Re: Fourth Floor Landing.
Evan had no real clue about the person in his head. Everyone else had one, and he thought he probably did too, but hey, that wasn't really worrisome when you spent every hour of the day with a dead girl you'd never met. He read the things people wrote in the sports book he carried in the pocket of his jeans, and he knew they were all hearing voices, but not him. He was all by himself upstairs - only him, and the dead girl, and the constant thoughts of death. Same old, same old.
He'd come to the hotel for the hell of it, because his therapy was done for the day, and A.A. had gotten out early, and it was either the hotel or the nearest bar.
He chose the hotel.
He was dressed in jeans and a blue, designer tee shirt that pretended to be vintage cheap, and his shoes were worth more than the ancient marble that lined the hotel's entryway. His eyes were only slightly bloodshot, and his skin only smelled a little booze-sweet, and he looked like a bored rich guy that had decided to spend some time in the shady part of town.
He shoved his cellphone (and the red poker chip he carried everywhere) into his back pocket, and he fished out the tarnished key as he did so. He took the steps two at a time, whistling some Etta James, and he stopped just shy of the fourth floor landing. The familiar shape a few steps ahead, sitting on the dusty carpet, was one he hadn't seen in years, but he'd recognize the kid anywhere. The dead girl waited at the top of the stairs, but Evan didn't move just then. He knew the kid had to have heard the whistling; he just didn't know if the kid would recognize him in return.