The Girl Who Wants

by Amy Vansant

  “I don’t know. He’s a big guy. I’ll ask her.”

  Shee started rebuttoning her father’s shirt and Angelina nudged her out of the way.

  “I’ll do that. Go to the other side. Look at his head.”

  Shee moved to the opposite side of the bed.

  Now, with a better view than the drone had provided, she saw the large scar marring the side of her father’s shaved skull. She ran her finger across it.

  “How did he survive a bullet to the head?” she asked aloud, not expecting an answer.

  “It’s simple,” said Angelina, patting his pajamas smooth.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. He refused to die until he saw you again.”

  Shee dropped her gaze to the scar. The man in the bed didn’t feel like her father. Nothing felt real.

  “Find out who did it,” said Angelina.

  Shee nodded.

  “I will.”

  &&&

  Chapter Sixteen

  Shee?

  Mick called out, but something felt wrong. The shadowy figures around him didn’t respond, didn’t look, no matter how loudly he yelled.

  Can’t they hear me?

  He tried breathing harder. He could hear the sound of his own panting, feel the breath in his nostrils.

  The shadows moved in.

  They could hear him breathing.

  Maybe Shee can, too?

  He had to warn her. He had to—

  I’m asleep.

  Awareness melted over his brain like chocolate syrup oozing across a sundae.

  Syrup. Never hot fudge. Shee doesn’t like hot fudge.

  Bits of the room appeared before him, seen through a slit, as if he were peering through blinds. He knew then he was asleep, but trapped in a dream, unable to wake, his lids too heavy to lift.

  Is Shee here? I have to wake up.

  How many days had it been? He’d lost count. He’d tried to clock how many times light turned to darkness, but he didn’t know when he’d started or if days passed without him knowing.

  Shee had to be a dream. One of the better ones. Sometimes he dreamt about his time as a SEAL, fighting enemies, talking to his men. Sometimes he saw faces. Dead friends. Pets he’d had as boy. Old classmates. Shee’s mother. Sometimes he talked to them, fought them, loved them. Other times he felt helpless, his limbs frozen. Trapped.

  There was one constant. The Shadow. Cloaked in the smell of cinnamon and something else, something earthy. It spoke to him, told him he would be trapped for his sins. Asked where Shee was.

  It wanted Shee.

  No.

  It had to be a nightmare. He’d made it safe for Shee to come home. But she hadn’t. Did she know it was too dangerous?

  How did she know?

  She’s always been smarter than me.

  Still breathing hard, the darkness collapsed around him.

  The scent of cinnamon filled the air.

  It’s back.

  Two heads this time. One dark, one light. Two voices. Mocking him.

  I won’t die like this.

  Mick threw a punch. Struck out again. His fists connected like pillows, puffs of air.

  Are my arms even moving?

  He heard a crash.

  Glass?

  Someone swore.

  Did my knuckle hit something?

  He tried to swing again, but nothing happened.

  Hands fell on him, dragging him under. The fog rolled in. The world grew darker still.

  Maybe I’m a ghost.

  Maybe this is hell.

  It feels like hell.

  &&&

  Chapter Seventeen

  Shee sat up in bed.

  What was that?

  Pain shot through her shoulder and she hugged herself, squinting into the darkness.

  My body is killing me.

  Something had woken her.

  Pain?

  She frowned. No. A sound.

  Some kind of animal?

  She sat still, cradling her aching arms, in a silence so deep she could hear it reverberating in her ears. She didn’t work well with sound. Silence was even worse. She needed to see things to process them.

  She tried to see what she’d heard.

  A feeling of beige came over her. The lighter shade meant a lighter sound, higher, less bass.

  Sharp.

  Not a bark. Maybe a sharp shriek, like a fox?

  Like glass breaking?

  Slipping out of bed, Shee padded to the window on bare feet, happy to find the warm hardwood floors beneath her toes after spending the last few months in New England. She peered through the room’s only window. She hadn’t lowered the blinds, though, maybe she should have—she’d heard the area was rife with drones.

