I nodded, wishing I hadn’t asked. I needed another cigarette.
“Want me to install some new blinds for you tomorrow?”
Surprised by his offer, I said, “Yes, please. I would really appreciate that.”
“Well, good night to ya then,” he said, scratching his beard and wandering back across the field to the other side of the building, walking bow-legged.
I watched him go and was just about to turn around and head inside myself, when he stopped and looked back at me again.
“Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Cops were here today, asking about that friend of yours.”
“Come again?” My breath froze in my chest.
“Yeah,” he said, still scratching his beard, “I guess you was right about her going missing. Only, from what it sounds like on the news, they’re less worried about her and more worried about her dead auntie.”
Dead auntie.
“Her aunt died? What happened …?”
He tucked his hands in his pockets and rocked forward and back on the balls of his feet, as though he was nervous about something.
“Uhhh … the cops said she was murdered. They’re trying to track down Valerie and make sure she’s safe, and not involved.”
The thought of police officers scrounging around the motel made me sick.
Valerie’s Aunt Janet was dead …
This is too much to wrap my brain around right now.
Oh Valerie, you must be so sad and so scared …
“How was she murdered?” I asked, barely breathing.
Janet was just commenting on Valerie’s posts a couple days ago … how could she be dead? Why would someone kill her? Could it have been Valerie’s supposed stalker?
“Stabbed to death. One cop mentioned something like forty-two knife wounds … that’s brutal, man. I guess now they want to talk to your friend but she’s in the wind.”
Hopefully, she hasn’t been taken hostage by the same person who killed her aunt, I thought, grimly.
“Did you give them any info about the guy who checked her out of the motel? That probably would have been helpful,” I said, suddenly annoyed by this man. His stance of complete privacy wasn’t doing Valerie any favors …
“I did, but he could have been anyone … her boyfriend, even.”
“What did he look like?” I asked, thinking again about the man in the photos.
“He looked like any Tom, Dick, and Harry off the street. Sandy-colored hair, strong jaw. Like I said, it wasn’t the guy in the photo you showed me. But I do hope your friend is okay. She seemed … sweet.”
“I hope so, too,” I said, still reeling. I couldn’t imagine what Valerie was thinking right now—Does she know what happened to her Aunt Janet, is that why she rushed out of town? Or … did someone force her to leave?
“I’m Bruce, by the way,” he said, giving me a little wave before walking off.
I was gasping for air when I got back inside my room. I was craving more pills and a stiff drink to soothe me.
I scooped up my bottles, but then, remembering they were empty, I threw them across the room. I waited for the scream to burst out of me … but it was bottled up tight.
Why would someone kill Janet … and who? I wondered.
Maybe Valerie didn’t go to Gatlinburg by choice … Is she running from something, or was she taken?
Chapter 13
The misspelled “Manger” sign was hanging by a single strip of duct tape. The wind bristled, flipping it upside down, just as the door flew open. Bruce’s thinning hair was disheveled, his eyes crusted in the corners with sleep.
He wobbled on his feet, struggling to tuck his half-open shirt into a pair of worn-out Levi’s. His feet were bare, yellowish-brown toenails jutting out from each toe.
He saw me looking down at his feet and cursed.
“Long night,” he said, clearing his throat.
Last night, he’d claimed to have company … but the office behind him looked empty.
“Ah. Well, good for you,” I said, awkwardly. “Sorry to bother you, but I wanted to see about those blinds …”
His eyebrows crinkled. Surely, he hasn’t forgotten already.
“My room, remember? You offered to put up some blinds when we talked last night …”
“Oh, yeah! Of course. Let me grab my shoes and keys. I keep most of my spare stuff for the rooms next door.”
I followed him inside and listened as he stumbled around in the back room of his office, looking wildly for his shoes. I took a seat on the dingy loveseat, then laid my head back and closed my eyes.
When he came back out, keys rattling in his hand, my eyes remained closed.
“Ya ready?” he asked, the question laced with mild irritation.
“Is it okay if I wait here for you? I’m having the worst menstrual cramps today.”
He groaned, clearly disgusted.
“I guess that would be alright. Be back in a second.”
I massaged my temples as I waited for him to leave. He didn’t close the door all the way, merely left it ajar.
Damn. For my sake, I hope he’s gone for more than a “second”.
As soon as he was gone, I popped up from the seat, heart racing, and scurried behind his desk. Immediately, I checked the two deep metal drawers on either side of the desk. They were filled with thin manila folders. I knew this was where he kept his guest information because I’d seen him take out a file and replace it when I checked in.
There were hundreds of files, and as I quickly browsed through them, I realized they weren’t in any particular order. Dammit.
I flipped through a few. There were guest numbers and signatures but trying to find the one filled out by Valerie would be like looking for a four-leaf clover in an overgrown field. There were banging sounds next door; clearly, I needed more time to go through these files.
Gently, I closed the left and right drawers, then tiptoed over to the window beside his desk. It was the same size as the one inside my motel room. It also had sheer curtains barely covering the pane. I unlocked the two bolts at the top and scurried back to my spot on the loveseat.
