Page 57 of Her Wild Coast Promise

Vander’s mouth fills with what looks like coffee grounds. “He’s puking!” I say, quickly rolling him so the vomit doesn’t end up in his airway.

“Where the fuck are the medics?” I cry out.

“I think he OD’d,” Hunter says, nodding at what I had first thought was trash in the bathtub, but it’s a hypodermic needle and a section of rubber tubing.

“Damn it, Vander!” I cry out, ripping apart a towel so I can tie strips around the wounds on his right arm, which are already soaking my first towel.

Vander releases a groan. His eyes open, but his lids are heavy. He tries to take another breath, but it gurgles in his throat. A look of pure hatred fills his features, and he smiles.

Two medics bust into the bathroom. One is Cooper McCabe, Hunter’s brother, and the other is an older female named Greta with decades of experience. In the cramped space, the four of us lift Vander and carry him to the stretcher.

The medics rush Vander to the exit. Outside the room, the medic rig doors are open. Cooper and Greta slide the gurney inside. Even before the doors are shut, Cooper begins CPR while Greta works to control the bleeding.

The sirens and lights erupt from the rig and it speeds off, leaving Hunter and I covered in blood, adrenaline ebbing in our veins.

“Shit,” I say, and lean my shoulders against the wall.

Hunter’s knees are red from Vander’s blood. He’s still wearing his gloves, both hands hanging limp at his sides. “Well, that was unexpected.”

Outside the motel room, our team is clearing the other rooms, but I doubt there’s anything to find. This is now a crime scene and will need processing, cataloguing, evidence gathering. But right now, while everything’s still fresh, I need to imprint this in my memory.

“This doesn’t make sense,” I say. “He came here to off himself? Why?”

“What if he knew we were watching? And he wanted an audience.”

“That’s a hellofa goodbye. Why would he take his own life?”

Hunter sighs. “You think he didn’t?”

“I think we need the surveillance footage. Maybe he wasn’t alone in that room.”

The crime scene tech crew arrives. Time for us to get back to work, though not until I can change clothes.

Hunter and I strip off the gloves, and he and I both go through the ritual of changing into a clean uniform from the kit every cop keeps in their rig. I drop my soiled pants and shirt into the paper bag and check it in with our crime scene tech. Hunter rejoins me in his fresh uniform and we walk to the lobby. Lucas is waiting, his hands gripping his waist. On the counter is the thumb drive containing the surveillance tapes.

“The manager volunteered to meet me at the station for questioning,” he says. “Want me to start?”

I give him a nod. He peels off and jumps in his rig.

“You good to walk with me a minute?” I ask Hunter.

Without a word, he falls in beside me. We walk the length of the motel and around the side to the back. The weak November light casts long shadows and the cars whizzing by on the highway give the back of the motel a seedy ambiance. There’s a gravel strip wide enough for a garbage truck, pockmarked with muddy puddles. Next to the gravel alley is a strip of thick, overgrown grass leading into the woods. The only thing back here is a dumpster.

Hunter calls this in so it can get searched. The crime scene tech replies.

We keep walking in silence. It’s intentional. Makes our other senses sharper. Talking can come later, when we compare notes.

I scan the ground for footprints or tire tracks as I walk slowly down the length of the motel, the whoosh of cars from the road fading. Each room has a square window. in Vander’s bathroom, I remember it over the toilet. There are tire tracks, but washed-out. I count the rooms until we’re at the back of Vander’s. Hunter is arm’s distance from me, his gaze locked on the ground.

I gaze up at the window. Has it been opened? Could someone have gotten into that room? Or left it? Hopefully in either scenario, it’s confirmed by whatever is on the tapes.

The ground is muddy, but the coarse gravel isn’t an ideal surface for obtaining a footprint. I squat down, will a pattern to emerge.

“Dalton,” Hunter says from the other side of the dumpster. I rise and walk over, my pulse quickening.

Hunter’s pulled his mag light from his tool belt to illuminate something on the backside of the dumpster. It’s smear of dark red blood.

“Damn.”

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