“What conversation?”
“Your information is fake.” He shrugs. “It’s fine.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “What makes you so sure of that?”
“I used to live in Jefferson. You got the zip code wrong. Way off.”
I open my mouth, not sure how to respond to that. “I…”
“I said it’s fine.” He waves to indicate I should follow him. “Come on upstairs, Melissa. I’m Nick, by the way.”
I follow Nick up the stairs to the second floor. This motel could definitely use a new paint job, and it’s almost frightening how much the stairs creak as I walk up them. This motel could use a new everything.
We pass rooms 201 and 202, and then we come to a stop in front of room 203. The door is still slightly open from when he must have changed the sheets. He drops the key into my hand. “Here you go.”
I glance over his shoulder, into the tiny furnished motel room. At the hard bed and the tiny TV, and the small window. “Do you have anything for dinner here?”
He shoots me an irritated look. “I can make you a sandwich.”
“Is it included with the price of the room?”
“I suppose it will have to be, since you didn’t even have enough money to pay for the room.”
I look down the hallway behind him, at the two closed doors. Rooms 201 and 202. Is it possible that my sister occupied one of those rooms? It’s time to find out. “Is anyone else staying here?”
He raises his eyebrows at me. “I respect your privacy. Maybe you could respect the privacy of the other people staying here.”
With those words, he turns and leaves me.
Wow, that guy really didn’t like me. I’m not sure why, because he seemed belligerent from the second I came into the hotel. Maybe it’s not me. Maybe he’s having a bad night.
I enter the tiny motel room and shut the door behind me. I turn the lock, but then I notice a deadbolt as well. I swing it into place.
The double bed is just as uncomfortable as it looks. I shrug off my coat and settle down onto it, and a spring jabs me in the butt. I adjust the pillows behind my back so I can sit up, but these pillows have seen better days. There are three of them, and they’re all flat as a pancake.
My phone rings. I reach into my purse to pull it out, and Rob’s name is flashing on the screen. Undoubtedly, he’s wondering where I am. If I tell him I went off looking for Quinn, he’s not going to be thrilled. But I have to tell him something.
I take the call, and immediately, I hear crackling on the other line. “Claudia?”
“Hi, Rob,” I say. “Listen, I’m sorry about taking off. There’s just… There’s somewhere I had to go…”
“Claudia, I……” There’s a good five seconds of nothing but crackling. “What…… can’t hear……”
“I’m looking for Quinn,” I say. “I’ll be back late tonight. I promise.”
There’s more crackling, and then the line goes dead. I guess the reception is still bad after the storm. Oh well. I answered the phone, so at least he knows I’m not dead.
I settle down on the bed, and bring up the Internet browser on my phone. Now that I have some privacy, I can read about the Baxter Motel.
I click on the first link, which is an article from two years ago. The headline jumps out at me: Woman Found Murdered in New Hampshire Motel. The woman in question was twenty-five-year-old Christina Marsh. She was discovered dead in one of the motel rooms. Stabbed to death. There were no signs of forced entry.
The article notes that the owners of the hotel, Nicholas and Rosalie Baxter, were working with the police to find the perpetrator.
I read the articles one by one, and the story materializes. The woman, Christina Marsh, had been staying at the hotel for about a week. She hadn’t left her room in a day, so Nick Baxter went to check on her. He discovered her lying dead in a pool of her own blood.
Several of the articles mentioned a “relationship” between Nick Baxter and Christina Marsh. One went so far as to call her his girlfriend and implied the affair had been going on throughout her stay at the motel.
He was never charged with anything, at least not according to any of the articles. And I would assume if he had been convicted of murder two years ago, he wouldn’t still be working here. So I’m guessing he was cleared.
I look down at the bedspread underneath me. Did it happen here? Was she killed in this very room?
I shove my phone into my purse. I’m supposed to be focused on Quinn, but something about this place makes me feel very uneasy. I need to do what I came here to do and get out.