Page 30 of Do Not Disturb
I wish I had my phone. If not to make a call, then at least to surf the web. You don’t realize how much you depend on your phone for entertainment until it’s gone. I wish I had at least brought a book.
I open the top drawer of the dresser. The Bible is apparently the only book in this room. And it’s not exactly easy reading. When I was younger, our parents used to make us go to church every Sunday. Claudia and I hated it. We would spend the entire time whispering to each other until our parents told us to be quiet.
Maybe it will give me some comfort. Who knows?
I crack open the Bible. I expect to see the familiar first words:In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.
Instead, the entire first page is covered in red magic marker. Somebody has scribbled across the pages:Get out now, whore!
I stare at the words, a prickling sensation in the back of my spine. I turn the page and there it is again. The same words, written over and over.Get out get out get out get out…
I snap the Bible shut with shaking hands. Well, so much for getting comfort from the words of God.
I wonder if those words were meant for me. I wonder if somebody saw me by my car with Nick and wanted to send me a message. I raise my eyes and look across at the house next door. The sun has gone down and I can see that same light on the top window. And the silhouette of a woman staring out at me.
Rosalie.
But it couldn’t have been her. Nick told me she can’t evenwalk. She couldn’t have come over here, climbed up the stairs, unlocked the door to my room, scribbled in the Bible, then gone back home. It’s impossible.
Anyway, I need to calm down. The plow should be here soon, and then I’ll get out of here. And never come back. In the meantime, I’ll watch some TV. That should help.
I turn on the television. Unlike yesterday, the picture is clear. There is another pretty blond newscaster on the screen, talking about damage caused by the storm. Stupid storm. If that hadn’t happened, I would’ve been out of here ages ago. But I am praying I still have more time. After all, it’s only Saturday. It’s entirely possible nobody will notice Derek is missing until Monday.
“In other news,” the anchor says, “the body of thirty-four-year-old Derek Alexander was found last night in his home…”
My chest turns to ice.What?
The blond anchor keeps talking, but I can only focus on little pieces of what she’s saying. And then a second later, Deputy Scott Dwyer is on the screen. He doesn’t look great—he looks like he hasn’t gotten much more sleep than I have. Scott’s mildly bloodshot brown eyes make contact with the camera lens as he recites the details of the case in a flat voice.
Death is from apparent stab wounds… No forced entry… attempting to locate wife Quinn Alexander for questioning…
They found him. They found Derek dead, and now they’re looking for me. And according to the newscast, he was found last night. Probably the only reason the police aren’t here already is because of the storm. Or maybe I got lucky, and they didn’t see the sign for the Baxter Motel.
Which means I don’t have much time.
Screw the snow plow. I’m getting out of here. I’ll go wait in my car, so I can take off as soon as it’s clear to go. At the very least, I can’t be hanging around this motel any longer.
I grab my luggage, which is thankfully already packed. I shove my feet back in my sneakers, then I head out of the room, locking the door behind me. I walk over to the staircase, but before I can start descending, I hear voices coming from downstairs.
Oh my God.
It’s the police.
Chapter Fourteen
Ifreeze.
I’m not sure what else to do. I want to go back to my room and lock and deadbolt the door, but I’m afraid to move. I knew the police were going to come looking for me, but I didn’t think it would happen this quickly. Or at least, I washopingit wouldn’t happen this quickly.
“This is your motel, Mr. Baxter?” a deep male voice is asking. I don’t recognize the voice, but it’s not Scott. If it were Scott, I might come out. Of course, he would arrest me anyway, but he’d be kind about it. He wouldn’t make the handcuffs too tight.
“Right, it’s my motel.” Nick’s voice. “I own it. Me and my wife.”
“Does anyone else work here?”
“No. It’s just me.”
“I see. Mr. Baxter, we’re looking for a woman named Quinn Alexander, who we think may have stopped at your establishment in the last twenty-four hours. Does this photo look familiar to you?”