  Her gaze bounced from one point of light to the next. A string of party lights, someone’s glowing window, a porch lamp on the opposite bank of the ICW. Pressing her cheek against the window she spied a green light glowing like the beacon at the end of Daisy’s dock.

  How Gatsby. Does it represent my hopes and dreams? Everything I want, glowing up river, too far to reach?

  Real-life metaphors were never that simple.

  In the distance she heard a train whistle and snorted a laugh.

  There’s a better metaphor for my life. A train wreck.

  Shee heard another sound. This one was low. More like a moan.

  Had the sound come from inside the Inn?

  Shee spun on the ball of her foot and moved to the door.

  Even my hips hurt.

  The hinges on her door whined, floorboards creaking beneath her weight as she moved into the hall. She cringed. She hated making noise. Noise never did anything for anyone in her line of work—whatever that was. She wasn’t sure unlicensed detective-slash-bounty hunter-slash-skip-tracer was a line of work per se, but crashing around making noise didn’t help in any case.

  She froze again to listen.

  Nothing.

  Continuing down the hall, she reached her father’s door and tried the knob.

  Locked.

  She recalled the key around Angelina’s neck.

  I’m going to need a copy of that.

  She raised her hand to knock and then rolled her eyes.

  Sure. That’s all he needs—someone to knock on his door. Then he’d just pop out of bed and answer, coma cured.

  What about Martisha? Where does she sleep?

  She glanced to the opposite end of the hall.

  Another door. Probably there.

  They probably had monitors on him. They’d need to keep watch on his BP and—

  She shook her head.

  Now she was an unlicensed detective-slash-bounty-hunter-slash-skip-tracer-slash-doctor.

  If I’m going to be unlicensed, I might as well be unlicensed at everything.

  Shee pressed her ear against the door and listened, hearing only the steady thrum of what she guessed was her father’s refrigerator. She returned to her room and crawled back into bed.

  Different place. Different noises.

  Maybe the moan had come from outside. She could ask Angelina. She probably knew all the local sounds.

  Did Croix live in the hotel, too?

  Are there any rooms left for guests?

  In the hall, a floorboard creaked.

  I know that noise.

  Shee threw back her thin sheet, grunting in pain. She slid from the bed and flung open her door.

  In the hall, Martisha turned to look at her as the whine of the hinges announced Shee’s arrival. The nurse wore a long black t-shirt hanging to her knees.

  “Wah mek yuh awake at dis time of night?”

  “You were checking on my father?”

  She nodded, looking concerned. “Yea mi hear a sound.”

  “Me too. Like a moan?”

  She nodded.

  “Does he make noises?”

  “Sometimes.” She tapped the side of her skull with her index finger. “Him brain there.”

&nbs
p; “So you think he can hear us?”

  Martisha spread out her hands, palms up. “Maybe. Come chat wid him inna mawnin.”

  “I will. Sure. Hey—” Shee took a step forward. “I noticed some bruising on his neck earlier, and some scratches on his arm. Do you know where those came from?”

  Martisha nodded, looking grim. “Mi turn him fi di bed sores. Sometimes it’s hard—him a big man.”

  Shee nodded. “We guessed as much. But you just checked on him? He’s good?”

  “Yea. Him fine, girl. Now wid yuh here, he’ll probably wake up any day now.”

  Shee chuckled. “I hope so. Thank you, Martisha.”

  The nurse waved with her opposite hand as she disappeared into her room.

  Shee shut her own door and walked back to her bed, her mind on her father.

  If he could make noise, it could mean he was close to waking. Couldn’t it?

  The moan had sounded pained.

  Was Mick having a nightmare?

  The idea of it made her shiver.

  Trapped in his head, unable to wake, alone with his thoughts...

  Shee pulled the extra blanket over her.

  &&&

  The next morning, Shee awoke to the sun. She looked at her watch to find it was nearly seven o’clock.

  Shameful.

