He's still alive.

Exhausted, elated, spent. But alive.

Sam doesn't know what to do next though he wishes he could close his eyes and sleep - really sleep - though not the forever kind of sleep the blonde murderess next to him probably plans for him.

Just sleep. Is it too much to ask?

He doesn't even know her name. And she hasn't asked for his, not that it matters. He wouldn't tell her anyway. And it's probably for the best. The less they know about each other, the better. As it stands now, he knows more than he would ever want to know about her and her freeze-dried groom stashed in the unit that he just purchased. Sam wonders if she knows anything about him other than what she knows of his skill in the bedroom, or from what he told her back at the storage units. But then, does it really matter?

Outside the blizzard is still going and there really is nothing else to do - not after the last two hours they'd just had, him and the blonde murderess - for that's what she was, wasn't she? He can still smell the scent of sex hanging in the air, hovering over them like a sheet, a cloud, a shroud. But this one hums, just the way her body still hums, as if waiting for another round.

It must have been how she killed him, he thinks, just the way she described it. Killed him just when he was coming. Sam wonders if poor Clyde - sappy name to be born with, poor guy - knows he's already dead and not stuck in some orgasmic limbo somewhere, currently desiccated and wrapped in plastic garment bags complete with packing tape sealing the zippers. Sam's not the type to be all sympathetic, but he can't help but be curious. He's got nothing to lose now. He could be dead in the morning. And if he didn't move the stuff out of unit 56 by noon tomorrow, he'd be much deader - if that was even a word.

Sam plays with a strand of her long blonde hair on the pillow, twining it around his long finger. Would she really kill him if he did fall asleep?

Would she snuff the life out of him, maybe with a pillow pressed against his face though he's surely strong enough to fight her off? Or would she pull out a pen knife from her purse and slice his jugular, leaving a messy bed for the cleaning crew in the morning? At the second thought, Sam frowns and turns to look at her as she keeps her gaze at the window, watching the snow blowing outside. Or at least pretending to.

What about poison? Maybe she's got some drugs in her purse, a syringe ready to be plunged into his veins, delivering the deadly dose of whatever she could get her hands on. He'd read somewhere that you could kill someone by injecting air into someone, or maybe he'd seen it in some B-movie one night, when Gwyneth was buried in one of her books, too busy to notice him. He wonders if that is true - about a pocket of air in someone's veins, though he did read some factoid or other somewhere about the dangers of blowing into a vagina. He doesn't know if that's true either. Sam doesn't spend his time reading anatomy books. He's too busy trying to survive, putting up the facade of being this successful antiques store owner and doting husband, starving for one of his wife's measly handouts of watery sex on crisp clean sheets - sheets she'd promptly remove from the bed and toss into the washer right after, as if they offended her.

"How did he really die?" He asks, breaking the silence between them. There's a slight croak to his voice as he asks the question. He realizes that he's just filling in the pauses.

She turns to look at him, long lashes framing hazel eyes. She's assessing him, Sam thinks, wondering whether he can be trusted with the truth. Though after she does tell him the truth, would Sam end up just like her groom anyway, another prune sitting in some storage unit somewhere? She could easily pin Clyde's murder on him once the body is finally discovered. He wonders if anyone would even question her.  Probably not, after they'd discover what was in unit 56, which would surely launch an investigation into his business dealings. Maybe Miss Hazel-Eyes will claim that they'd been lovers in the past, that he got jealous of Clyde and killed him the day before their wedding.

No, officer, I had no choice. He made me lie. He made me tell everyone that Clyde left me a letter and ran off with some other woman. And then, months later, he tried to frame me, tried to extort money from me. That's why I came back to talk to him, maybe get him to see reason. Then he attacked me - I had to fight back! I had to defend myself!

And then Gwyneth. What would she say when the police would come knocking on her door? He'd never been unfaithful to her - not while they were married. He could have done it, sure, get those blue eyes working again, that gaze moving down to the woman's lips. But monogamy actually suited him, being married to Gwyneth all those years and living in the house she inherited from her parents, even if he had to wait for sex to be doled out in measly increments. Maybe that's how most marriages ended up anyway. Only no man in his right mind would be the first to admit it.

I had asked him to move out, yes, that's why some of his clothes are gone. But I texted him in the afternoon because I changed my mind. I made a mistake. He never answered me, but...another woman? No, that's not like Sam. Not at all. Sure he went out of town to bid at auctions, and often stayed overnight, but another woman? No, I can't believe it, officer. I don't believe it. Not my Sam.

Well, that would be one version of Gwyneth, Sam thinks ruefully.  The version of Gwyneth he'd prefer to be talking to any detectives investigating his disappearance, including the ones who'd be looking into the white baggies inside the drawers of unit 56.

I don't know anything about his business, detective. At least not intimately like that. Sam did his own thing, he and his partner, Ned. I stayed out of it mostly. There were good months, and then there were bad. Bad, because I'd often have to loan him some money to, you know, tide him over and make sure the shop kept going. But you know how the antiques business is. Just like everything in this recession. There are no guarantees...

And Ned. Sam only hopes that Ned will be safe through it all, though Sam is sure that Ned will be fine. Ned knows enough to keep his mouth shut about what had really been going on.  At the very least, unlike Sam, Ned wouldn't be dead.

