1

  Greta couldn't stay still in the room. She paced back and forth in front of the bed with a pink bedspread, turned on the bathroom shower to take a bath and gave up on the idea. She went to the window with the closed curtain and peeked at the courtyard through some gap. She didn't even know what she was looking for. Maybe movement. Maybe salvation.

  She ended up sitting in the middle of the spiral staircase in the garage, not daring to turn on the light, her eyes fixed on the half-empty beer bottle by the gate. If the bottle fell, she was sure: she'd have a heart attack right there.

  Each car that entered the motel courtyard slowly triggered an episode of tachycardia. The sound of tires on gravel echoed inside her. Greta held her breath, waited, and then released the air slowly when the vehicle moved on. Each frustration weighed heavy. It wasn't Daros. Not this time.

  The smell of mold threatened to cling to her insides. The tension in the air made each minute weigh triple. A car door slammed outside and shadows moved through the door. But it wasn't him. Not yet.

  It was hard to measure the passage of time, but she noticed when the strong light of early afternoon began to weaken. Where was Daros? Why was he taking so long?

  The most likely answer was that he was busy throwing off the Honda Civic. The thought made her realize how her situation had undergone an unimaginable reversal. There she was in the dark, anxiously waiting for the man who'd tied her to a bed days ago. But the memory seemed to come from long ago.

  Watching only increased her anxiety. It was better to go back to the room and do something to distract herself. She could leave the TV on without sound, for example. Another car entered the courtyard, moving even slower than the previous ones. The engine noise soon died. It must have stopped at another apartment. Or maybe not. Maybe it was there for her.

  Suddenly, a male hand appeared in the gate opening. Slow, careful. It left something next to the bottle. Even at that distance, the package seemed identical to the others received. Brown paper wrapped in plastic.

  She waited, motionless, until she heard the sound of the car restart and drive away. Only then did she jump up, descend the remaining steps, and grab the package. She ran back to the room, locked the door, and began to read.

  Leave your phone in the room. I'll get you another one later. Take your personal items, leave the room key in the door, leave money for what you consumed, and go to apartment 26. It's on the same side where you are. I left the gate ajar. Close it when you pass. I'll be waiting.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  I'll be waiting. She didn't know if the phrase awakened relief or fear in her.

  She dropped the phone on the bed, hesitating for a moment. It was her last link to her previous life, a way to ask for help if something went wrong.

  She left some bills on the nightstand to cover the two beers. She hadn't touched anything else. She checked if everything was in her purse: wallet, notes, room key... Ah! The key had to stay in the room. She fit it into the lock from the outside, and the plate with the number 20 was left swinging in the air as she descended the stairs.

  She advanced to the back of the courtyard with large steps, counting the numbers on the walls, 22, 24, 26. The brown gate was slightly open at her destination, as informed.

  She slipped through the gap. She stopped for an instant, her hand resting on the cold metal of the doorframe. This could be her last opportunity to leave, leave all this madness behind. Taking a deep breath, she closed the garage and let herself be swallowed by the darkness.

  She felt the cold surface of the car parked there, moving toward the spiral staircase twin to the other apartment's, an architectural pattern. Midway through, the door to the room on the second floor opened, throwing light on the metal steps. Another world awaited her up there.

  She climbed the stairs, step by step, beginning the crossing into the unknown, not knowing what awaited her.

  2

  Hearing Greta's hesitant footsteps in the garage was like hearing whispers in the middle of a storm. Unexpected, uncertain. She moved gently, like someone stepping on unstable ground for the first time. Daros remained motionless waiting, giving her time to decide whether to continue advancing or not. When the sound of the woman's presence approached the stairs, he left his post and opened the door, pouring light onto the path.

  He watched as she climbed. Her face was an enigma. There was no more fear. No hope. There was something else. Something new in her posture, a mixture of defiance and courage that made her magnetic.

  It was strange how the dynamic between them had changed in such a short time. From a threat to his anonymity, Greta had become the next purpose. The new problem to be solved. The only thing that mattered.

  When she refused the hand he extended, Daros understood: she didn't trust him. Far from it: the woman was there because she had no choice.

  He waited for her to enter and settle into a chair. Facing the assessment and accusation that alternated in the newcomer's gaze, he prepared to explain the next steps.

  But it wasn't easy to maintain focus. Although she waited without saying a word, Greta was far from passive. She was like a wire stretched to its limit. Any sudden movement and she would react.

  "We're leaving now. Together. We drive to the point where I'll exchange the rental car for the Jeep. I'll get your suitcase. And we continue to Imbituba, where we'll arrive in about three hours."

  The presentation finished, he observed while she reflected. Finally, the woman nodded firmly. She hesitated only for an instant, wanting to know more.

  "And then?"

  "Then what?"

  "After I get there. To the cabin."

  "Well," he began, "you'll be safe. And I..."

  He thought about saying he'd hunt the pursuer. But he gave up on the idea. He didn't want to lose again the little trust he'd gained.

  "When we get there, I'll simply assess the terrain."

  By her confident expression, it was a good answer. He pointed to the door:

  "Shall we?"

  She followed him in silence. The brief, accidental touch of her hand on his arm was enough. Like a silent shot, he felt an electric current run through his body—and hated feeling it.

  He wasn't used to touches, much less reacting to stimuli. That feeling was a terrible sign.