Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 2
Mila
The hotel room door clicks shut and I engage the lock and safety latch. The city of Pittsburgh beyond the window glows with neon and headlights, but inside I’m wrapped in the mediocrity of generic beige walls and mass-produced décor. Doesn’t matter though. I chose this hotel not for any luxurious appointments but because it fit within my budget. My job as a graphic designer doesn’t pay peanuts, but it doesn’t pay for high end hotels either.
I drop my purse onto the small desk in the corner and sink into the chair, exhaling deeply to release the tension I’ve been holding since leaving Mario’s.
It went worse than I’d expected.
Penn hadn’t even given me a chance once North told him I was there looking for him. A quick, dismissive rejection through his teammate. Like I was nothing. Like I hadn’t once known him—had his back when it mattered most.
I rub at the tension headache settling into my temples. At least the efforts weren’t a total bust. I’m still puzzled why North left his phone on the table—unlocked, with Penn’s contact info staring back at me. His address too. That wasn’t an accident. He wanted me to have it. The question was: Why?
I mean… in what world would he assume I’m not some crazed stalker who might lie in wait in the bushes of Penn’s home and stab him to death? Regardless, I’m grateful because I’m not about to give up on Penn. It’s just… I need another plan. A backup.
I shove those thoughts away and wake my laptop, the blue light glowing against my fingers as I navigate to my email. I need to ground myself in something normal, something that doesn’t feel like my entire world is tilting sideways.
A new message sits in my inbox, the subject line reading First Review—Cover Mockup. Relief trickles in as I click it open, skimming the response from the indie author who’d hired me for a book cover design.
Mila, this is fantastic. Love the typography and overall composition. Could we make the character’s eyes a little more vibrant? Maybe a touch more contrast on the title?
I exhale softly. I can do that. Easy tweaks. It’s not like my creativity has been firing on all cylinders lately, but I still know how to make something beautiful.
My fingers fly over the keyboard as I type a quick reply:
Glad you love it! I’ll tweak the eyes and title contrast and send over a revised version tomorrow. Thanks for the feedback!
I hit send, then click over to my personal inbox. Another unread message.
From: Aunt Dorene
Subject: Thought of you when I saw this!
A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips. I click it open and see a link to an article: 20 Funniest Graphic Design Fails That Will Make You Question Everything.
Aunt Dorene always does this—finds little things that remind her of me, sending them with no expectations, just a quiet, steady presence.
Her email continues:
Mila-bug, hope you’re having fun in PA visiting friends. Call me when you can! Love you.
A pang hits my chest, one I refuse to name because it would involve words like dishonesty, deceit and betrayal. Visiting friends. That’s what I told her. The lie is innocent enough. She doesn’t need to know the truth.
She doesn’t need to know I came here alone and I have no friends in Pittsburgh. She most definitely doesn’t need to know that I think my life is in danger, and that one of my reasons for leaving her and Florida behind was to keep her safe.
I quickly type back:
Haha, these are hilarious! I’ll call you soon. Love you too.
I close the laptop and exhale, the weight of uncertainty, fear and helplessness settling on me in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
I slump onto the bed, one hand gripping my phone, the other balled into a fist that rubs at the tightness over my chest. I don’t want to do it, but I make myself.
Pulling up my texts, I scroll to the one from an unknown number and force myself to read the messages. I skim the most recent ones, the last coming in a mere hour ago.
1:23 a.m.: You think you got away with it, but you didn’t.
7:04 a.m.: Traitors don’t get happy endings, Mila. You’ll pay for what you did.
11:56 a.m.: Hope you’re watching your back. Better lock your doors at night.
10:15 p.m.: It’s almost time.
A shudder rolls through me, cold and uncontrollable, with a wave of fear so strong, a tiny cry escapes my lips. I bolt off the bed and cross the room in three long strides, again checking the locks on the hotel door. Dead bolt engaged. Security latch in place. I look out the peephole but can’t see anything except that no one is standing directly on the other side.
My fingers tremble as I double-check the windows, even though I’m on the sixth floor. Ridiculous, really. Spider-Man isn’t coming for me.