“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’s your 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 formally 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…”
I bite my lip. “Nick said one of our guests was… dead?”
“It looks like she was murdered, actually,” Esposito says. My stomach sinks—my fears are true. “She was stabbed in the chest.”
I look over at Nick, who is staring down at his sneakers, his face pale.
“I’m wondering if I could ask you a few questions, Mrs. Baxter,” Esposito says.
“Of course,” I manage.
When Nick doesn’t budge, the detective shoots him a look. “Mr. Baxter, would you step outside so I could talk to your wife?”
Nick looks like he’s going to be sick. He nods. “Sure. Rosie, if you need anything…”
“She’ll be fine,” Esposito snaps at him. “We’re just going to have a talk.”
My brain is going a mile a minute as my husband leaves the room and shuts the door behind him, leaving me alone with the terrifying detective. I lift my eyes to look at him.
“How are you doing, Mrs. Baxter?” he asks.
“Fine,” I squeak.
“I just have a few questions for you about the motel. Your husband mostly runs it?”
I nod. “Yes. I haven’t been able to recently. I… I can’t get around so easily anymore.”
“He told me you have multiple sclerosis and you can’t walk at all. Is that accurate?”
I flinch at the way he phrased it so harshly. “Yes.”
“When is the last time you’ve been inside the motel?”
“It’s been… a while.”
“Days? Weeks? Months?”
“At least a year,” I admit.
He looks over my shoulder, out the window. “You got a pretty good view of the motel from here?”
“Yes. I suppose.”