Chapter Three—Lorna
THE HOTEL ROOM IS BEIGE from the carpet to the curtains, with cream bedding and two pale prints above the headboard that look like they came with the furniture. Normally, I’d make fun of it, but tonight, I’m grateful there’s nothing personal here.
I sit on the edge of the bed with a bag of ice wrapped in a washcloth against my temple. Willa left about twenty minutes ago after checking the connecting door, bathroom, closet, windows, and hallway. She’d offered to stay, but I told her I wanted to be alone for a while.
She hadn’t argued or asked me to explain. She’d only put her business card beside my phone even though I’ve had her number saved for almost a year. “Call me if you need me. I don’t care what time it is.”
Now I keep looking at the phone. Chris hasn’t called yet.
My shoulder aches where I hit the wall, swallowing hurts, and the bruises around my wrists have darkened from red to purple in places. I move the ice and wince when the washcloth catches against the swelling near my hairline.
I want Chris, which irritates me almost as much as the waiting.
After everything that happened tonight, some part of me still expects my husband to call and make it less frightening.
I want to hear his voice change when he understands how bad it was.
I want him angry that somebody touched me and worried enough to forget whatever is happening in Denver.
My phone vibrates at twelve thirty-eight. His name fills the screen, and relief hits first. I answer before the second ring. “Hi.”
“Lorna.” His voice is alert. “Fenton told me something happened at the apartment. Are you hurt?”
My eyes close for a second. “Somebody attacked me.”
He sounds shocked. “What?”
“He was inside the penthouse.” There’s complete silence on his end, so I keep going. “I was walking toward the bedroom when the lights went out. Someone grabbed me from behind. I fought him, hit the wall, and then he put his arm around my neck until I passed out.”
“Oh, Jesus. Lorna.”
His reaction makes my throat tighten. “I woke up on the floor. My wrists are bruised, I have a knot on my head, and there was a white rose on my pillow.”
“A rose?”
“Yes.”
He switches to problem-solver mode for a moment. “Did you call the police?”
“They came.”
“Good. What did they say?”
I put the ice down and rub the condensation from my fingers onto the washcloth. “There’s no sign of forced entry. The alarm is armed now. They’re getting the full activity history from the alarm company and checking building access.”
His tone changes just slightly. “Where are you?”
“At a hotel.”
“Which one?”
I hesitate. It’s my husband asking, so this shouldn’t be difficult. “Willa booked it.”
“Okay. Where?”
“I don’t want to say yet.” My eyes close again because I can hear how unreasonable that sounds. “I know that’s strange.”
“No, it isn’t.”
I blink.
Chris continues more gently. “Not tonight. If Willa picked the hotel and checked the room, stay there.”
Some of the tension leaves my shoulders. “Thank you.”
“Did you go to the hospital?”
“No.”
“Lorna, you should.”
“The paramedics checked me.”
His disapproval comes through. “You were unconscious, and you hit your head. You need to get looked at properly.”
I just can’t face more strangers tonight. “I know what symptoms to watch for. I’ll go if anything changes.”
“I don’t like that.”
“I don’t either. You could come home and stay with me if you’re that worried.” The words escape before I can call them back.
His tone shifts again. He’s being careful but sounds somehow unsurprised. “I can’t. You have Willa, and I’ll be home soon.”
“Fine. I don’t need a doctor.” I just need my husband, but Denver is more important.
He doesn’t argue further, and for a few seconds, neither of us says anything. Then he asks, “Are you alone now?”
“Yes.” More alone than I’ve ever been, but that sounds too pathetic to say aloud.
“Do you want me to stay on the phone?”
My eyes sting immediately, and I look toward the ceiling until I can answer. “For a minute.”
“Okay.” He stays, and the quiet reminds me of nights early in our marriage when one of us traveled. We’d leave the call connected while Chris answered emails and I washed off makeup or packed for the next morning. Sometimes we went several minutes without speaking because neither of us needed to.
I shift carefully against the pillows. “I was scared.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean when I woke up.” My voice wobbles, but I keep talking. “I didn’t know where he was. I didn’t know what he’d done while I was unconscious.”
Chris mutters something that sounds like a curse.
“I checked myself before I even stood up.”
“What do you mean?”
I stare at the bruising around my wrist. “I had to make sure I hadn’t been raped.”
His tone is raw. “God, Lorna.”
“I wasn’t,” I say quickly. “Nothing hurts there. My clothes weren’t disturbed.”
“Oh, Jesus.” He sounds shaken enough that the tears start again. I wipe them away, but more follow. “I’m sorry.”
