Chapter 20 – Marlowe
Chapter Twenty
MARLOWE
“Oh my God.” The question chokes out of me. “Did you kill your wife?” I stare at him wildly, searching his face.
Damian’s grip on the steering wheel doesn’t loosen. His knuckles are white, his shoulders rigid, his eyes locked on the road. He doesn’t immediately say no. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, pressing against my ribs.
Finally, he exhales. “No.”
It should be a relief, but it’s not. Because something is wrong. The way he said it. The weight behind it. The way his jaw tightens like the question alone was enough to set him off.
I swallow hard. “Then what happened?”
He doesn’t answer.
I shift in my seat, my skin itching from the curiosity. “Damian.”
His fingers flex on the wheel. “Drop it.” His voice is low, sharp. A warning.
Of course I ignore it.
“Did someone else kill her?” My voice is quiet now, almost afraid to break the fragile hold he has on himself.
He blinks once, too slow, too heavy. Then finally, his eyes cut to mine, just for a second.
And in that second, I see it. The pain. The kind that doesn’t fade.
The kind that stays. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Because for the first time since I met Damian, I see something real.
And it’s enough to make my breath catch in my throat.
“We aren’t friends, Marlowe.” His tone is cold. His eyes lock back on the road, but the anger pulses off him, a slow-building storm ready to break.
I flinch, but it’s not from fear. It’s from how fast he shut me down.
He exhales, harsh and clipped. “Our time together is almost up. So shut up.”
I stare at him, heat rising to my face. He’s hurting.
It’s so obvious now. I find myself wondering who she was.
How much of him died with her. My hand drifts to my chest, trying to ease the sudden ache blooming there.
The hate I felt earlier, the heat of it, is gone, replaced by something I don’t recognize.
I should still be furious with him for being so cruel, for shutting me up like I don’t matter.
But part of me needs to know her name, to know who she was, just to understand what it takes to ruin a man like Damian.
His fingers drum against the wheel once, twice, then curl into fists. His breath comes slower now, but the tension still coils thick between us. “I warned you,” he mutters, voice rough, like it’s getting harder to hold it in. “I warned you that I wasn’t good.”
“I remember,” I whisper.
His voice drops even lower. “Now stop talking to me.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and look away. Fine. If he wants to pretend this doesn’t matter, I can too.
Vegas crawls past the window, the city pulsing with lights and movement. The car inches forward, trapped in thick afternoon traffic, the silence stretching between us like an open wound. I stare out the window, my thoughts unraveling, memories clawing their way up from a place I don’t want to go.
I used to be here all the time. Not by choice.
The underground card games. The thick haze of cigar smoke curling through dimly lit rooms. The heavy weight of my father’s hand on my shoulder as he pushed me forward. Told me to smile. Told me to distract. Told me to be useful.
The memory makes my stomach sour.
I remember the sharp smell of whiskey, the way men would flick their eyes toward me, measuring, like I was just another piece in my father’s game.
I remember the words he’d whisper, what he’d expect me to say, what he’d expect me to do.
My nose burns. My throat tightens. Oh God, I don’t want to cry anymore.
I scrunch my face, swallowing hard, forcing the tears back down.
Damian’s focused on the traffic, thankfully. I turn away from him more, pressing closer to the door. I focus on the flashing neon signs, the waves of tourists stumbling down the sidewalks, the traffic lights flickering red, yellow, green. Anything but the memories clawing at the back of my brain.
I press my forehead against the window, letting the cool glass ground me. I just need to get through the next few minutes. “Make a right,” I say, my voice hollow.
Damian doesn’t respond, just flicks on the turn signal, and guides the car down the street.
And then I see it. Paradise Trailer Park.
If there’s a worse place in Vegas, I’ve never seen it.
The entrance is barely marked, just a rusted sign leaning to one side, half the letters missing.
The road leading in is cracked, lined with potholes big enough to swallow a tire.
The trailers themselves are in every stage of collapse: roofs sagging, windows boarded up or shattered, doors hanging off hinges.
Some are burned out husks, blackened from old fires, never cleared away.
I open the car window, needing air, needing something to keep me from feeling trapped.
