Tears stung the corners of her eyes. It wasn’t a memory, it was an ache. The memories were Tristan, but more than that, the memories were everything she was. Mrs. Granger pressed her face into her husband’s shoulder. Sheriff Paris held his cap against his chest and looked at her, face steely with grief. Fran and Bug eyed her, wiping their faces.
Ashley closed her eyes.
“Some people might think you’re never coming back, but the Tristan Granger I know would never give up. Snakebite is our home. This is where you and me started and it’s where we’ll end. So Tristan, wherever you are, please come home.”
3
The Murder Hotel
In a sad but unsurprising turn of events, Alejo parked the minivan outside a rundown motel. The sun glared through the front windshield as the van’s humming engine finally puttered to sleep.
“Wow,” Logan groaned. “The motel looks great. I feel like a kid again.”
“You are a kid.” Alejo gave her a look. “Your dad’s waiting outside. Please smile when you see him.”
Logan turned in her seat. Brandon Woodley, her second and all-around less effective father, waited for them in the center of the motel parking lot, hands shoved in his pockets as he paced the sun-bleached pavement.
A towering, rusted sign in the parking lot read BATES MOTEL. The name was promising, though the motel wasn’t nearly creepy enough on the outside. The marquee on the dilapidated office building flickered the word VACANCY; the NO looked like it’d never been lit. An abandoned pizza stand was squat in the center of the parking lot with its window permanently boarded up. The letter board simply read WELCOME TO THE BATES. COME HAVE A SLICE.
“My family,” Brandon called, strolling toward the minivan like he’d spent the last six months at sea. “Together at last.”
Alejo hopped out of the front seat and met Brandon halfway across the parking lot, pulling him into a hug so tight Logan was surprised it didn’t break him in half. She thumped her head against the passenger seat and closed her eyes. Maybe she was being overdramatic. If she was, it was because she’d learned from the best. Brandon and Alejo looked into each other’s faces like they hadn’t seen each other in years, never mind the fact that they’d FaceTimed every night they were apart.
It was like they were back on TV; their reunion was one violin solo short of an Academy Award.
Logan paused her podcast and climbed out of the van. The sun felt hotter in Snakebite than in LA. It felt closer, as if it were only feet overhead. Logan patted the back of her neck with her sleeve to soak up the sweat. It was the kind of weather that would usually call for a dip in the pool, but Logan doubted she’d find one here. The Bates hardly seemed like the kind of motel that had amenities.
“I hope there’s blood in the shower,” Logan said. “They can’t just waste a name like that.”
Brandon looked over Alejo’s shoulder and smiled uneasily at Logan. Surprisingly, he looked better than he had on FaceTime the day before. More awake. His dark brown stubble had lost its usual peppering of gray hair and his cheeks were fuller. He scrunched up his nose and cupped a hand over his brow to block out the sun.
Logan hadn’t seen him look this alive in years.
It was unsettling.
Brandon scooted around Alejo and stood in front of Logan without offering a hug. His loose-fitting button-up was patterned with palm trees and pineapples that glared in the summer sun. He cleared his throat. “How’s it been down south?”
“Boring,” Logan said. “This is where we’re living? I thought Oregon was supposed to be green.”
“Oh, uh, yep. This part of Oregon is more like … well, it’s kind of its own thing.” Brandon motioned to a pair of doors on the inside corner of the motel’s L-shape. “We’re rooms seven and eight. The deluxe suites.”