Cramped, tired and only half listening to the taxi driver blubbering on about her children, Delilah wrenched out a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket, squinting at the words she had hastily scribbled down: 4 Seasons, talk to Mr. Bates. The poster had been vague, but the fairest knew no other way to contact the local freehold. “Okay, this is the pla- wait, stop! Stop!” With screeching tires that could make even a deaf man cringe, the taxi narrowly avoided a collision with another car before pulling haphazardly up to the hotel. Delilah practically jumped out at the first chance, glad to be free of the deathtrap and it’s smell of cheap perfume and cigarettes.
With a forced smile, Delilah handed the old hag her money. “Sweetie, anytime you need a ride, call us!” “Of course.” Not. Crazy bitch. Fleeing into the building before she could dragged into another conversation, Delilah approached receptionist. “Excuse me, but I need to speak with Mr. Bates. I’ve lost something very important to me and was told he could help.”