Page 67 of Do Not Disturb
And what was he doing at three in the morning?
He sits on the bed, close to me. He reaches for my hand, and I allow him to squeeze it in his own. “You believe me, right, Rosie?”
What can I say to him but yes?
Chapter Thirty-Two
The next morning, I’m in my eternal perch by the window when the police cars arrive in the motel parking lot. Not just one police car. Policecars. Plural. And not just that, but there’s also an ambulance.
Fear grips my stomach. Is it Greta? She’s so old. Maybe she fell and broke her hip.
But why would the police cars be there?
I retrieve my binoculars from the dresser drawer and look out at the parking lot, although I don’t need them. The police officers are getting out of their vehicle and heading straight to the entrance to the motel. They’re not here to book a room, that’s for sure.
I grab my phone and call Nick. Naturally, it goes right to voicemail. So does my second call. After several more tries, he finally picks up.
“I can’t talk, Rosie.” His voice is low and serious. “The police are here.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
The silence on the other line seems to last for an eternity before he answers. “Christina is dead.”
“Dead? What are you talking about?”
There are muffled voices in the background. “I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.”
And then he hangs up on me.
I try calling him again. And again. But he must’ve turned off his phone, because all the calls go right to voicemail. I get out my binoculars again and look out at Christina’s room. The police officers are in there now, and so is Nick. They’re talking. It doesn’t look like they’re handcuffing him or anything like that—that’s a good sign.
But what happened to Christina? If she’s dead, what are the chances that it was from natural causes? She was only in her twenties. People don’t just drop dead randomly at that age.
I watch all morning, intermittently browsing my phone to see if there are any news stories about her, except I don’t even know her last name. They bring out the stretcher, with a sheet covering the body underneath.
So it’s true. Christina is dead.
The woman my husband was kissing two nights ago is dead.
Now there’s a police officer talking to Nick outside the motel. I shove my binoculars back in the drawer and wrench the window open, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. But then Nick points to our house. The officer nods, and now they’re both walking toward our front door.
I run my fingers through my hair, trying to prepare myself to see this stranger. I’m wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, which is what I wear most days. At least my clothes are clean. And I had a shower yesterday morning, although my hair still feels limp and greasy.
After a minute, there’s a knock on the bedroom door. “Yes?” My voice cracks. “Come in.”
The door swings open and there they are. My husband and the police officer. The officer is about Nick’s height, with dark hair and imposing dark eyes. He’s absolutely terrifying.
“This is my wife, Rosalie,” Nick says.
The officer’s eyes rake over me. He glances back at Nick. “That’syour wife?”
Nick glares at him. “Right. That’s what I just said.”
I can’t blame the officer for being skeptical. There was a time when I used to be beautiful, but I’m not anymore. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I avoid looking in the mirror these days, because when I do, a stranger stares back at me. I always have dark circles under my eyes and hollow cheeks that made me look ten years older than I am. My formerly thick dark brown hair has lost all its luster. Nick is a good-looking guy, and the officer probably wonders what he’s doing stuck with me.
It’s probably a little suspicious as well.
“Mrs. Baxter,” the officer says, “I’m Detective Esposito. I don’t know how much you heard about what happened out there…”
