Chapter 33 — Grayscale #2
She imagined the scene. Trying to get in. Miller appearing. Ethan stepping off the private elevator, looking at her with that coldness, saying: “You made your choice, Maya.”
Or worse… maybe he'd smile. That triumphant smile. “I knew you'd come back. You failed.”
She couldn't give him that satisfaction.
But God, how she wanted to go in. How she wanted the air conditioning, the silence, food that actually tasted like something, the feeling of being protected.
Normal life was hard. It was boring. It was a constant fight against gravity.
Up there, she floated.
Maya took a step toward the crosswalk. The light was red, but she barely saw it. She was hypnotized by the golden revolving doors.
Just go in. Just say his name. Just surrender.
There's no shame in surviving. There's no shame in admitting you weren't made for the gutter.
The light changed for pedestrians. The white walking figure lit up.
It was an invitation.
Maya stepped into the street.
And then she stopped.
She remembered the folder. The file. The photos of her crying at her father's funeral with the notation “Beautiful.”
He thought her pain was beautiful.
If she went back now, she'd be validating everything. She'd be saying: “Yes, you were right. I'm weak. I need you to manage my life because I can't.”
She'd be killing the Maya who dreamed of being an architect. The Maya who drew on napkins. The Maya who survived Kyle.
She'd be becoming the armless marble statue. Beautiful, preserved, but unable to touch or feel the real world.
“No,” she whispered. The word was torn from her throat like a rotten tooth.
She pulled her foot back.
The signal started to flash. The red countdown.
10… 9… 8…
She looked at the tower one last time. Saw the top, where the penthouse was. The lights were on up there.
Ethan was there. Maybe celebrating the merger. Maybe alone.
“Goodbye, Ethan,” she said.
She turned around.
It was the hardest thing she'd ever done physically. Turning her back on paradise and walking toward hell.
She started walking back north. Toward the motel. Toward the smell of mildew and the dripping faucet.
Night fell completely as she walked. The side streets, away from the Strip, were dark and barely lit. Vegas's glow was just an orange halo in the sky behind her. Here, the shadows were real.
Maya was tired. Her feet ached in the cheap sneakers. She was hungry, but the thought of eating made her nauseous.
She turned onto the motel's street. The BLUE MOON sign flickered intermittently, the “B” burned out, reading LUE MOON.
The street was deserted. Nothing but parked cars and trash blowing in the wind.
She heard an engine behind her.
It wasn't the high-pitched hum of a passenger car. It was the deeper rumble of something larger.
Maya tensed. She didn't look back. She quickened her pace, clutching her purse against her body, her hand in a fist around the cheap pepper spray she'd bought with the phone.
The vehicle slowed down, matching her pace.
Maya's heart raced.
Was it him?
Had Ethan lied? Was he following her? Was the armored black SUV there, with Miller at the wheel and Ethan in the back seat, waiting for her to break, waiting for the moment to open the door and say “Get in”?
A wave of shameful, terrifying hope washed over her.
If it was him… would she get in?
Yes. God, yes. She would get in and cry on his shoulder and let him take her back.
She stopped.
She turned slowly, her heart in her throat.
The vehicle stopped fifteen feet away, under the sickly yellow light of a streetlamp.
It wasn't the luxury SUV. It wasn't the limousine.
It was a van. An old black cargo van with a dented side panel and rear windows painted matte black.
It wasn't Ethan.
The fear shifted. It was no longer the complex, emotional fear of an ex-lover—it became the primitive, sharp fear of prey facing an unknown predator.
The van's side door slid open with a metallic, scraping sound. Screeeech.
No man in an Italian suit emerged from the darkness inside.
Two men came out. Dark clothes, hoodies, cheap ski masks.
They said nothing. They moved fast.
Maya tried to run.
She spun on her heels, ready to bolt toward the motel office, ready to scream.
But she was tired. She was weak.
The first man reached her in three steps. He grabbed her by the waist, lifting her feet off the ground. He reeked of stale tobacco and unwashed sweat.
“No!” Maya screamed. “Help!”
The second man was in front of her. He was holding a cloth.
The chemical smell, sweet and sickening, hit her before the cloth even touched her face.
Chloroform? Ether?
She held her breath, struggling, kicking, scratching. She clawed at the arm of the man holding her, but he was strong.
“Quiet, bitch,” a voice growled in her ear. It wasn't Ethan's cultured voice. It was a street voice.
The cloth covered her nose and mouth.
Maya tried not to breathe. But panic demanded oxygen. Her lungs burned.
She inhaled.
The world began to spin. The edges of her vision went black. The motel sign dissolved into blurs of blue light.
The last thing she thought, as she was dragged into the darkness of the van, wasn't a cry for help.
It was about Ethan.
She thought about the safety of the cage. She thought about how he'd said the world out there was dangerous.
He was right.
And now, as the van door slammed shut, sealing her fate, Maya realized that freedom wasn't just lonely.
Freedom was deadly.
And the monster wasn't there to save her.