Page 31 of The Stranger

She turns away from me again, rolling her eyes, and pulls open the door, stepping out into the icy night. “They would’ve had to stop here. If they were traveling on fifty-seven, they would’ve had to stop when the road closed. That would’ve taken them right this way.”

As she picks up speed, I work to keep pace with her, just waiting for one of us to trip on a hidden patch of ice in the parking lot. “They could’ve been hours ahead of us. They might’ve made it through. You’re panicking over nothing. You just need to calm down. Look?—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” she shouts, stopping once again and wagging a finger at me. “We need to leave, Walker. It may not be related, but something is wrong here. Ernest is missing, and?—”

“Missing? Come on. That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?” I gesture back toward the lobby. “We didn’t check the other rooms in the hall. For all you know, he’s safe and sound asleep in his bed.”

“And he just left his wife in her recliner?”

“Okay. Maybe he was in the bathroom.”

“And he’s been missing all night? Come on, Walker. Make that make sense. Even if he’s not hurt, then someone else is. Someone’s blood is all over that lobby, and something bad is happening here. I just know it.”

I inhale, sensing how serious her panic is. I get it, honestly. Something about all of this feels wrong, but leaving right now is impossible. Still, I can see in her expression she isn’t going to let me argue that point.

I drop my hands to my sides. “Fine. What do you want to do?” I ask her. “Seriously, what? You want to leave? To head out in the storm?”

“The storm has slowed down. Stopped, even. It’s safer out there than it is here, I just know it.”

I sigh and lower my head. “Fine. Okay. Let’s get our things, and we’ll leave. If that’s really what you want.”

She looks so relieved as I say it I can’t even be frustrated with her. As much as I want to believe her when she says something’s wrong and trust her instincts, I can’t help feeling like this is an overreaction. It wasn’t that much blood on the floor—if it was even blood in the first place. I could’ve been wrong, I suppose. Exhaustion will do that to you. For all we know, someone spilled something. That’s more likely, isn’t it? It makes so much more sense.

Either way, apparently we’re going to try to leave. Internally, I’m furious with myself for not taking the opportunity to sleep when I had it. It would’ve made things easier. To make it through this, I need to be aware of what’s going on. Be alert.

And, at the moment, I’m the furthest thing from it.

We enter the motel room and gather our things, tossing our dirty clothes into my suitcase as I try and fail to find a way to convince her this is a terrible idea. I splash water over my face to help me wake up and brush my teeth while she uses the tiny bottle of mouthwash left on the counter.

I feel minutes away from death as my exhaustion kicks in, but there’s no going back now.

“Were you bleeding again?” I ask, pointing toward her hand. There is blood in the cracks of her knuckles and under her fingernails. I don’t remember that from before.

She looks down at her hands, eyes wide. “I, um…I don’t know.” She runs her hands under the water, washing them off. The water is dyed crimson just before it disappears down the drain. “This dry weather can make my skin crack sometimes.” She chews her bottom lip, not meeting my eyes. It’s as if she’s lost in thought. “I don’t think I touched the blood on the floor. It has to be mine.” She holds her hand up, studying it. “The storm and the cold…” She’s talking mostly to herself now, mumbling on and on.

I’m not sure I believe her, but what’s the alternative? Clearly she didn’t have anything to do with the blood in the lobby—she’s much too freaked out by it—so what else could it be from?

“Maybe I scratched my leg in my sleep. The dry air makes me itchy, too, so it could’ve been that. There was blood on my leg when I woke up earlier.” She pulls up the bottom of her sweatpants, and there is indeed quite a bit of dried blood smeared across her shin and calf. The wound has stopped bleeding from what I can tell, but it looks really deep. I’m still worried she’s going to need stitches. “Yeesh,” she mumbles. “That was it.”

“Here, let me get you a washcloth to clean that up.” I turn toward the shower and pull the curtain back.

The second I do, everything in my body turns to pure ice as she begins to scream. The sound of her cry fills my ears, a shrill shriek that seems to drown out all thoughts.

No.

I stare into the bathtub in utter shock. It’s not possible. It can’t be real. And yet, it is.

Ernest could just be taking a bath if there were any water in the tub. And, of course, if there wasn’t blood dripping down his neck.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BEFORE

The coffee helps, but I’m still exhausted. Murder is tiresome business. Most people don’t appreciate that enough. It’s not just the physical aspect of it, the sheer brute strength it takes to stab someone hard enough for them to die, then drag their body to wherever you’re going to lay them to rest. That’s the easy part, really. That all comes before you’ve got to dig the hole.

Digging a grave is the single worst way to spend a day. Period. Don’t let the movies fool you into thinking it can be done in just a few hours with only one or two swipes of a sweaty forehead.

At first, sure, it’s not so bad. You get the first few shovelfuls of dirt, and it feels like everything will be okay. Like this time will be different than last. By the tenth shovelful, your arms start to burn if they aren’t already. You begin to struggle with how to dig, whether to focus on making it wider or deeper, as neither seems to be working well. You lose track of time, your body burns and screams for you to stop, to rest, but you can’t. You’ll have to dig for hours upon hours, six or eight possibly, even when you’re practiced at it. And that’s when the ground isn’t frozen. This time was so much worse, which was why I eventually had to give up and find another way. But not before breaking my back in the attempt.

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