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 14
I freeze.
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 was hoping it 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?”
I hold my breath. There’s a long silence coming from downstairs. Oh God. What am I going to do? Can I jump out the window? How badly would I be hurt?
This is my own fault. I should have left while I had a chance. But where can I go? The plows still haven’t come. I would be just as much of a sitting duck in my car as I am here. Although it’s possible they might not see the car behind the diner.
It’s all over. The police are going to take me away. I’m going to spend the rest of my life in prison.
“Uh, no,” Nick is saying. “Doesn’t look familiar to me, sorry.”
My breath catches in my throat.
The officer’s voice again: “Are you sure? She may have changed her hair. It might be shorter than in the photo.”
“Yeah, no, I haven’t seen her. Honestly, we haven’t had any new guests here in the last several days at all.”
My shoulders sag. I can’t believe it—Nick is covering for me. He’s lying to the police on my behalf. He’s risking everything to help me, even though he doesn’t even know who I am.
“Okay then,” the officer says. “You mentioned your wife also works here. Could we talk to her as well? Maybe she saw Mrs. Alexander.”
“Unfortunately,” Nick says, “my wife has been very sick recently. She’s been in bed the last week. I think it’s the flu. You probably don’t want to go near her.”
The officer chuckles. “I don’t suppose I do. All right then. You’ll let us know if she shows up?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“Thank you, Mr. Baxter. Appreciate it.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.” He pauses. “I hope you find her.”
“Oh, we will. It’s just a matter of time.”
I lean against the wall, my heart pounding. I can’t believe that just happened. The police showed up here, just as I feared they would, but somehow I’m not being carried off in handcuffs. Nick covered for me. But that doesn’t mean I’m home free.
I wait until I hear the door to the motel slam shut, then I run back to my room. I look out the window—it’s very dark out now, but I can make out the police officer getting into his vehicle. I watch as he starts up his car and drives off. And there’s one other thing I see.
The plow is here. It’s plowing away a path to freedom. That must be how the police car got here. In about fifteen minutes, I may be able to finally leave.
And then I hear a knock at the door.
“It’s Nick.”
I walk over to the door and crack it open. Nick is standing there, wringing his hands together. I have the irrepressible urge to reach out and hug him.