When Bruce returned moments later, I was still massaging my temples.
“Here’s your blinds. I guess I’ll follow you over to your room and hang them up for ya. If you’re feeling well enough to leave now …?”
I jumped up. “Thank you, I’m so much better now! No need for you to come. I can hang them up on my own.”
“Well, okay, if you’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” I scooped the heavy blinds from his arms, grunting under the weight of them.
I didn’t know when I’d have a chance to slip in through the window to his office, but as soon as the moment struck, I was going to dig into those files.
***
Bruce wasn’t lying about the woman. She was busty and tall, with wild, canary-blonde hair, and an ear-splitting laugh that rang out across the parking lot and reverberated all the way down the walkway to room 14. The air was noticeably warmer today, the stinging chill from last night all but evaporated. I puffed on my Pall Mall, pretending not to watch the two lovebirds. They were standing outside the office, so caught up in their embrace that they hadn’t noticed me watching. Their kisses were sloppy—sickening, really—and every few seconds, the woman came up for air, that high-pitched giggle ringing like a broken doorbell in my head. I willed them to go into Bruce’s room, but moments later, they were stumbling inside the Manger’s office again.
Fuck.
I stubbed my cigarette out, trying to formulate a secondary plan of action. I couldn’t get in that room until Bruce’s fat ass came out of it. And he’d been inside all day with her, the yellow canary.
I was just about to go back to my room and admit defeat, when the laugh returned. I watched them stumble out the door of his office, a tangled ball of drunken desire, a bottle of what looked like gin in her hand, and they stopped in front of the room next door to the office. Bruce jammed a key into
the lock while she groped his saggy ass from behind.
Finally, they stumbled inside his room, and it was my time to act. I slithered around the back of the building.
Quietly, I traipsed past the rusty old rides and the other rooms. I had to bypass Bruce’s room on my way to his office, and somehow quietly sneak in the office window without him seeing or hearing me do it …
As I approached room 2, I was relieved to find thick venetian blinds covering the window completely. Apparently, Bruce valued his own privacy more than his guests’.
Not only did I not want to catch a glimpse of him and the giggle-queen fucking, but I didn’t want him to see me, creeping outside his window like a freakish stalker.
I winced, Aaron’s accusation floating back to me. Maybe I am a stalker. Who goes to this much trouble for someone they barely know?
But I remembered that moment in the bathroom stall … Valerie had needed me, she’d been so upset … and now she was begging me, pleading me to come help her …
I’m trying to get to you, Valerie.
For my sake, I hoped Bruce’s chronic drunkenness made him a slow performer in bed. I needed time to go through those files.
I’d considered another option—stealing the files and taking them back to my room—but there’s no way I could carry all of them, even if I didn’t get caught, and who’s to say I’d grab the right ones, anyway?
Pressing my back against the wall between Bruce’s window and the office window, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I could hear laughter and movement coming from inside his room, and the crooning of country music playing in the background.
This might be my only chance.
I counted to three, then I faced the office window. I put my hands on the ledge, and lifted, hoping Bruce hadn’t spotted the disengaged lock and re-locked it since my earlier visit.
The window glided up easily and I let out a deep whoosh of breath.
The ledge was higher than I’d anticipated, and I groaned with pain as I lifted myself up and swung one leg over the sill. For a moment, I hesitated, hanging there, half in and half out the window, worrying they might have heard me … but then I realized I could still hear the woman’s cacophonous laughter and Garth Brooks singing his heart out.
Painfully, I tugged my other leg over and fell with a thump on the carpet inside. I sat for a few seconds, catching my breath, then I quietly pulled myself up to my feet and slid the window closed behind me.
The office itself was dark, but the afternoon sun provided natural light to read by. I opened both file drawers and tried to scan the names as fast as possible. It took several long minutes to figure out, but there was a method to Bruce’s madness. Instead of organizing the guests’ names alphabetically, he’d sorted their files by dates of occupancy, as though he pulled the file out and stuck the most recent one in the front each time someone checked in or out.
I was easily able to rule out the drawer on the right—it had the oldest files, dating back all the way to 2015. I closed that one, focusing on the left drawer.
I started with my own file in the front, then flipped back, scanning the dates and names. Less than a dozen guests had checked into The Rest EZ over the last two weeks. As I scanned the generic form, I realized that there was a space for their name and date of check-in/check-out, and a blank space for room numbers. The forms were skeletal at best, providing very little useful info. But still, I needed to see Valerie’s. Needed to make sure there wasn’t any info Bruce was leaving out.
I kept flipping, scanning the room numbers, and stopping only when I saw “14”. As I skipped past other guest forms, I realized that Bruce had written notes on some of them. “Has a thing for hookers.” “Sells blow.” “Hot piece of ass.”
Disgusting.
And that’s when I saw it: Valerie Hutchens’ name, scrawled across the top of a guest form from October 2nd. I left the file but removed the sheet, then folded it into a tiny, neat square. I shoved the square into my back pocket and shut the drawer up tight.
Muffled moans from next door came seeping through the vent that connected the rooms. My stomach curled in on itself.
