a small living room area, too, with an old, dusty, torn couch and a small coffee table in the middle.
And there’s a person.
The back’s turned to me as they look out the window — or the lack thereof — and stare off into the distance. My hand lowers the flashlight when I see that there are two small lamps on the wall that are working well.
“Took you long enough.” The person turns around, revealing none other than Amy Marshall.
I’m baffled for a moment.
I’ve seen images of her; hell, I’ve even seen the video of her running away, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the striking resemblance between us. We could pass off as twins, or worse — the same fucking person.
Her hair is the same, her eyes are the same, and I can’t be objective and see any differences given how shocked I am. I didn’t think we’d look so much alike. It’s freaky as hell.
“Amy.”
“Blair,” she tilts her head to the side and approaches me. She stands in front of me, head tilted to the side. She’s inspecting me with a critical eye, brows slightly narrowed. “Hm. I’m kind of disappointed.’’
“Excuse me?”
“Well, I expected more of my doppelganger.” She chuckles, then makes distance between us. “Can’t say I’m too surprised you’re uglier in person.”
My brow twitches, but I keep my cool, not wanting the bitch to see me pissed. “What do you want, Amy?”
She sighs, the dramatic kind of sigh that makes me want to rip my hair out. She flops on the couch, crossing her legs, then points to the opposite one. Reluctantly, I walk over and take a seat, my hand still tightly wrapped around the gun.
“You know,” she trails off for a moment before her eyes settle back on me. “You were never a part of the equation for me.”
I lift a brow, signaling for her to continue.
“I got in some shit back at home, well, in Long Grove. I came to New York, laid low, and made sure people thought I was dead, or at least missing. Then you came along. My perfect lookalike, and everything went straight to hell.”
“You mean the fact that I took over your identity?”
“Obviously,” she drawls out, as if speaking to an idiot. “To make matters even worse, you must’ve done something over there for those people to know you’re not me. Because they came straight to New York afterwards and haven’t laid a single hand on you, which is odd.”
“Does this little story have a point, Amy?”
“It does, yes.” She rolls her eyes, and it freaks me out even more.
That small habit that makes it seem as if I’m looking into the mirror causes goosebumps to prickle my skin.
“Somehow, through some strange twist of fate, you and I ended up connected, in more ways than one. The people I work for want you dead. And, well… I want you dead, too.”
“The people you work for… meaning Paul Simmons.”
“Ding-ding-ding,” she sings, a grin on her face. “We have a winner!”
My eyes roll to the back of my head, and I feel like they’ll pop right out of their sockets at this rate. “That just means he’s contacted you from prison.”
“Of course he has,” she nods. “I mean, he’ll probably never actually leave that prison. Not alive, at least. But that doesn’t mean he still doesn’t have high connections. After all, his clientele has always been the wealthiest of the wealthiest.”
I’m no genius, but it doesn’t take one to figure out why Paul would want me dead.
I can only imagine him seething behind the bars as he awaits the trial, and it’s thanks to the connections of Hudson and Arlo that he’s Hudson’s cellmate.
He wants me dead for many things, though I think sending him to prison was the final nail in the coffin.
“But why would he entrust you to kill me, though? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Doesn’t it?” Amy smirks. “Come on, get there.”
One look into her wicked eyes reveals everything. It’s as if the fog’s lifted off my brain, and I can think clearly. The dots start connecting immediately, and the realization hits me harder than I’d like to admit.
That just means I walked into a situation I have no way of getting out of.
That’s why Amy’s been able to live under the radar for years. The reason she left Long Grove, and the reason Simmons has been keeping her around. It’s definitely not because we look freakishly alike.
Amy’s a fucking hitman, too.
I want to ask more questions to figure out who the fuck the mole is, but I don’t get the chance to. I blink, and when I open my eyes, Amy’s on me. She’s caging me between the couch and her body, a sharp blade tucked under my jaw.
“Checkmate, twin,” she mocks, drawing out her words. “Anything you’d like to say before I slit your pretty little throat?”
“Yeah,” I grit my teeth. “Go to hell, bitch.”
I don’t give her a single second to react. The hand that’s still wrapped around the handle of the gun is quick, and I pull the trigger without a second thought. The bullet pierces through the material of my coat and ends up hitting her in the stomach.
The shock — or perhaps the pain — on Amy’s face is all I need. I push her off me, and she stumbles backward, falling flat on her ass. However, I underestimated her need to kill me. She grabs my ankle at the last minute, yanking me backward.
She rolls us over, and she’s on top of me, seething.
Her teeth are bared at me, a look of pure fucking fury flashing behind the eyes.
In that moment, I see myself in her. Then, I shake it off.
We’re physically almost the same, but that’s where all the resemblance starts and ends.
We’re not the same person. She’s a brutal killer for the sake of it; I’m one because life forced me to be.
The sharp knife reappears under my jaw, this time more firmly. Her hand is trembling, and I can’t tell if it’s because I might’ve hit a vital spot or because she’s that angry.
“You’re going to die right here, Blair,” she grits out. “And trust me when I tell you, I’ll make it as painful as possible.”
“No, you won’t,” I respond.
The adrenaline pumps in my veins, and I can’t let this be my end. Not now, not here, and not by her. I raise my knee, hitting her hard in the groin. She doubles over in pain, and I use the opportunity to switch our positions until I’m straddling her.
The knife drops out of her hands, but I don’t let her grab it. Blood’s running hot inside of me, pumping and giving me the strength I need. My hand wraps around the handle of the knife on its own accord, and I’m surprised by the speed of my actions.
I mimic her previous actions, holding the object against her throat, watching as realization dawns on her.
She’s fucking good at what she does; otherwise, she never would’ve been able to go undetected for as long as she had, and Simmons never would’ve hired an amateur.
But I don’t think she counted on me having some training.
I’m nowhere near her level, or Arlo’s, for that matter, but I do good under pressure, apparently. And now that the momentum’s in my hands, I’m not letting it go.
“Any last words, Amy?”