Chapter 29: Research
The motel looks no better through rain.
I’ve avoided this trudge back, after seeing the place resigned to only use the room to sleep. It strikes me that this is miserable rain. The cold type that always finds its way down the back of your neck no matter what you’re wearing.
It’s turned the pavements into grey mirrors and makes the whole city look exhausted. Which, honestly, feels appropriate.
My trainers squelch as I cross the cracked car park, weaving around potholes filled with brown water. The neon sign above reception flickers weakly, one power surge away from giving up completely. Everything about this place feels temporary.
Three days ago, I’d told myself it was only for a night. Just somewhere cheap while I look for answers. One night became two. Two became three. Now the woman behind reception nods when she sees me, which is horrifying.
My room smells exactly the same as when I left it this morning. Cheap cleaning products and a vaguely mould-adjacent delight lurking beneath. I lock the door behind me and lean against it, letting the backpack slide from my shoulder.
Every surface in this tiny room is slightly sticky no matter how many times I wipe it.
I should eat. My intentions are good and each day I wake up determined to be sensible, then spend the day surviving on coffee and crackers because the thought of actual food makes my stomach churn. The mirror in the bathroom isn’t doing me any favours either, the woman staring back at me this morning looked like death. I don’t even recognise myself.
The library has been another dead end today.
Since I arrived I’ve spent all day utilising their vast archives, newspaper records, ancestry websites and local history databases. No matter how long I spend squinting at microfilm and scrolling through articles written before I was born, all I’ve found are brief mentions of my family’s murder.
None of it makes sense.
Any official reports talk about a tragic accident. Except every time I read those articles something twists inside me because I remember screaming and my mother’s slit throat.
Don’t even get me started on wolf research. Jesus Christ. Every search eventually led me to increasingly unhinged stories. Apparently every werewolf is either a billionaire, a prince, shirtless, or trying to impregnate somebody. Sometimes all four simultaneously. Useful. Really groundbreaking investigative work.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting there trying to figure out whether the giant wolf I saw with my own eyes was real, while reading a smut book titled The Alpha’s Forbidden Mate.
A laugh bubbles past my lips. And another. And now I’m crying.
I sit heavily on the edge of the bed and press both hands over my face as sobs force their way out of me. The mattress dips beneath my weight with a squeak that is suspiciously judgemental. I cry harder. For my family. For the memories coming back. For the fact that wolves are real. For the fact that I have no idea who I am.
Mostly, though, I cry because I miss them.
Curling forward, I rest my elbows on my knees, and stare at the stained carpet. Maybe leaving was the right choice, maybe it wasn’t, I honestly don’t know. What I do know is that sitting in this mouldy little room isn’t fixing anything. The answers aren’t magically appearing, the nightmares aren’t stopping, the ache in my chest isn’t getting better.
Outside, rain taps steadily against the window. Inside, I wipe my face with the sleeve of my hoodie and take a slow breath.
Tomorrow I’ll go back to the library. Tomorrow I’ll keep digging. Tomorrow I’ll find something.
Because if I stop now, then all I’ve done is lose them for nothing.
I barely make it to the bathroom. My stomach twists so violently I lunge for the toilet. The tiny bathroom spins around me as I drop to my knees hard enough to bruise and throw up absolutely nothing. My body tries anyway. Again. Again. Again. Violent spasms wrench through my stomach until my eyes water and my ribs ache. All that comes up is bitter bile that burns the back of my throat.
When it finally stops, I stay there kneeling on the cold tiles, forehead resting against the edge of the toilet seat, breathing through it. This is ridiculous. I haven’t eaten properly in days. You would think my body would be thrilled at the prospect of food.
There’s a bar across the road, I noticed it from my window on the first night. A squat little building with faded signage and neon lights glowing in the front windows. Every evening people drift in and out carrying takeaway bags that smell like heaven. Every evening I’ve considered going over there. Every evening I’ve talked myself out of it.
Tonight my options are food or eventual organ failure, so food wins.
I wash my face, shove my cap on, and trudge back through the drizzle. Cars hiss past on the wet road. The neon signs buzz as I push through the door, bringing a blast of warmth and the smell of fried onions, beer and old wood. My stomach growls loud enough to be heard externally.
The place is nearly empty.
Two men sit at the bar nursing drinks and staring into the middle distance. A television mounted in the corner plays some sports channel nobody’s watching. Behind the counter stands a man in his fifties with greying hair and and a pot belly, he looks up when I walk in.
"You lost?" He rumbles.
"Do I look lost?" I say.
"A little." His mouth twitches.
He seems friendly.
With his elbows on the counter he continues. "Most don’t wander in here looking like they fought a bear and lost."
"Maybe I won."
He laughs. The sound filling the empty diner. "Fair enough."
I slide onto a stool before my legs can change their minds. "You do food?"
"Cook went home an hour ago."
Disappointment punches me right in the chest. Apparently it shows on my face because he takes in my hollow cheeks and exhausted posture. "I make a mean grilled cheese."
There is no pushback left in me, so I nod. "Whiskey too please."
That earns another laugh. "You old enough?"
"I’m taking that as a complement."
"One whiskey and one grilled cheese coming up."