With the paper in my pocket, I had what I’d come for. But just for good measure, I slid open the thin top drawer in the desk. As suspected, it was lined with pencils and pens, but there was something else there, too. I scooped up two small bottles of Jim Beam.
Carefully, I eased myself back out the window and slid it back into place. This time, I ran past Bruce’s room, panting all the way to room 14. I could already feel the whiskey burning in my veins.
***
Valerie had checked into The Rest EZ at 5:00 on the evening of October 2nd. She paid for a week-long stay, in cash. I scanned down, struggling to read Bruce’s chicken-scratch notes. “Red Miata. Pretty girl. BF comes late at night.”
My skin crawled. Was the stalker coming at night while she slept, spying on her? I remembered that midnight video, when she said a man had followed her home from the club. Why would she choose to walk along those poorly lit, broken sidewalks to meet up with Aaron and his co-workers at Cavern?
But I knew the answer to that. She probably went to the bar on foot, so she wouldn’t have to drink and drive. There were many times I’d drunk too much and should have walked instead.
Wish I’d have been that smart and responsible. Maybe if I had, Chris wouldn’t be dead.
At the bottom of the form, Bruce had written: “Room 14 – checked out Oct 10. Paid in full by Chris, cash.”
But the rest of the sentence was blurry—because my eyes were zeroed in on one word and one word only: Chris.
It was ridiculous, an absurd coincidence … After all, the name Chris is probably the most common, following John, James, Paul, and David …
I twisted the caps off both the whiskeys and drained them, my eyes never leaving the page …
Chapter 14
There’s a pool of red-rose blood in my mouth. I could spit it out if I wanted to, but I also need to taste it. I need to taste the pain that I caused … force myself to endure the bitter, coppery brine. After all, I’m the reason he’s bleeding. I can’t lift my arms or move my legs, it’s like my entire body is composed of doll parts. Stiff and plastic and dead. It reminds me of another time I couldn’t feel my limbs … the time Chris got mad, a little too rough in the bedroom …
Psst. I’m back here, ya know … The voice is familiar, younger than Chris’s voice. My arm flops like a cooked spaghetti noodle, my fingertips teasing the edge of the rearview mirror, trying to match a face to the voice. I tip the mirror, just enough to bump it up a notch.
Her eyes are round like quarters, her wavy hair golden in the flicker of emergency lights. There are rosy-red strips of blood in her hair.
I’m right here. I’ve been back here all along, she tells me.
Fifteen-year-old Valerie Hutchens is in the backseat of the Buick. It’s not just her head—thank god, she’s more than a head—but in her lap there’s a present. Don’t, I whisper. Chris’s blood drips from my mouth and onto my chin. Don’t, I beg through bloody lips. The shiny blue gift-wrapping falls away like feathers, exposing what’s hidden inside.
Chris’s nose and mouth … the scar on his brow … are peeking out through the paper. Surprise, she says. She smiles, the corners of her lips turning up so high they threaten to split and tear …
My arms are numb as I realize I’m dreaming again. I keep my eyes pinched shut.
I can feel him between the sheets.
The knotty curve of his spine. The soft bits of fuzz on his shoulders. The mole above his tailbone. The tension in his back and shoulders; always a part of him that was angry, like me …
I run my knuckles over his back bones. Press harder, he says. Dig in.
***
When I opened my eyes, I was alone in my motel room. My stomach did a somersault, the events from the day before gushing back like a tidal wave.
I’m in over my head—I have no idea how to
help Valerie at this point.
Her aunt is dead. Murdered. And Valerie’s missing—but is she gone by choice or by force? I do not know. Again, she’s not answering me …
And a man named Chris, who looks like my Chris, could be the one who took her.
Rationally, I know it’s not him—my Chris is as dead as a doornail—but maybe there’s a small part of me, the part losing control, that wishes that in some other life, some alternate universe, he is there …
Shoving the blankets and sheets aside, I stared at the clock on the nightstand. The smudgy red numbers blinked back at me.
My head throbbed from the whiskey, and withdrawals from the pills. I need something … something to keep me going …
I could have gone back to sleep. But there was no way I was taking the chance of getting sucked back into that dream. No fucking way.
***
I paced the floor of Jimmy’s garage while Lincoln sat slumped comfortably in a chair in the waiting room. He looked so relaxed and calm that it was borderline annoying.
“Jimmy said it’d take a while longer. We don’t have to wait here, Camilla. He’ll call us when it’s done …”
I stopped pacing, staring at the closed door, listening for Jimmy working on my truck on the other side.
The lobby smelled like diesel and floor wax; the plastic waiting chairs so stiff they were making my back ache. Pacing felt good; I needed to burn off this excess energy.
“You sure you’re okay?” Lincoln asked.
“Yeah, just didn’t sleep much last night.”
Lincoln knew I was searching for my friend, but he had no idea who she was … I was hesitant to mention her full name in case he came across a news report about her murdered aunt.
“Why are you in such a hurry to get back home? If you want me to take you to look for your friend, I will …”
“Thanks, Lincoln. I appreciate all your help, really, I do. I need to get back home to Wisconsin.”
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