Like, Follow, Kill

by Carissa Ann Lynch

  “No prob.” He smiled and handed me two Post-it notes. One had the address for the Marriott and the other one, a phone number.

  “That’s my number,” he said, tapping it with his finger and looking sheepish. “I’m Lincoln, by the way. Lincoln Smalls. If you need anything.”

  “Oh.” A warm rush of heat lit up my cheeks. I wonder if my scars are blushing, or if they’re still pale and silvery.

  “Thanks. I don’t think I’ll be here long, though.” I tucked the notes inside my pocket and made a beeline for the door.

  Chapter 9

  As I headed east toward Skyward Drive, it became glaringly obvious that something was wrong with the truck. It was twenty years old and I’d barely driven the thing since my father had passed away. Now, no matter how hard I accelerated, the truck moved slowly and jerkily. It was sputtering and shaking as I merged onto Rockford Lane.

  I hadn’t changed the oil or had the fluids topped off in the truck since … well, ever. It could be the transmission, I considered, as I revved the gas through a four-way stop and tried to reach 20 mph.

  Shit. Don’t die on me now, I prayed, stroking the wheel as though it were a person I could coddle and cajole.

  I could see the glowing lights of the Marriott on the corner. With a sigh of relief, I clicked my blinker on and coasted down Skyward Drive. The tunnel vision was gone, and now that I was growing used to being behind the wheel again the damn truck was going to die on me.

  The Marriott was ten stories tall and looked rather new-ish compared to the surrounding businesses. There was a Dollar Tree, a McDonald’s, and a couple of gas stations across the street. Well, at least I’m not in the middle of nowhere.

  But nothing about this place looked familiar. I tried to recall that night and Valerie’s shaky video on the street outside a dimly lit club called Cavern … Unlike the street she’d been walking on, this one was well-lit with a fair amount of traffic. It couldn’t be the same street, could it?

  I turned the truck off, hoping when I came back out, it would be back to running normal.

  “Be right back,” I said, glancing over at the box of ashes in the passenger’s seat.

  How strange it is that someone with such a big personality, someone so full of life … could be reduced to dust particles in a tiny, simple box. Not only is it strange, but it’s unfair.

  I’m never allowing myself to be cremated, I decided, climbing out of the truck and dusting off my sweaty palms on my jeans.

  I’d popped a few of my pills after leaving the library, and although it was probably just a placebo effect, I felt like I could already sense the chemicals flooding my bloodstream … the cloud around my head was taking shape, reducing my anxiety. Keeping the scream at bay.

  Inside, there were two women checking in at a long, granite counter. I stood by a fancy fountain, eyeing the shiny round pennies inside it. Did you make a wish while you were here, Valerie? I wondered.

  There was a sitting area in the lobby, with checkered fabric armchairs and an oval coffee table stacked with murder mysteries. On the other side of the lobby, was a rich oak bar … but I didn’t need to look to know it was there, the clink of glasses and the smell of barley in the air was enough to wake up my inner-alcoholic.

  I imagined myself taking a seat at the bar … I used to like sitting in the middle, where I’d be more easily seen—and served—by the bartender.

  Now, I could almost taste the smooth, fiery flavor as I knocked back shot after shot of tequila …

  “Can I help you?”

  An attractive woman with bone-white hair and teeth behind the counter was looking at me. The ladies who had been checking in before me were gone.

  I tore my wanting eyes away from the bar, shuffled my hair around my face, and tried to smooth my rancid, rumpled clothes.

  “How are you?” I asked the woman, awkwardly.

  “Fantastic,” she said in a monotone voice that sounded anything but, her lips barely moving as she spoke. “Checking in?”

