Chapter 17

Eliza stood beside the door, remaining still as he hit it again and again, each time making the wood moan a little louder. She was bitterly amused to find herself wishing that Ford had left a gun. He must have known that she was in some sort of danger, or else he wouldn’t have warned her not to open the door.

It shuddered once more before falling open, revealing a red-faced, panting, disheveled hotel clerk. She brought down her arms as hard as she could, channeling all her anger, confusion, exhaustion, and frustration into the action, swinging the pitcher with all her weight and might. It crashed against Bill’s forehead, shattering in her hand. He paused, looking at her with confused eyes, before falling face first to the floor, among the shards of glass and splinters of wood.

He had not been carrying clean sheets.