  She’d slept in after spending the evening creeping around. Maybe it didn’t hurt that she’d slept in a bed that felt like home for the first time in as long as she could remember.

  She swung her legs over the edge, her shoulder aching as she pushed to her feet. Even her butt muscles hurt.

  Note to self: no more grave digging.

  Forty-five-year-old bodies didn’t spring back from unusual physical tasks the way dewey-fresh Shee used to.

  She showered beneath scalding water in the hopes the heat would ease her discomfort and then dug through her bathroom kit in search of a pain reliever when it didn’t.

  Stepping out of the steamy bathroom she found a woman in her room straining across her stripped bed and tucking a new bottom sheet. The housekeeper wore a light blue uniform dress, the hem riding high on her thigh as she reached, revealing a garter with several small throwing knives tucked inside.

  “Whoa.”

  The woman continued working as Shee ducked back into the bathroom. She shut the door and leaned her back against it.

  Why is the housekeeper strapped?

  On the upside, the woman hadn’t acknowledged her presence, so she doubted she was a target.

  “Hello?” she called.

  “Hullo,” came the answer.

  “Is it, uh, safe to come out?”

  “Yah.”

  Shee frowned. It’s safe to come out because the lady with the knives says it is?

  Shee cracked opened the door. The woman stood on the opposite side of the bed now, bouncing a pillow into a new case. She stared at Shee without expression.

  “I, uh, wasn’t quite ready for you,” said Shee.

  The woman chucked the pillow back on the bed. “I’ll be done in a second.”

  Shee re-emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her body.

  Okaaaay... Excellent at bed-making—crappy at taking a hint.

  She grabbed clothes from her suitcase and slipped back into the bathroom.

  Locking the door, she towel-dried her long dark hair before pulling it into a ponytail. Lifting her arms to put on her shirt, she groaned and considered the pros and cons of spending the rest of the day topless.

  Ow. Ow, ow, ow.

  Gritting through the pain, she finished dressing. By the time she reentered the main room, the housekeeper had left, the bed left crisp, a square of chocolate on her pillow.

  Nice. I could get used to this.

  She unwrapped the chocolate and popped it in her mouth as she moved into the hall.

  Giving her father’s bedroom door knob a twist, she found it still locked.

  Shee sighed. She returned to her room, found her lock-picking kit and returned to jimmy the door. If the idea of keeping the entry locked was to protect him, they’d have to do better than a cheap lockset.

  She eased the door shut behind her and tiptoed into her father’s room.

  She took his hand in hers.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  He lay in the bed much as before, breathing slow and easy.

  “We’ll figure this out. Everything’s going to be okay,” she murmured. “I’m home.”

  Her lip began to quiver and she squeezed his hand, dropping her gaze to the floor.

  All those years avoiding his eyes and now I’d do anything for him to—

  “Gud mawnin.”

  Shee turned to find Martisha entering the room, dressed in colorful nurse’s scrubs. Her cheeks grew warm. “Good morning, Martisha. Sorry.”

  The nurse stood, hands folded in front of her, seemingly waiting.

  I’m in the way.

  Shee sniffed. “Just saying good morning before I go downstairs. Do you need any help with him?”

  Martisha smiled and waved her away. “No, mi an Mister Mick ‘ave fi wi mawnin’ dance.”

  She lowered her father’s hand back to the bed, running a finger down each of his to flatten them neatly against the thin cotton blanket.

  “I’ll get out of your way.”

  With a nod Shee left the room, avoiding the nurse’s eyes as if the woman could see her sins.

  &&&

  The elevator doors slid open to reveal Croix occupying the spot behind the check-in desk as she scrolled through her phone, head bobbing to a tune Shee couldn’t hear.

  “You start early,” said Shee.

  The girl didn’t respond and Shee frowned, remembering a time when she could talk to young people without their eyes locked on a glowing rectangle.

  Those were the days.

  Shee took another step toward the desk and waved to catch Croix’s attention.