  “No, not exactly. I had a friend who was here recently. Her name is Valerie Hutchens. She was here on business with Rook Pharmaceuticals.” I could already see the “I can’t give out info” on the tip of her tongue, so I kept talking before she could say it. “You see, it’s just that she never made it to her next destination. Her aunt is concerned and so am I. We haven’t gotten the police involved yet, but it looks like we may have to. I was hoping you could give me the information I need, and hopefully it’s just a big misunderstanding … some sort of miscommunication …”

  The woman frowned, deeply, her eyes finally raising to meet mine, skimming over my discolored nose and the jagged carnage around it, then floating down to my scruffy clothes and trembling hands. Nervously, I squeezed my hands together to stop them from shaking.

  She glanced over my shoulder. Looking for a boss? Looking for security? I wondered.

  “Spell the name for me. If she’s here, I’ll let her know she has a guest in the lobby.”

  I spelled it, forgetting about my hands and tapping my fingers excitedly on my pants.

  I looked around the lobby while she checked, desperately searching for Valerie’s lovely face … instead, I came eye to eye with a giggling brunette by the fountain. Her phone was up—Is she taking a selfie, or is the camera turned towards me?!

  I quickly jerked back around to face the counter, my heart thumping in my chest.

  One minute you’re walking around, minding your own business. The next, you’re on YouTube’s Faces of Walmart, or some shit like that.

  Stop being so paranoid, I chastised myself, pinching my eyes shut in fear.

  “No one by that name is staying here,” the woman said, pursing her lips.

  My eyes fluttered open. “But she has to be, she told me to come … unless there’s another hotel nearby …”

  The woman shook her head and closed out the computer screen. She rested her hands on the counter primly, waiting for me to leave.

  “May I see one of your rooms?” I whined. I could feel the brunette watching, her camera angled right at me …

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sorry, I appreciate you looking her up for me. But I’m also going to need a room for the night, and I’d like to see what amenities you offer before I choose to stay here.”

  A family of four with matching “We are the Whitlocks” T-shirts and suitcases on wheels came rumbling through the front door. I was relieved to see that the brunette by the fountain was gone.

  The Whitlock parents looked brow-beaten and tired. They had that nasally, closed-jaw accent associated with Minnesotans.

  “We’re all full here. Sorry,” the receptionist told me. But she didn’t look very sorry.

  I stepped aside, letting the family go next. As they booked a room for two nights, I realized that the hotel had room for them.

  The two Whitlock kids, a boy and a girl, were fighting. The little girl had gapped teeth and a neat French braid; the boy was missing most of his teeth and had a wild cow-tail poking up at the back of his head. The young girl punched her brother in the arm, then he responded in kind—grabbing a fleshy hunk of skin on her inner arm and twisting. She screamed and her mother turned, wide-eying the girl and smiling sweetly at the boy.

  I could taste the lyrics of that old nursery rhyme on the tip of my tongue … What are little girls made of? Sugar and spice. And everything nice. And the boys … snips and snails and puppy dogs’ tails.

  The moment we become something other than “sugar and spice”, we’re no longer worthy, are we?

  I winked at the little girl as I wandered back towards the entrance. No luck here. Dammit!

  Just as I was about to head outside, a group of women emerged from the east hallway, cutting me off. One of them was blonde with colorful highlights, and for a split second, I imagined her face was haunting and beautiful, just like Valerie’s …

  I glanced down the hallway from which they’d came, spotting rows of fancy doors. Wi
th a quick look back to make sure the receptionist was still distracted by the Whitlocks, I turned right, smiling stiffly at the women as I swiveled around them and walked down the hall.

  My nose instantly burned, with that antiseptic smell of chlorine and perspiration that all pools put off. I stopped outside the entrance. There it was: an indoor pool. The glass was steamed up, the water sickly green. Children were squealing.

  A memory came floating back to me, tickling the edges of my fuzzy thoughts … me and Hannah in our neighbor’s pool. Dad was pissed because we’d gone over there without permission. He’d held my head down … too many seconds, too long … I was trying to scream underwater. I thought he might kill me that day.

  The hotel pool was surrounded by tables and beach chairs, most of them empty. My eyes zeroed in on a stack of towels resting on one of the chairs—there was a key card sitting on top of it. I scanned the water, looking for the hotel guest it belonged to.

