Page 108 of Stuart Woods' Smolder

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Monica took an Uber to the Waving Palm Motel.

“You sure this is where you wanted to go?” her driver asked when they arrived.

The motel’s sign was so faded that it was barely legible, and the bottom edge was bent as if the top of a truck had run into it. The building itself wasn’t in any better shape.

“It is. Thank you.”

She climbed out.

The motel was L-shaped and two-storied, all the roomsaccessed by exterior doors. In the middle of the parking lot was a fenced-off area, inside of which was a pool that looked as if it had been empty for decades.

She looked inside the office as she passed, but no one was there. Room 120 turned out to be on the ground floor, farthest from the street. Like the other rooms, it had a faded green door and a large window. The curtains were closed, so she couldn’t see inside.

She doubled-checked the room number on her phone, to make sure she remembered it right, then took a steadying breath and raised her hand to knock. The moment her knuckles struck the door, it moved inward several inches.

“Tristan?” she said.

She heard not a sound from inside, so she peeked through the gap, but the room was too dark to see much of anything.

“Tristan? It’s Monica Reyes.”

When that failed to garner a response, she pushed the door open wide enough to stick her head inside.

“Anyone here?”

There were a pair of beds inside. On the one farthest from the door, she could just make out what appeared to be a person lying under the covers.

“Tristan?”

The lump didn’t stir.

She found the switch and flipped it on.

The lump was definitely Tristan. She recognized his face, though there seemed to be something wrong with his nose.

She stepped toward the bed. “Are you okay?”

She was still a few steps away when she jerked to a stop.

It wasn’t just his nose that was wrong. His eyes were half open and dried blood covered his cheeks and chin.

She hurried to his side and checked his neck for a pulse. His skin was unnaturally cold and there wasn’t a beat to be found.

She covered her mouth and backed away.

That’s when she saw the feet sticking out of the bathroom.

As much as she wanted to get out of there, the investigator in her wouldn’t let her go yet. She crept over for a better look.

The bathroom light was off, making it hard to see the body on the floor. Thankfully, the switch was on the outside. She turned the light on and nearly screamed.

Staring up at her was Dalton Conroy, his eyes as dead as Tristan’s.

She backpedaled into the wall and shoved her hand into her pocket to get her phone, only the phone wasn’t there. She remembered then that she’d been holding it when she walked in. She whirled around, scanned the room, and spotted it on the floor next to Tristan’s bed, where she must have dropped it.

As she unlocked the screen, the buzz she’d been hearing since realizing Tristan was dead began to recede, only to be replaced by the wail of sirens.

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