They sleep. Marquez’s men. Like cattle. Like meat. Like they don’t hear the screaming in the walls.
I haven’t slept in 24 hours. Maybe longer. Doesn’t matter. Sleep is for the sane. For the soft. For the ones who don’t have her face carved into their skull.
Kat.
She’s in that warehouse. Breathing my air. Touching things that aren’t hers. Laughing. Laughing. Laughing.
I hear it. Even now. Through the motel walls. Through the concrete. Through my teeth.
She used to laugh like that for me.
I sit on the floor, back against the dresser, knife in my hand. Not for them. Not yet. Just to feel the weight. Just to remember what it means to be real.
Rafe walks past me, says something about casing the place at dawn. I nod. I think I nod. Maybe I blink. Maybe I scream. Hard to tell.
The walls a