  A young, red-headed mother was in the pool, frantically trying to keep up with two small children in floaties—they both looked to be under five.

  Decidedly, I pressed the door and walked inside, grateful it wasn’t locked.

  The mother turned her head toward me for a split second, then one of the children squealed and she was thrashing through the water after him.

  I bent down in front of her chair, pretending to tie my shoes. Before I could change my mind, I reached over and swiped her key card, stuffing it inside my pocket.

  ***

  I used the key card to open room 104, which was thankfully, on the first floor. I’d passed a maid and a few other guests on the way, but luckily, I hadn’t seen that snooty receptionist.

  As I opened the door, I was hit with a blast of cool air and country-apple air fresheners. I closed the door back behind me, silently praying the father of the two brats wasn’t somewhere inside this room. If so, I’ll just pretend to be a maid, I decided.

  There was a king-sized bed draped with a red-rose comforter in the center of the room. A couch and loveseat adorned with rose-petal patterns to match. Children’s clothing and toys were scattered all over the room.

  The windows were draped in heavy red curtains from floor to ceiling. It looked like it could have been a white room once, but then it got covered in blood spatter.

  But only one thing mattered: it looked nothing like the hotel room in the background of Valerie’s video.

  No, this isn’t the hotel she stayed at.

  I imagined Valerie behind the camera lens in her video, her pasty white face and darkly hooded blue eyes. She was sitting at a desk. The walls were white. The comforter and drapes were white, too …

  This isn’t it. Doesn’t look anything like it. There’s not even a desk in this room …

  I turned to go, feeling completely helpless and stupid for breaking into someone’s room, and that’s when I saw it—a half pint of rum beside the bed. Mama’s midnight snack, to take the edge off.

  It was half empty already, but I scooped it up and stuffed it in my duffel bag before leaving. I dropped the key card on the floor, hoping she’d think she left it behind when she’d gone to the pool.

  On my way back outside, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply as I passed the bar. I didn’t have to look to know that someone was drinking a martini. It smelled like fat juicy cherries and salty green olives, and if I tried just a bit, I could taste them in the back of my throat.

  I can’t wait to taste this rum.

  Back in the truck, I couldn’t wait anymore—I twisted the lid off the bottle, lifting it to my lips. As I finished it off, my phone chimed. A message from Valerie!

  I’m staying at The Rest EZ. Pls hurry. I’m scared.

  ***

  I drove until I saw a sign for Preston Court, my heart thumping in anticipation. I’d looked up the directions for The Rest EZ online, and it was only nine blocks from the Marriott.

  The buildings on Preston were rundown, some of them boarded up. There was a billboard for “Girls Girls Girls” and a casino in thirty miles. I would have missed The Rest EZ if I hadn’t been looking for it. It was set back from the road in a gravel parking lot. A long, one-story building, it was lined with yellow, numbered doors. Every car in the lot looked broken down, or barely running.

  I parked at the first yellow door, the only one that wasn’t numbered.

  I sent a message to Valerie. I’m here. What room are you in?

  Drumming my hands on the steering wheel, I watched ten minutes tick by on the clock. Where the hell is she? Why won’t she write me back?

  Desperate, I emerged from the truck and approached the first door. The motel—if you could call it that—was seedy and rundown. Why in the world would Valerie stay here? Surely, Rook paid for her lodgings …

  “Manger” the first unnumbered door read, in chubby gold letters on a paper sign taped to the door. I knocked, softly.

  I glanced around the mostly empty lot, looking for signs of life as I waited for someone to answer. The air was cool and quiet, and there was an eerie, abandoned fog surrounding the rundown place. I took a breath and rapped again on the Manger’s door.

  This time, I heard a cough, and what sounded like someone moving heavy bits of furniture around, then the door swung open.

  A man wearing sweats and a stained T-shirt appraised me. There was a glass of what looked like water, but smelled like ass, with pulpy bits of fruit in the bottom, in his left hand. My mind instantly returned to the now empty bottle of rum in my bag.

