As I turn off the highway, following an equally faded sign pointing in the direction of the hotel, I pass a police car going in the opposite direction. It looks like they had the same idea I did. I slow down as much as I can and catch a glimpse of the backseat of the car. It’s empty.
So they didn’t find Quinn at the Baxter Motel.
I pull over on the side of the road, debating what to do next. The police obviously searched the motel and didn’t find her there. Am I wasting my time?
But I still have that feeling. I think she would have stopped here.
I’m going to check it out.
Chapter 23
The Baxter Motel is about what I might have expected from an out-of-the-way motel at a nearly nonexistent rest stop. It’s decrepit, with the sign peeling and almost rotting, abutted by an equally decrepit house and what looks like it used to be a restaurant—now abandoned. If Quinn wanted a place to sleep for the night, and didn’t want to sleep in her freezing car, this would be a perfect place to hide out.
The light is on in the motel’s lobby. I step inside, and the first thing I see is a bucket in the center of the room, with water leaking down into it from the ceiling. There’s a desk at the far end, and a man is sitting at a desk, looking down at his phone. But when he sees me walk in, he sits up rigidly.
I approach the desk tentatively. The guy sitting at the desk reminds me of the boys Quinn used to date in high school and college. He has those boy-next-door type of good looks, like Scotty Dwyer. That was her type—much more so than classically handsome Derek. I was always surprised she fell for Derek.
The man doesn’t return my smile. His brown eyes are wary as they rake over me. I wonder if he recognizes me—people say Quinn and I have a resemblance although less so since she started dyeing her hair. “Yes?” he says.
He looks suspicious of me and I haven’t even opened my mouth. Right off the bat, I sense I won’t get much out of this guy. I have to try something else.
“Do you have any rooms for the night?” I ask.
He narrows his eyes at me. “A room?”
I blink at him. “This is a motel, isn’t it?”
He looks at me for a long time, and he nods. “Yes. It’s fifty dollars a night.”
“Cash okay?”
“Yeah, fine.”
He stands there, waiting while I fish around in my purse for my wallet. I pull out a twenty, two tens, and a five. I’ve got another three dollar bills, and now I’m counting change out.
“Fine,” he says after I’ve counted out almost a dollar in change. “That’ll do.”
I let out a breath. I thought he was going to turn me away for being fifty cents short. “Thanks.”
“I have to go change the sheets on the bed.” He reaches under the table and pulls out a yellowing sheet of paper. “I need you to fill this out for me.”
It’s the standard information sheet. Name, contact information, address. I’ll have to make it all up.
The man ambles off, presumably to change the sheets on the bed, even though it’s unnecessary. I’m not going to spend the night here. I’m only going to stay long enough to get the information I need.
I make up a fake name, and scribble in some fake address in my most illegible handwriting. My name is Melissa Smith and I live in Jefferson, New Hampshire.
While I’m waiting for the man to return, I get out my cell phone. There’s another missed call from the police station. I don’t call Scott back. Not now, anyway. Maybe after I get back home.
Idly, I type into the search engine on my phone: Baxter Motel New Hampshire.
I didn’t expect to get any hits. Maybe a Facebook page with a link to a website “under construction.” But instead, my entire screen fills with stories about the Baxter Motel. And the one word present in every single result is “murder.” My heart jumps in my chest.
“All set, ma’am.”
I jerk my eyes up from my phone screen. That man is standing in front of me, even though I didn’t see him come back downstairs. I shove my phone back in my purse. Part of me wants to ask him if he knows that every single mention of his hotel on the Internet has the word “murder” in it. I have a feeling he does.
I swallow. “Thanks.”
He grabs the sheet of paper that I just got done filling out. He scans my details and rolls his eyes.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing.”
“You just rolled your eyes.”
He puts down the piece of paper on the desk. “You really want to have this conversation?”