Chapter 13: Shanton Hotel

Marlee looked pale, fear tightening her features. Before entering the Shanton Hotel, she glanced around to make sure no one had noticed her, then hurried inside. My heart sank. It hit me that Brock had never planned to delete Marlee's photos at all. He was just using that as an excuse to keep exploiting her. Poor Marlee had believed him. If he really had taken those photos, but they weren't on his phone, where would they be? Most likely on his home computer. I didn't know where he lived, and Marlee had already gone inside. He could attack her any minute. The thought of Brock's fat, ugly body pinning down Marlee's voluptuous, pale body made bile rise in my throat. Whatever happened, I couldn't let that pig have his way. What should I do? Thinking fast, I hacked into Marlee's phone and turned on her camera so I could watch. She held the phone in her hand, the view bobbing as she walked, then she stepped into the elevator. Inside, she called Ezra. "Honey, where did you go? Why didn't you answer my calls last night or today?" Marlee asked, her voice tight. "Marlee, I'm sorry. I worked late, then a coworker dragged me out for drinks. I got drunk and crashed at his place. This morning, I realized my phone had water damage. I had to take it in for repair. I just got off work and picked it up, and I'm calling you right away. Work was too hectic to borrow a coworker's phone to reach you. I'm really sorry. I'm heading home now. Wait for me." "Honey, I haven't... finished my shift. The hospital has me on duty tonight." "Oh. Okay, I got it." "Okay, that's it for now. I'm hanging up." She ended the call, her expression darkening. You could tell how much she loved Ezra. Having to lie to him and knowing she might be violated again had to be tearing her apart. The elevator doors slid open. Marlee drew a deep breath, stepped out, found Room 5021, and knocked. The door opened. A heavyset figure filled the frame. He wore only a white bath towel. I couldn't see his face from the angle, but I knew it was Brock. "Baby, you finally made it," he said with a grin. "Get in here." He grabbed her and yanked her into the room. Marlee stood tense in the middle of the room. "Where are the photos you took? Delete them, now." "Don't rush. Let me have my fun, and I'll delete them right away," Brock said, smiling. "If you're lying to me, I'll call the police. If it comes to that, I'll take you down with me," she said. "Calm down. Just trust me." He gave a lewd little chuckle, dragged her to the edge of the bed, slipped an arm around her waist, and moved in to kiss her cheek. Marlee cried out and flung her phone onto the bed. Luckily, it landed at an angle that still had them in frame. Brock looked like a starving wolf, practically drooling. His greasy, repulsive face made my skin crawl. He tried to kiss her lips, but Marlee kept turning her head, dodging him. Anger flared. He didn't hesitate; his hand cracked across her face. Smack! Marlee tumbled onto the bed, clutching her cheek, staring at him in shock. "Stupid whore," he snarled, "Behave. If you want those photos, do as you're told. Strip. All of it." There was no arguing with him. Tears spilled from Marlee's eyes at once. I couldn't bear to watch. Then it hit me. When I'd skimmed through Brock's gallery, I'd seen photos of his wife and a son who looked seven or eight. His wife was pretty: almond-shaped eyes, an oval face, slim and tall. She wasn't particularly busty, but she clearly knew how to dress. They had taken a lot of travel photos. Married with a child, and still out preying on women. Brock was scum. Not that I had any right to judge. I wasn't much better. I opened his contacts and quickly found the entry labeled "Wife." I swapped in my number for hers, then called him. By then, Marlee was sitting on the bed with tears on her face, reluctantly unbuttoning her blouse, one button at a time. Brock stood over her, drool glistening at the corner of his mouth, ready to pounce. His phone rang. My call. He didn't even look. "Hurry up. I can't wait," he said, grinning. I frowned and kept calling, over and over. Annoyed, he finally answered. I hung up at once. If he heard my voice, it would blow the ruse. I followed with a text: "Get back here! Our son has a high fever. We need to take him to the hospital!" Brock's expression changed. He immediately called back. I didn't answer. I declined the call. "Stupid bitch," he spat. He started scrambling into his clothes. "Stop crying. I've got things to do. I'll deal with you next time," he said to Marlee. Her hands froze. She stared at him. "You're leaving? Then delete the photos." "Nothing happened. Delete what? We'll talk next time I see you." He turned to go. Marlee grabbed his hand. "How can you go back on your word?" He shoved her aside. "I haven't done a thing. Unless you let me fuck you once." Marlee flinched and fell silent. He rushed out. The door slammed. Bang! Marlee stared at the closed door. After a few seconds, tears slid down her face, and she started sobbing. Her grief-stricken face made my stomach twist. I resolved to fix this for her. I watched Brock stride out of the hotel and use his phone to hail a ride-hailing service. I immediately hailed a car of my own. As his car pulled away, mine arrived. I told the driver to follow. Brock lived in Metron, about half an hour from the hospital. When we arrived, I used the darkness and the buildings for cover and tailed him inside. He didn't notice a thing. It was an old complex from the 1990s, five stories at most. Brock took the stairs. I followed, quiet as a mouse. We climbed to the third floor. He knocked hard several times. No response. He pulled out his keys. I stayed behind the wall and heard him mutter, "Didn't she say our son was sick? Did they already take him to the hospital?" The door opened. Brock went in and shut it. I didn't move. I was about to scan for his home Wi‑Fi when a striking figure stepped out of the apartment across from his, a trash bag dangling from her hand. I froze. It was her.