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As I merge onto the highway that takes me to his house, I resist the urge to call him.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter.

I laugh again, sharp and furious. He watched me before the pie. Before we even kissed—there was a fucking chair back there! As I grip the wheel tighter, my foot applies pressure to the accelerator.

The betrayal and violation are brutal, but underneath, my thoughts are still spiraling, hoping to uncover an explanation. Something impossible, but maybe . . . just maybe.

My headlights eat up the flurries, making it appear like I’m driving at warp speed. The dilapidated out-of-business motel off the main highway catches my eye; there’s a light on in one of the rooms, which is odd. I do a double take when I notice the car in the lot. A Cutlass.

No, it’s not his.

I squint. I can’t tell what color it is, but snow is starting to collect on top.

I see the exit for the frontage road, and I’m tempted to take the off-ramp to see if it’s his Cutlass. It’s not like he drives an especially common vehicle.

It can’t be. Why would he even be there? I laugh at myself. After tonight’s discovery, there’s not a single thing I can assume to know about Casper or his whereabouts.

At the last second, I turn the wheel and follow the bumpy frontage road toward the old motel. I turn off my lights and pull into the parking lot, bringing my car to a crawl. Sure enough, it’s his, parked near an old collapsed ice machine.

I stare at it and my breath catches so hard it hurts.

Finding your boyfriend’s car parked outside a motel when he’s not answering his phone is never a good sign. There’s no innocent version of this. No justification.

I park nearby and fight back the tears as I grip the steering wheel.

What the hell am I about to walk into?

I don’t know who I’m even looking for. My sweet, attentive Casper or the menace who parks his ass behind two-way glass and watches me sleep.

What the hell is going on?

I shove open the door and get out.

“Steal My Sunshine” plays from a portable speaker while I stare at Peter Bodner, the piece of shit he is, stomping his feet in the chair, as if it’s going to help him out of those zip ties. Not happening, buddy.

I sit on the edge of the bed, stretching my leg out and propping it up on the matching one beside it, unwrapping my Zebra cake. “You know what your problem is? You aren’t hospitable. I book us this lovely room,” I say, gesturing around the outdated space and plastic-covered carpet full of cigarette burns. “I put on some music and brought snacks . . .” I hold up my striped treat.

He blinks at me. “Fuck you.”

“A Capri Sun wouldn’t kill you, ya know? It’s about the effort.”

He ignores my comment. So rude.

“I don’t know who sent you, but I will pay you double to let me go.”

My eyes grow wide and my mouth drops open. “Dude! You are never gonna believe this but the last guy said the exact same thing!” Truly disappointing how quickly people resort to money these days. What happened to just doing things for the fun of it?

“The fuck do you mean, last guy?”

“See? It’s like you’re not even listening.”

He spits blood on the plastic-covered floor. I glance down at it and then back to him. “Well, now I’m definitely not sharing my snack,” I say, taking a big bite.

“Fuck you!” he screams louder.

On the nightstand I’ve prepped my tools in a neat row like I do at work—except nothing here is for tattooing. He tracks my hand to the laid-out supplies. I nudge one, making them all equidistant from each other. His breathing gets louder.

Peter swears at me again, his voice booming. I listen and nod like I’m accepting his feedback. I pop the rest of the cake in my mouth and crumple up the wrapper and toss it on the floor to be thrown out with everything else after I’m done here.