The words are sincere, but they aren’t enough. “You didn’t do it.”
“I should’ve been there.”
Yes. I don’t say it. “You’re in Denver.”
“I know.”
The fact that he sounds like he hates that matters. I wipe my face with the washcloth, avoiding the part that held the ice. “One of the police officers suggested I might’ve made the bruises on my own wrists.”
“What?” He sounds angry, but not shocked.
My stomach clenches at his reaction. “He said I could’ve gripped myself during the struggle.”
There’s a pause before Chris answers. “Fenton mentioned the police weren’t sure where all the marks came from.”
I straighten slowly. The movement pulls at my shoulder, and I adjust the pillow behind me before answering. “Fenton told you that?”
“He told me there wasn’t any forced entry and that one of the officers thought some of the injuries might have happened during the struggle.” Chris sounds uncomfortable now, as though he knows that’s not what I wanted to hear. “He didn’t give me much detail.”
Of course he got a summary before he called me. I shouldn’t be surprised, but it bothers me anyway. “The officer said I could’ve gripped my own wrists.”
Chris takes a second before responding. “I don’t think you deliberately hurt yourself.”
The wording catches me. I lower the washcloth to my lap. “Deliberately?”
“That’s not what I meant.” His frustration seems directed more at himself than me. “I’m saying I don’t think you sat there and made those marks.”
I stare at the blank television across from the room. “That’s a strange reassurance.”
“I know.”
Dread settles in my stomach. “You didn’t sound surprised when I told you what he said.”
“I’d already heard there were questions.”
The answer is reasonable. That doesn’t stop the ache beneath my ribs.
I pull my sleeves lower over the bruises. “Willa didn’t have questions.”
Chris is quiet for a moment before saying, “Willa’s job is different from the police’s.”
My stomach flips. “I know what her job is.”
“I’m not criticizing her.”
“It sounds like you’re explaining why she believes me when others don’t.” My tone is accusatory, but I don’t soften it.
The hotel air conditioner clicks off, leaving the room suddenly quieter. Chris doesn’t answer immediately, and I can picture him rubbing his forehead the way he does when a conversation gets away from him.
When he speaks, his voice is patient. “I’m explaining why the police are going to consider more than one possibility until they have the records.”
“I understand how investigations work.” I shift the ice back against my temple, then immediately pull it away because the pressure hurts. “I also know somebody put an arm around my neck.”
“I know you believe that.”
The ice bag slips against my leg. For a second, I think I misheard him. “Excuse me?”
Chris exhales slowly. “I don’t want to do this tonight.”
“Do what?”
“Have this conversation when you’re hurt and exhausted.”
I put the ice on the nightstand. His reluctance scares me more than an argument would. “What conversation?”
“Lorna.”
My head is suddenly throbbing again. “No. You just said you know I believe somebody attacked me.”
“I said I don’t want to do this right now.”
My heart starts beating harder. “Then you’ve thought about it before.”
He gets quiet, and the silence answers before he does.
I push myself farther up against the pillows, ignoring the protest from my shoulder. “Chris, do you think I have a stalker?”
“That’s not a yes-or-no question.” He’s obviously picking his words carefully.
“It absolutely is.”
“I think you’ve gotten things that scared you.”
I stare at the wall across from me. “That’s not what I asked.”
Chris shifts on his end of the call. There’s a soft click followed by quiet, as though he’s shut a door. “I think some of the things you’ve received are strange.”
“Some?” Every word is like a knife through my heart.
“The photographs bothered me. That’s why I hired Willa.”
“The photographs are one entry out of forty-two.”
His tone is hard to read. “I know.”
“You didn’t know yesterday. You thought there were around thirty.”
He doesn’t answer immediately, and I regret the jab as soon as I make it, but not enough to take it back.
Chris finally says, “That’s fair.”
I rub my thumb against the damp washcloth. “What do you think the rest of it is?”
“Some of it could be from people who follow what you post. Some could be companies sending things because you’ve mentioned them online.”
I stare at the hotel carpet. “You mean my hobby.”
Chris is quiet.
“You’ve called it that enough times.”
He sounds like he’s trying to placate me. “I know you make money from it.”
I clench my hand around the phone. “How much?”
Another silence follows.
I nod even though he can’t see me. “Exactly.”
“Lorna, that’s not what we’re talking about.” He sounds tired. Is it the late hour, or are my problems exhausting him? It’s an ugly thought I can’t erase.
“It is when you’re telling me the things I do every day are somehow proof I have too much time to imagine a stalker.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Not yet.”
His voice tightens. “Can we not put words in each other’s mouths?”