  “How can I help you, miss?” He scanned me with his eyes, barely glancing at my mottled face as his eyes moved down to my chest and waistline. He smiled, the smell of that rotten drink emitting from his mouth and pores.

  I was reminded of some childish game I used to play but couldn’t quite remember … Now, take one giant step backward. I backed up a few steps from the drunken man, trying not to breathe in his fumes.

  “I-I’m looking for someone. A friend of mine who’s staying here. Her name is Valerie Hutchens.”

  He didn’t react to her name, only took a slow sip from his drink. “What room’s she in, hon?” he asked, and I could see small shreds of fruit stuck between his teeth.

  “I’m not sure, but I can show you what she looks like.”

  I dug my phone out of my pocket, flipped to her Instagram page and held up a photo. The man squinted at the screen.

  “Yep. She was here. But I haven’t seen her in a couple days. Left with her boyfriend, I think. Are you here to clean out the rest of her stuff?”

  “Her boyfriend? Was someone staying with her?” I asked, my heartrate speeding up as I imagined the creep in her window.

  “Well, I didn’t think no one was … but he’s the one who paid the bill, so I guess. They were supposed to check out today, but I guess they left early.” He shrugged. “Listen, people around here value privacy, and I like to give ’em just that. I don’t know anything about her, and I don’t know anything about him either.”

  “Did you see her in the car when they left? What were they driving? She told me she was here. I can’t see why should would tell me that if she wasn’t …” I was rambling, my mouth thick and sticky from the rum. I looked over my shoulder at the few beat-up cars that were parked there.

  “Nah. I never saw her leave. Never saw him leave either … it was a red car, I think. But like I said, I’m not a snoop …”

  I stared beyond him into the mangy motel room. Although it looked like a regular old room from the outside, this particular room was used as an office. There was a small computer and dented metal desk in the corner. A box TV set and beat-up loveseat sat in the center of the room.

  “Are you the manager?”

  The man narrowed his eyes at me. “Sure am. That’s what the sign says, don’t it? I also live here. My digs are right next door. Your friend was in the very last room over there, number 14. Now, that’s all I know. She’s not here now, so …”

  “May I stay in that room? I’ll cl
ean up anything she left behind. She might be planning to come back … she told me she was still here …”

  I expected him to refuse me, but he opened the door and waved me inside.

  I leaned my back against the metal desk while he chicken-pecked at the keys.

  “I’m assuming the man who paid for my friend didn’t leave a name or credit card info behind? Possibly a copy of his ID?” I asked.

  “Can’t say that I recall. I’m pretty sure it was cash. Even if I had a card on file, I wouldn’t give you that information, lady. And I don’t make copies of driver’s licenses. That’s elusive.”

  I wanted to correct him—intrusive—but held my tongue.

  “Now, here’s the room key. It’s fifty bucks a night. You can pay when you check out.” He thrust a stiff plastic card at me, with the number 14 engraved on it.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, with a tight smile. “Was this the guy?” I held up the phone again, this time using the photo of the Chris lookalike at the concert in Ohio.

  He shook his head, but I noticed that he’d barely looked. Even if it was him, would this guy tell me? Probably not, I realized. He was certainly being less than helpful.

  “Are you sure?” I pressed.

  “I didn’t really pay attention to the guy. I don’t stare at people. Staring’s rude, ya know?” He stared straight at me, his eye twitching as he got a good look at my scars.

  I was barely out the door before he closed and locked it behind me.

  Chapter 10

  Rooms two through thirteen were closed, no guests poking their heads out as I followed the exposed pathway that led toward Valerie’s former room—my room now—on the opposite end of the Manger’s room. Nobody was standing outside talking or smoking, no cars pulling in or out. My footsteps echoed down the skinny walkway, a shiver running from the base of my spine all the way to my scalp. Why would Valerie ask me to come here if she’s not here?

  Away from the main business strip in town, this place felt like a ghost-town. But as I reached room 12, I could hear music playing inside, a familiar song—I Just Want to Sleep by Nirvana.