Sweat dripping, head pounding, vision blurred. But none of that mattered. The other side of the hotel room door. That’s what had his attention.
The timid knocking – hard plastic against solid wood. Discreet, relentless. The whispering in an unfamiliar language. Quiet yet somehow threatening.
He checked his watch. Noon. The woman was right on time.
He scanned the three-bedroom suite. Broken bottles, missing furniture, piles of filthy sheets. Hell of a post-prom party, if only he could remember it.
But now, a space beyond repair. And she’d have access any moment. Worse, he’d never see his mother’s room deposit again.
The Weekday One Hundred 