Tristan hurried down the dark corridors of the motel, his eyes scanning doors and picking out their numbers.
There was a pungent mix of smoke, sweat and dampness that hung heavy over the place and his nose scrunched up.
This place was not particularly not made for human comfort, he thought. The place looked like it belonged in a bad 70’s movie.
His fingers curled into a fist as he stood in front of her room. He knocked—hard and steady.
Three to four seconds passed before the door swung open and molly stood before him.
She was dressed in loose sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt that engulfed her.
Her hair was in a messy bun and her expression was of someone that had just seen a ghost.
"Stranger?" She mused.
"Tristan, call me Tristan," he said to her with a smirk.
Her eyes scanned
