Chapter 1: Thin Walls and Thicker Lies
The whiskey bottle by his bed was two fingers lower than it had been an hour ago. That was okay; it was a two-finger night for sure. David sighed, the sound getting lost in the sterile hiss of the hotel room air conditioner. He’d earned this little indulgence.
His calloused thumb, a permanent crescent of grease under the nail he could never quite scrub out, smudged the screen of his phone. The flight had been delayed, the union rep had been a dick, and the hotel bed felt like it was stuffed with old newspapers. But Kathryn would want to hear from him. She always did.
Hey babe. Made it. Room’s a dump but the union hall is close. Meeting first thing. He typed, his movements deliberate. Miss you already.
He sent it and took another slow sip of whiskey, letting it burn a warm path down his throat. The silence of the room felt heavy, absorbent. He could hear the elevator chime faintly down the hall, a distant siren. He kicked off his work boots, the thud against the carpet too loud.
A sound cut through the quiet then. Not from the hall. From the wall beside his bed. A low, muffled moan. David paused, the glass halfway to his lips. He listened. Another moan, higher this time, followed by a breathy laugh that was definitely not his wife’s, but it sparked an unwelcome, familiar heat in his gut. The people in 407 were having a better night than he was.
He shook his head, dismissing it. City hotel. Thin walls. He’d heard worse.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Kathryn’s reply. A flutter of anticipation lifted his chest.
Glad you’re safe. Don’t drink too much. Xo
He smiled. She knew him. He typed back, Just one. Promise. What are you up to?
He waited. The screen stayed blank. From next door, the bedframe gave a rhythmic, unmistakable thump-thump-thump against the shared plaster. A man’s voice, blurred by the wall, said something low. A woman’s laughter followed, bright and unselfconscious. It was getting kind of rude, actually.
David’s thumb hovered over his phone. No answer. Maybe she was in the bath. She liked to take long baths with that lavender stuff that made the whole steamy room smell like a calm meadow. He pictured her there, neck deep in bubbles, her hair pinned up, soft and relaxed. The image was a clean, good one. It helped.
The thumping next door got more vigorous. A sharp, guttural groan from the man. “Yeah, just like that,” the woman’s voice filtered through, crystal clear for a horrible second.
David stood up suddenly, the whiskey swirling in his glass. He felt like a voyeur, standing there in his socks listening to this. He should turn on the TV. Drown it out. He fumbled for the remote.
Another sound stopped him cold. It was the woman again, but her words were lost in a sharp, rhythmic gasp. And then the man’s laugh. A loud, confident, barroom laugh. It was a laugh that didn’t care who heard it. It was a laugh that settled in David’s ear with a weird, nagging familiarity. Where did he know that laugh from?
His phone screen lit up, casting a blue glow on his strained face. A new message from Kathryn.
Sorry, had the music up loud. Just chilling with a glass of wine. Bored without you.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-THUD.
The headboard in 407 slammed into the wall with a final, forceful impact. The woman cried out, a short, sharp sound of pleasure. The man’s laugh came again, closer now, soaked in satisfaction. “Told you,” the voice said, the words muffled but the smug triumph in them perfectly clear.
David stared at the text. Just chilling. The neon sign from the pawn shop across the street flashed through the gap in the curtains, staining the cheap carpet red, then blue, then red again. The music she was playing. It would be loud.
It would be loud. Loud enough, maybe, to cover the sound of a headboard. David stared at the words on his screen. The thumping had stopped next door, replaced by the low murmur of voices and the unmistakable sound of a zipper.
He sat back down on the edge of the bed. The springs groaned. His own reflection in the dark television screen looked back at him—a solid, shadowy shape in a cheap room. Reliable. Dependable. The kind of man who didn’t jump to crazy conclusions.
His phone buzzed again.
Kathryn: What are you doing now?
He typed slowly, each letter a deliberate action. Finished my drink. About to crash. Long day tomorrow.
Kathryn: You should. You need your sleep.
A clink of glasses from next door. The woman’s voice, softer now. “That was incredible.”
The man’s reply was a warm, satisfied rumble. “Told you I knew a better hotel bar.”
David’s blood went very still. A cold, clear understanding began to crackle at the edges of his mind. That laugh. That specific, confident, bartender’s laugh. He’d heard it just a few hours ago. Downstairs. When he’d checked in, exhausted and wanting a drink before heading up, he’d gone to the hotel’s sad little lobby bar. The bartender had been a friendly guy, mid-twenties, sleeves rolled up on toned arms. He’d poured a generous whiskey and asked about the union transfer. They’d talked about Halifax. The guy had said his name was Liam. He’d made a joke about the plumbing in the old building, and he’d laughed that same distinctive, easy laugh.
David’s fingers tightened around his phone. Coincidence. A million people had that laugh.
He stood up and walked to the shared wall. He pressed his ear against the cool, floral-patterned wallpaper. He could hear the sigh of the mattress, the rustle of sheets.
“I should go,” the woman said. Her voice was husky, post-sex. “My husband texts. He’s predictable.”
A bolt of pure ice shot down David’s spine. His breath caught in his throat.
The man—Liam—laughed again. “Predictable’s boring, Kat. You’re not boring.”
Kat. Not Kathryn. A nickname. A private one. One he used. One he used.
The world telescoped down to the vile, textured surface of the wall against his ear, the hum of the mini-fridge, the frantic hammering of his own heart. The pieces, jagged and wrong, clicked into a picture he could not unsee. The loud music. The delayed texts. The wine. The boredom.
From his own pocket, his phone vibrated. He pulled it away from his ear and looked at it. Another message from his wife.
Kathryn: Goodnight, David. Sweet dreams.
He looked at the time stamp. He looked at the wall. He imagined her, just on the other side of this cheap drywall, lying in a tangle of hotel sheets that smelled of sex and another man. Putting her phone down on a nightstand that was a mirror image of his. Saying goodnight to him while her lover’s breath cooled on her skin.
A violent, surging nausea rose in his gut. He stumbled to the bathroom, making it just in time to heave the two fingers of whiskey into the pristine toilet bowl. He gripped the cold porcelain, his knuckles white, sweat beading on his forehead. He flushed it away, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room.
He rinsed his mouth, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror. The man looking back was a stranger—pale, hollow, betrayed.
Back in the main room, silence had finally fallen in 407. A profound, exhausted silence.
David didn’t pick up his phone. He didn’t turn out the light. He just sat on the bed, the static-filled silence of the room pressing in on him.