The air inside the motel room was thick with the scent of sweat, shame, and stale cigarettes, but Tricia Harper didn't mind in the slightest. In an odd way, she found the scent strangely comforting—a sobering reminder of the fact that she, like everyone else who had been there before her, was a tarnished, deeply flawed human being.
She hadn't always viewed herself in this manner, but ever since her horrifying encounter with Michael in his jail cell, she'd been wrought with self-doubt and anguish. It was almost as though his strong, vengeful hands had never really stopped clenching her throat; they would probably be gripping at her now forever.
The bed creaked as Harper rolled over and gazed at Kessel. He was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, chatting to somebody on his phone.
"Get out!" he yapped gleefully to the person on the other end. "That's amazing. God, that's just...perfect. Really. Thanks, I'll be in touch."
He turned off his phone and tossed it onto the bed with a wide, leering grin.
"Who was that, Carl?" Harper quizzed.
"You're not gonna believe this," he said excitedly. "That was Hawkins. Get this: Britten's gone totally bonkers, for real. They moved him to the loony bin yesterday because he's not competant to stand trial. We did it, Trish. We're totally off the hook. None of things he knows will ever see the light of day, now. It's over."
Harper grimaced.
"What? Why are you making that face? Hell, Trish. I thought you'd be happy."
"Happy?" she snapped. "Carl, how can I be happy knowing that we killed an innocent teenage boy and a decorated cop? Not to mention the fact that we've completely shattered a man's life and mental well-being. Relieved? Yes. Happy, absolutely not."
Kessel snorted.
"Don't go acting all soft on me now, Tricia," he snarled. "You wouldn't know a conscience if it bit you in the ass."
"Maybe I'd know one if it tried to strangle me," she countered.
"Now, see here!" Kessel yelled. "If you're thinking of going off and blabbing—"
"Don't get your panties in a twist," Harper scoffed. "I'm not saying a damn thing. But that doesn't mean I have to be glad about the way things turned out. Jesus, you really are a pig sometimes, Carl." She stood up hastily and snatched her clothes up off the sticky, brown carpet.
"Tricia, come on! Where are you going?"
Harper threw on her slacks and blouse, and stomped over to the door.
"I'm going back to work," she huffed. "I suggest you do the same. And don't call me again for the next few weeks. I don't want to see you right now."
She slammed the door behind her, walked three steps, and then burst into mess of tears.
I'm so sorry, she thought woefully. I'm so, so very sorry.