Chapter 3 - Shadows In The Hallway
The morning hours crawled by like lead. Every time the service elevator hummed or heavy footsteps echoed down the carpeted corridor, my heart jammed in my throat. I scrubbed marble entryways and polished brass handles with mechanical precision, my mind trapped back in that small utility room with a hunted man. By midday, I managed to swipe a clean black zip-up hoodie and a paper cup of black coffee from the staff canteen, hiding them beneath my cleaning cart.
When I finally swiped my keycard and slipped back into the room, Costlow was sitting at the small table by the window, the blinds parted an inch so he could watch the street below. He had washed the dried blood from his face, but the split lip and dark bruises made him look dangerously worn.
"Here," I whispered, sliding the coffee and the dark hoodie across the table. "Put this on. The gray jacket stands out too much."
He pulled the heavy cotton over his head, wincing as the fabric brushed against his bruised ribs. "Thanks," he muttered, taking a long swallow of the bitter coffee. "It's quiet out there. Too quiet."
Before I could ask what he meant, a sharp, rhythmic pounding echoed against the exterior service door down the hall. Three heavy knocks, followed by a pause, then two more. Costlow froze, his coffee cup hovering inches from the table. My blood ran cold.
"That's not maintenance," he whispered, his eyes narrowing into cold slits as he reached instinctively for the small pocket knife he had salvaged from the kitchen drawer.
"Who visits at this hour?" I breathed, my hand flying to my mouth.
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"People who don't knock twice unless they're checking rooms," he said, standing up with agonizing slowness. He pressed his back against the wall beside the door, motioning for me to stay behind the counter.
Through the thin wood paneling, a muffled voice drifted in from the corridor—a cold, flat drawl asking if anyone had seen a man matching Costlow's description leave through the service exit. My knees felt weak. If they pushed the door handle, the flimsy latch wouldn't hold for three seconds. Costlow gripped the small knife, his knuckles whitening, his tear-filled eyes from the night before entirely gone, replaced by the lethal focus of a man cornered with nowhere left to run.