  “Hey.” Croix pulled an earbud from beneath her mat of curls and Shee heard a faraway beat, like music from a passing boat echoing over the water.

  “I said, you’re up early.”

  Croix shrugged. “Not really.”

  Shee glimpsed a blister on the pad of the girl’s right ring finger.

  “Blisters,” she said, pointing at her own. “I know how you feel. And my shoulders are killing me.” She rubbed her arm because that’s what people did in awkward conversations—they pantomimed perfectly simple ideas.

  Croix’s withering expression suggested Shee’s comment was the source of her pain. She recorked her ear with the bud and returned to scrolling.

  Shee grimaced. Apparently, kicking in with more than her share of the digging had not won the girl over.

  Outside, Bracco stood sentry in his tropical doorman’s uniform, his head slightly turned in her direction, watching her interaction with Croix.

  Protecting her.

  “You’re not going to get anything out of her,” said a voice behind Shee. She turned to find Angelina wearing her trademark black tights with a coral and gray long-sleeve blouse. Tucked in her arm, Harley squirmed, and Angelina lowered the dog to the ground.

  Shee squatted and put out her hands to create a runway for hugs. Harley bounced over, rearing to place her front paws on Shee’s knees. They exchanged a flurry of kisses before the dog took off around the counter to do the same with Croix.

  “Coffee,” said Angelina, heading for a room to the left of the elevator. It wasn’t a question—it was a quest.

  Shee followed through the opened French doors.

  “Did Mick—”

  Angelina raised a hand. “First, coffee.” She pulled a mug with Harley’s face on it from a cabinet. “Croix got this for me for Christmas. Do you want it or a plain-old lime green one?”

  “I’ll take the lime green. I wouldn’t come between you and any of your Harleys.”

  Angelina handed her the lime mug and poured coffee. Neither of them helped themselves to the bowl of apples, the
lone spotty banana or the pile of croissants sitting beneath a glass cloche. Shee motioned to the food.

  “Does this mean there are actually guests here? I mean, besides the ones you bury in the middle of the night?”

  Without answering, Angelina left the room and walked down a hall leading through another set of French doors to the back porch. Shee shadowed her.

  Angelina lowered herself into a turquoise Adirondack chair and set her coffee on the wide arm. Shee did the same in the chair’s twin.

  “We have a few guests,” said Angelina with only a touch of pique. “Actually, Croix did some online marketing stuff for us and business exploded for a while. We pulled back after Mick’s thing.”

  “Does she live in the hotel?” asked Shee, nodding toward the front desk.

  “Croix? Yes.”

  Shee recalled Bracco driving away after their graveyard visit. “But not Bracco?”

  “No. He has a place over the bridge.”

  “And the housekeeper strapped with throwing knives?”

  Angelina tittered. “Yeah. You’re not going to want to complain about the turndown service.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Beatriz was a find. She’s a clean freak, which made her a meticulous assassin. Now she keeps the hotel spotless.”

  “Anyone else I shouldn’t piss off while I’m here? The cook? Maybe a luggage guy?”

  “Did you meet William? Blond, goatee?”

  Shee shook her head.

  “He’s been a lot of help picking up the management duties Mick can’t do now. He’s sort of me when I’m not here. The cook was in the hundred and first airborne. I have my suspicions the gardener was MI6.”

  “Yikes. Is that why Dad was so sure I’d be safe coming home? Because he’s staffed the hotel with assassins?”

  “I’m sure that’s part of it.”

  “Speaking of Mick, let’s start from the top.”

  Angelina sighed. “It started with a call from that guy you knew the name of.”

  “Viggo.”

  The image of Viggo Nilsson popped into Shee’s head. She’d met him before, several times when she was young. She remembered him as bigger than Paul Bunyan, serious but kind, coifed with reddish blond hair. Mostly, she remembered he shared the chocolate-covered oatmeal crisp cookies his Swedish mother sent him.

  “Right. Mick goes to see Viggo. That’s all I know until we get the anonymous email asking us to come get him.”