Free Dreams for the Dead by Heather Crews

mfortable on the other bed. He stared at the ceiling for hours and found patterns in the darkness until morning arrived, bleeding his soul dry with its unbearable sunlight.
     

 
    F ive
     
    A pale light draped itself over the room. The sound of rain spattering outside the door made Dawn want to stay in bed forever. Why was it raining so much anyway? The room was freezing beyond the covers, the A/C turned up too high. Tristan sat at the table. Behind him, the curtains were pulled open to reveal the blue-gray day.
    “It’s cold,” she said, teeth chattering softly.
    He reached out an arm to turn off the A/C unit. A soft vibrating sound she hadn’t even noticed disappeared, and there was only the sound of the rain.
    “Thanks.” As if he were so polite. So considerate.
    Her shower that morning was disappointingly lukewarm. Afterward, changed into fresh clothes, she sat shivering on the lid of the toilet and put her face in her hands. She didn’t have a grand plan. The motel room offered nothing in the way of weapons. There wasn’t even a second window she could squeeze out of. That was probably the only reason Tristan allowed her to be alone behind a locked door.
    If you please me …
    The pragmatic part of her knew she already owned everything she had to use. Her own limbs, her own mind. Those things were her weapons, only she didn’t know how to wield them.
    Except she did.
    Dawn was fully aware and in control of her sexual agency. She didn’t believe sexuality was the only tool available to her as a woman, and she didn’t think she had it in her to use it as a weapon anyway. She could have fought Tristan physically, though she’d most likely lose, or schemed until she figured out how to escape. She could scream for help the next time they were in a restaurant. This situation wasn’t impo ssible.
    She went out into the room and sat on the edge of the bed to work on her hair. She’d forgotten her own comb and had to settle for the inn’s complimentary one. Scowling deeply, she worked the small, ineffectual piece of plastic upward through the long, damp ropes of her hair. Every so often she’d encounter a knot that made her eyes water. With mutinous envy she glared at the back of Tri stan’s long, perfectly straight hair, the dark brown strands smooth and gleaming with no effort on his part.
    He looked over at her. “I’ll take you to eat whenever you’re done.”
    “This isn’t easy, you know,” she grumbled, her scalp aching. “Maybe I’ll just cut it all off. Go boy-short. I’ve always wanted to do that.” She’d refrained at Zach’s insistence that guys didn’t like short hair. Now that seemed stupid. She would cut her hair off if she wanted and if no one liked it, that was their problem.
    Ignoring her, Tristan slid on his sunglasses. “Hurry up,” he sighed. “I’ve got shit to do today.”
    “Hold on,” she said in a voice that didn’t sound like her own.
    “What?”
    He actually sounded curious. Her courage fizzled. “Uh … never mind. Let’s go.”
    There was a bit of a crowd at the café that rainy morning, and the cheerful chatter around them was slightly unnerving for some reason. It was almost beginning to feel no rmal eating across a table from Tristan. Then Dawn realized she’d never actually seen him eat. He always just sat there with a coffee, endlessly stirring shit into it, but he never drank it. He never ordered food.
    He probably got food on his own when he went out at night, she decided. What the hell else would he be doing?
    Serial killing , her brain replied.
    Dawn ate her omelet mechanically, without much enjoyment. Her frizzing hair glistened with tiny beads of water. Tristan leaned low on his side of the table, one arm slung across the back of an empty chair. His sunglasses kept her from seeing his eyes, but she felt his gaze lingering long enough to make her squirm. She slouched, cheeks hot, and cleaned her glasses with a napkin. When she looked at him again