Trash is everywhere, piled up against fences, bags ripped open, spilling onto the dirt.
The stench of hot asphalt, piss, and rotting food clings to the air, thick enough to coat my throat.
People linger outside, moving with that too-sharp, too-fast energy.
Hollowed-out faces, sunken eyes. Some of them barely standing.
One man near the entrance jerks violently, his arms flailing, his mouth moving fast, but there are no words. Tweaking.
My stomach plummets. This is where my father lives.
I knew it was bad, but I didn’t think it was this.
A slow, crawling sickness spreads through me, wrapping around my ribs, squeezing until I feel like I can’t breathe.
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want Damian to see this.
I shouldn’t care what he thinks. But I do.
And I’m so embarrassed. So ashamed. I swallow hard, my fingers curling into my palms. “This is it,” I say, voice flat, empty. It’s all I can manage.
I remember Big Dom lived in the very last row of trailers. I point toward the back, my hand unsteady.
Damian doesn’t move right away. When I glance at him, I catch something I don’t expect—hesitation.
His skin looks a little paler than usual, his expression drawn tight.
He meets my eyes, holding them for a second longer than he should.
“You really think five hundred grand is still going to be here?”
I don’t want to answer.
I don’t want to face what happens if it’s not here. The thought alone makes my pulse pound in my temples, so strong I feel lightheaded, dizzy.
Damian drives down the last row, the SUV rolling over uneven pavement, the tires crunching over loose gravel. My heart pounds harder with every inch we drive.
“There,” I say, my voice tight. “Park near the one with the small awning. The one that’s decorated like a tiki bar.”
That’s Dom’s place. Or at least, it was. I have no idea if Dom’s still alive. Or why my father would be staying here.
Damian pulls up beside it, shifting the SUV into park. Neither of us moves right away.
The trailer sits there, dull and lifeless, its once-bright decorations faded from the sun. A string of broken tiki lights dangles from the awning, swaying slightly in the dry breeze. The place looks abandoned.
I swallow hard and push open the door. The heat outside slams into me, dry and heavy, no sign of the storm. My knees tingle as I step forward, closing the distance to the front door.
I try the handle.
It turns easily. That feels wrong. I glance at Damian, but he doesn’t say anything, just watches me, waiting.
I push the door open and step inside. He follows.
The air inside the trailer is stale, thick with the scent of old cigarettes. The blinds are half open, casting strips of weak afternoon light across the floor, highlighting the dust motes floating in the air.
The kitchen is small, barely more than a counter and a sink, but the mess is impossible to ignore.
Dishes are piled high, some tipped over, streaked with dried sauce and something that might have been eggs at one point.
Flies hover around them, the faint buzzing grating against my ears.
The table is covered in old newspapers, some crumpled, some stained with coffee rings.
An empty beer can sits beside them, forgotten.
A recliner dominates the small living space, its fabric worn and sagging, an ashtray balanced on the armrest. There’s something about this place that feels familiar in the worst way. If I had to put it into words, it looks exactly like my childhood felt.
I walk straight to the small oven, my pulse pounding in my ears, my stomach twisting so hard it’s impossible to breathe right. I grip the handle and pull it open.
There it is.
The black metal box, just where my father always kept his wins.
A shaky breath leaves me, but the tightness in my chest doesn’t ease. My hands tremble as I lift it, the cool metal pressing against my fingers, solid, real. I set it on the counter, staring down at the combination lock, my vision blurring at the edges.
Four numbers. The same ones he always used. I don’t even hesitate. My fingers move on their own, sliding the numbers into place.
0-2-2-9.
His lucky numbers.
My birthday.
My hands won’t stop shaking. My thumb hovers over the latch, my breath caught between my ribs. I press down.
The lock clicks open and I lift the lid, the sound too loud in the stillness.
A cold rush floods through me.
It’s empty. There’s nothing inside but a deck of fucking cards.
The air leaves my lungs in a sharp, broken exhale. Everything inside me lurches out of rhythm.
No.
I blink hard, waiting for something else to appear, for this to be some kind of mistake.
But there’s nothing.
My father lied.
There’s no fucking money.