Chapter Fourteen
The motel room is empty. Harper’s Louis Vuitton steamer bag is still on the floor, overflowing with a sparkle dress and unicorn socks. Worry eclipses my grief over losing the house. What if someone else convinced the motel owner to let them inside? There’s no sign of a struggle, except for the assortment of lotions and bath bombs strewn over the bathroom counter.
I head outside, following the sounds of banging and drunken laughter.
Behind the motel a wall of boxes and trash cans do little to hide a makeshift camp. I realize this is where Will must sleep every night, in one of the low stacks of blankets tucked against the wall. There must be more men than I realize, but only two figures surround the fire rising out of a rust-coated barrel. Sitting on a crate is a hulking
