When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, the hallway smelled of stale carpet and faint perfume.
“Mom, what’s going on?” Alex asked, his voice edged with worry.
I swallowed the answer, my throat tight, feeling the weight of Marlene’s whisper pressing against my ear.
“Your wife is inside. And she’s not alone.”
Before I could add another word, my phone buzzed again.
“Miriam…” Marlene’s voice was a thin thread, “she’s in the hotel right now.”
Elevator to the Fourth Floor
We stepped into the glass‑walled elevator and the doors hissed shut, sealing us in a brief, metallic coffin.
My son glanced at me, his brow furrowed. “Mom, why are we really here?” he asked, his voice low.
I swallowed, feeling the knot in my throat tighten. “Just… a stop,” I muttered, pressing the button for the fourth floor.
He pressed his lips together, the silence heavy. “You sound nervous,” he said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I could hear the faint hum of the building’s ventilation, the faint scent of stale coffee drifting up from the lobby.
“You’re not thinking about the pharmacy, are you?” he asked, a hint of sarcasm cracking his tone.
“Just a little traffic,” I replied, empty.
He stared at the floor indicator, the numbers flashing like a countdown. “If she’s there… if you’re right… what do we do?”
The elevator shuddered as it rose, the doors whispering open a fraction too late for any other passenger.
Every floor passed felt like a mile, the metal walls reflecting my own pale face back at me.
He turned to me, eyes sharp. “Are you sure? Because I’m not sure I can hear the truth over all this noise.”
I pressed my lips together, feeling the weight of his stare, the unasked question hanging between us like a suspended note.
When the doors finally slid open onto the fourth floor, the hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit, the carpet muffling our steps.
We paused at the end of the corridor, the numbers on the doors glinting in the low light. My son’s hand tightened around the door handle of the elevator.
“You said she’s in room 409,” he whispered, the number echoing in his mind.
I nodded, feeling my throat dry, the scent of polished wood and distant perfumes filling the air.
He took a breath, the sound of his own heartbeat louder than the hum of the hallway lights.
“Okay, Mom,” he said, his voice steadier now, “let’s see what’s really happening.”
The Door Opens
We stood in front of room 409, the door a solid slab of mahogany, polished to a faint sheen.
“Your wife is inside, and she’s not alone,” I whispered, feeling the words claw their way out.
He stared at me, eyes wide, a storm of disbelief and anger flickering across his face.
“What do you mean ‘not alone’?” he demanded, his voice low but shaking.
Without waiting for an answer, he lunged forward, his shoulder slamming into the wood.
The door burst open with a sharp crack, the hinges screaming.