He told me to bring the van in the morning, but he didn't tell me where. I usually wait for him to tell me where to go, officer. But he never called. I waited for him, even after the storage manager called, demanding we get the stuff out of there before noon. That's the only time I knew where to go, but by the time I got there, with the snow and all, you guys were already there. There's a body in one of the units? Well, I'll be damned...But what about Sam? Anyone find him?

As for Sam, he would probably be desiccating somewhere else, he thinks. Or not. Miss Hazel-Eyes here would surely have a difficult time moving his body in this blizzard. She'd need a dolly.

He wonders then if he really wants to know how she killed her groom, even if it's just to avoid dead air. Does it really matter how she did it? And even if she did tell him the truth this time, he probably still wouldn't believe her. He'd still be holding out for another version, the truth this time. It's not like Sam's equipped with a lie detector machine because he'd be the first one to fail it, that's for sure. All he has to do is open his mouth and the needle would zing off the charts, even though he always kept his lies as close to the truth as possible. Miss Hazel-Eyes would probably send the machine on the fritz with her lies.

"No, on second thought, don't tell me," Sam says, rising from the bed and getting dressed. He doesn't want to look like he's scared of her. Instead, he wants her to see someone who couldn't care less how she killed dear old Clyde, so he makes his moves appear confident, casual even.  His heart is beating fast, sweat dotting his brow though the room is actually quite chilly.

A part him just wants her to pay whatever she offered to pay for the damn unit and be done with it. She did say she was willing to pay three times what he paid. It wasn't going to make him a rich man, but if anything, it would buy him another day away from being a dead man, stall her plans on what to do with him.

He'll see if he can get another room in the motel. He sure as hell isn't sleeping next to a self-confessed murderess, no matter how good she is in the sack, or how she makes him feel alive, allowing him to hold her down and claim her, making him feel like she's never had anything as good as him. It was fun while it lasted, but somehow something else nags at him, the idea that he's getting too old for this - not the sex, of course - but the chase, the thrill of it, especially when it now involves gambling with life, his life. When the risk of losing his life was minimal, he'd been fine with it, yearned for the thrill even.  But this time, the thrill's no longer there, at least not when he finds himself vulnerable, getting too old for all this cat and mouse game he feels he's in.  Sam finds himself thinking of Gwyneth, sitting stiffly by the dining table, anxiously waiting for her phone to ring, or beep at least, to let her know she's received a text message from him.  

Maybe he should have texted her back earlier, and let her know where he was.

Coming home in the morning. Caught in the blizzard and have to stay overnight at Silver Knight.

As Sam slips his legs through each trouser leg, he knows he's closer to that finish line. He'll take things one at a time, maybe time to close the shop, or at least go on the straight and narrow. No more anonymous unit numbers dropped off by strangers, though Ned will have to keep doing his magic on their pieces. Maybe time to put a bit more work with Gwyneth, and their marriage. That would have to come first, before the shop. But right now, all Sam can think of is getting from the bed to the door, and how to do it without having a knife sticking plunged into his back.

Will Miss Hazel-Eyes really let him go that easily?

Sam's had enough practice getting dressed quickly, at the same time making sure his back isn't facing her for too long. She could still have that penknife, he thinks. Or that syringe with its deadly poison, or hell, even just air.

He's slipping on his parka when she finally sits up on the bed, shock and hurt stamped all over her beautiful face. Still laying it on thick, Sam thinks as he looks at her, though at that moment he can't help but think that she's given up the fight, though a part of him knows it would be too easy if she did.  Gwyneth may not be as drop dead gorgeous as Miss Hazel-Eyes here, but at least he doesn't feel like he's living on borrowed time every time he's with her.

"You really aren't kidding," she says, reaching for her purse and dipping her hand inside.  Shit, a gun, Sam thinks then.  He'd never even considered she'd use a gun. "Tell me how much. I've got money. Lots of money."

"Here," Sam says, fishing the unit key from his jacket pocket and placing it on the coffee table by the door. Her eyes widen, as if she's staring at some long-lost treasure. "Forget paying me and just empty the unit before noon tomorrow. I don't want to lose my deposit. Your name must still be on that rental agreement, so even if you leave me with that stiff of yours, I'm not accountable."

"He was -"

"Look, I'm sorry about your wedding, and I'm sorry about Clyde, but I've had enough excitement for one night and I'm tired," Sam says, turning his cell phone on and making sure there's a signal. There is. The cell phone display is gleaming brightly from his hand. It's like a sign from heaven, he thinks, if there is a heaven waiting for him. Another chance. Don't fuck this up, Sam. You're no longer as fast as you think you are. Time to move on, old buddy. Or you're dead.

"I gotta go. My wife just texted me, and she'll be worried if I don't text her back, not with this crazy blizzard. She gets crazy like that, and before you know it, she'll be busting down this door," he says, chuckling dryly.   It's something Gwyneth would never do, prim and proper Gwyneth, but right now, he's thinking of her like a lifeline number one calls on those game shows.  Throw me a lifeline here, Gwyn.  I need you.

Sam opens the door, and takes a step out onto the hallway. Did he step out too quickly, he wonders.  Then he shrugs.  He's got one foot out the door.  All it takes is one more.  Then he turns to look back at her. One last look, just to make sure. No syringe, no pen knife, though her hand is still in her purse. Just a sad expression on her face and creamy breasts waiting for him to come back to bed. And those hazel eyes. He could drown in them, he thinks.

But not tonight. Not if he wants to live and return to Gwyneth, maybe talk things over. Really talk things over this time. He's tired of living like a snail, like before.

Hell, right now, he just wants to live.