WICKED | WILLIAM FRANKLYN-MILLER

⟶ 7 | THE PLACE WE GO TO HIDE

"We can't go back to the hotel."

"Why not?"

"If they could find you at Mori's apartment, they can find you there. You aren't safe. I don't know how they tracked you, but they did."

He was giving me answers to questions I didn't ask. All I wanted was for my throat to stop feeling like it was closing up on me. My face burned with tears, my heart was beating too quickly, and there was a voice in the back of my head chanting: you could have died, you could have died, you could have died!

"Where am I supposed to go then?" I spat out, pressing my back against the booth.

Creep squinted his eyes, lowering his head to glance out of the foggy widow. "I know a place."

"Where?"

"Worry about that when we get there."

"And what about my clothes?"

"We'll get you new ones. Just finish crying and let's go."

If he'd been paying attention, he would have noticed my internal fury at him stopped me from crying minutes ago. My face was still marked with the stains, but I was clearly lacking any substantial tears.

"Heartless sod," I said.

He didn't respond, but we both knew it was true.

_

THE SAFEHOUSE WAS A FAIR DISTANCE AWAY FROM THE TELEPHONE BOOTH.

At least, that's what he called it: The Safehouse. I thought it was a completely unoriginal name, and the location was anything but comforting. To get to the entrance, we had to enter through the doorway of an inconspicuous apartment in the 8th Arrondissement, traipse into a garden shed, and move an unstable bookshelf away from the wall. There was another door behind that, which led us to a small, brick room.

It was damp and humid, and the dim bulb flickering from the ceiling didn't provide much light. Maybe that was for the best. I'd rather see nothing at all than to see the squalid little hole he brought me to. There was a small bed in the corner of the room, but there was no table, dresser, bathroom, or window. I wouldn't be surprised if I saw a rat scamper by.

Creep brushed past me, taking his jacket off and hanging it on the corner of the cracked mirror beside him. That was the only thing besides the bed, apparently.

"You've got your spoiled-brat face on," he remarked, "cut it out."

I frowned. "What face?"

"The one you have on right now. I get this isn't your five-star hotel, but it's one of the only places you won't be found."

"Really?"

"No satellite connection in here. My agency installed this safehouse long before I was recruited, and it's got everything you need to survive in dire straits."

I hated how he phrased his words. It made me feel like we were already at the end, without having a chance to start. Like I was going to die. Like I was already dead. Survive in dire straits. Even though it had only been a little more than a day, I already found it hard to remember what life was like before all of this.

"So you've been here before?" I asked, mainly to distract my over-thinking mind.

"Yeah," Creep exhaled sharply, "you'll get used to it."