Page 20

Let’s hope he recognizes it.

I clench my jaw and smooth my lipstick with a steady hand, forcing myself to focus. The smell isn’t an accident. It’s calculated. This scent isn’t for me, it’s for him. For all of the ones who need to see the sweetness, the innocence they think they can exploit. They don’t know the scent itself is a weapon, sharp and unrelenting, wrapped in sugar.

Inside, the bar smells of stale beer and body odor. A jukebox thrums in the corner, a song playing about heartbreak and regret. The neon lights reflect off the scuffed hardwood floor. The atmosphere is pathetic, almost needy, and it makes my skin crawl. Dennis sits at the far end, hunched over a glass of amber liquid. His jacket hangs loosely on his frame, the collar frayed and stained. He looks like a man trying to disappear but failing miserably.

I keep my distance at first, slipping onto a stool near the middle of the bar. The bartender, a tired-looking woman with blunt bangs, approaches.

“What’ll it be, sweetheart?” she asks, her voice flat.

“Whiskey sour,” I say, offering a polite smile. She nods and moves off, leaving me to glance toward Dennis. He doesn’t notice me. He’s too busy nursing his drink.

Good. That’s how I want it, for now.

I wait, watching him out of the corner of my eye. He orders another bourbon, his hand trembling slightly as he lifts the glass. There’s no one waiting for him, no one calling or checking in. He’s a man alone in every sense of the word.

The bartender slides my drink across the counter, and I take a sip, the cold tang of citrus biting at my tongue. I could wait all night if I had to, but I don’t think it’ll take that long. Men like Dennis don’t pass up company, especially not from someone who looks like prey.

I move closer, slipping into seat two and down from his. He doesn’t look up right away, so I wait, letting the seconds drag out before glancing his way. “Quiet place,” I say, my voice soft enough to be inviting.

He looks at me then, his pale eyes narrowing slightly as they sweep over me. He lingers for a moment, and I feel his gaze on me, searching for something. Whatever he sees seems to satisfy him because he nods. The scar down his left cheek is more pronounced now against his weathered skin. His hair is thinning into a fringe that barely clings to the crown of his head. But his eyes… those pale, calculating eyes haven’t changed.

“Depends on the night,” he replies, his voice rough, like gravel underfoot.

I don’t push too hard. I let the conversation flow naturally, keeping it light and unthreatening. We talk about the weather, the jukebox, the bartender who hasn’t cracked a smile all night. He doesn’t ask about me, but that’s fine. I’m not here to tell my story. I’m here to learn his.

“What about you?” I ask, tilting my head just enough to make it look curious. “You a regular here?”

“Something like that,” he says, taking a long sip of his drink. “Been around long enough, I guess.”

I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice. “You look like someone who knows all the good places to hide.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, the closest thing to a smile I’ve seen. “And why would a pretty thing like you be interested in hiding?”

“Who says I’m hiding?” I ask, letting the words hang in the air.

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Fair enough.”

I let him ramble, his words washing over me in a dull hum. He talks about odd jobs, places he’s passed through, but he never lingers on anything too specific. Nothing that could pin him down. Not a single mention of Hurricane or family. My thoughts drift to the questions clawing at the edges of my mind. Has he fathered a child? Has some innocent life been tied to him, born into his shadow? The idea twists my stomach. Part of me hopes he’s finally made one decent decision, to stay away from anything pure. But the other possibility hangs heavier. What if he’s dragged another child into the same hell he created for me? What if his sickness has festered, multiplying through someone else’s pain?

When my focus snaps back, his voice drones on about staying at the motel for now, just passing through. No family. No close friends. He was just a drifter, hollow and aimless, carrying nothing but his sins.

“Must get lonely,” I say, swirling the ice in my glass.

“Sometimes,” he admits, his gaze fixed on the bar. Then his nose wrinkles slightly, and he glances at me, his brow furrowing. “That perfume,” he says, almost absently. “I know that smell.”

I smile faintly. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, his voice distant now. “Used to know someone who wore that. A long time ago… back when things were better.” He doesn’t elaborate, but his gaze darkens, his jaw tightening. “What’s your name?” he asks suddenly, his tone sharper now.

I pause, letting the hesitation stretch just long enough to seem natural. “Eleanor,” I say finally, watching him closely.

The name lands like a stone thrown into still water. His hand freezes around his glass, the muscles in his jaw tightening for a split second before he recovers. He doesn’t say anything, but the reaction is enough.

I wait for the perfect moment, watching as he drains the last of his bourbon. I take out a dollar and slide it toward him. “Let me get to know you a little better. Pick your favorite song. I heard you can learn everything you need to know by the song someone picks.”

He keeps his eyes focused on me and studies me. I think maybe I pushed too far, but that thought disappears when his hand slides along the bar and grabs the dollar. As soon as he turns his back to me, I signal the bartender for another drink. I know this is it. The bartender places another glass on the bar, and I slip the pill into his fresh drink, Rohypnol. Tasteless, odorless, and effective within twenty minutes.

The drug works by enhancing GABA, a neurotransmitter that slows down the central nervous system. His muscles will weaken first, his limbs turning heavy and unresponsive. Then his thoughts will start to blur, slipping through his fingers like water. He’ll lose control before unconsciousness takes him entirely. I’ll have to work fast.