like blood and fear. And I needed our car. So against my own inclinations, I asked Matthew to take me back to the motel.
The police had finished processing the ruins of our room by then. When I trudged into the lobby to talk to the woman at the front desk, I was greeted by the manager, an African American woman in her fifties with clipped hair and a sympathetic manner. She was anxious to get me out of sight of any guests who might come in, and when we were in the little room in back of the check-in desk, she made me sit down and brought me a cup of coffee, which I didn’t remember requesting. Her name tag read Deneise .
“Miss Connelly,” she said, very earnestly and sincerely, “if you’ll give your consent, I’ll send Cynthia into the room to gather up your clothes and your personal items.”
I wondered where this scene was leading. “All right, Deneise,” I said. “That would be very helpful.”
She took a deep breath and said, “We hope you’ll accept our regret that this terrible incident occurred, and we want to make this time as stress free for you as we can. We know you have so many things to think about.”
I finally got it. Deneise was wondering if we considered the motel to blame in the shooting, and she wanted to feel me out about my intentions. And I think she was genuinely shaken up and sorry the whole thing had happened.
After Cynthia had been dispatched to the ruined room to salvage what she could of our stuff—to my relief, Matthew offered to go with her—Deneise got down to terms. “You may not want to stay here another night, Miss Connelly, but if you do, we’d love to have you.”
I felt that was less than sincere, but I also didn’t blame the woman.
“If you do decide to stay, of course we’d be glad to supply you with a comparable room free of charge, to show our regret that you’ve been . . . inconvenienced.”
I almost smiled. “That’s an understatement,” I said. “Yes, I’d like to have a room for the rest of the night, but I’ll be checking out first thing in the morning. I have to find something closer to the hospital.”
“How is Mr. Lang doing?” Deneise asked, and I told her he was going to be all right.
“Oh, that’s good news!” She seemed relieved on several different levels, and I didn’t blame her a bit.
Now that the motel situation was settled, I was anxious to get into a room and get clean. The manager called Cynthia on her cell phone and told her to take our luggage directly to room 203.
“I thought you might feel better if you weren’t on the ground level,” she explained as she hung up.
“You’re right,” I said. I thought of the black hole of the window, and I shuddered. My face and shoulders were hurting, I was covered with dried dots and smears of blood, and suddenly I began shivering, now that I had the luxury of time for myself. Now that I thought Tolliver would be all right.
Matthew appeared in the office doorway. “Your stuff’s in your new room, and I don’t think anything is missing. Everything seems to be in your purse.”
I didn’t like the idea of Matthew having access to my purse, but he had been a real help tonight, and I had to give the devil his due. I told Deneise I was grateful she’d been so thoughtful, and with my new key card in hand, I went out to the lobby with Matthew to get in the elevator.
“Thanks,” I said, as it rumbled up to the open area with snack machines and the ice maker. A couple coming up the stairs glanced at us curiously, and when they’d absorbed my bloody state, they hurried away to their room.
“That’s okay,” Matthew said. “I heard the shot, and I heard you scream. I ran across that parking lot pretty damn fast.” He laughed.
I hadn’t even realized I’d screamed.
“You didn’t see anyone in the parking lot?”
“Nope. And it makes me nuts, because the shooter had to have been really close to me.”
I stowed that idea away to think over later. “Well, I guess
The police had finished processing the ruins of our room by then. When I trudged into the lobby to talk to the woman at the front desk, I was greeted by the manager, an African American woman in her fifties with clipped hair and a sympathetic manner. She was anxious to get me out of sight of any guests who might come in, and when we were in the little room in back of the check-in desk, she made me sit down and brought me a cup of coffee, which I didn’t remember requesting. Her name tag read Deneise .
“Miss Connelly,” she said, very earnestly and sincerely, “if you’ll give your consent, I’ll send Cynthia into the room to gather up your clothes and your personal items.”
I wondered where this scene was leading. “All right, Deneise,” I said. “That would be very helpful.”
She took a deep breath and said, “We hope you’ll accept our regret that this terrible incident occurred, and we want to make this time as stress free for you as we can. We know you have so many things to think about.”
I finally got it. Deneise was wondering if we considered the motel to blame in the shooting, and she wanted to feel me out about my intentions. And I think she was genuinely shaken up and sorry the whole thing had happened.
After Cynthia had been dispatched to the ruined room to salvage what she could of our stuff—to my relief, Matthew offered to go with her—Deneise got down to terms. “You may not want to stay here another night, Miss Connelly, but if you do, we’d love to have you.”
I felt that was less than sincere, but I also didn’t blame the woman.
“If you do decide to stay, of course we’d be glad to supply you with a comparable room free of charge, to show our regret that you’ve been . . . inconvenienced.”
I almost smiled. “That’s an understatement,” I said. “Yes, I’d like to have a room for the rest of the night, but I’ll be checking out first thing in the morning. I have to find something closer to the hospital.”
“How is Mr. Lang doing?” Deneise asked, and I told her he was going to be all right.
“Oh, that’s good news!” She seemed relieved on several different levels, and I didn’t blame her a bit.
Now that the motel situation was settled, I was anxious to get into a room and get clean. The manager called Cynthia on her cell phone and told her to take our luggage directly to room 203.
“I thought you might feel better if you weren’t on the ground level,” she explained as she hung up.
“You’re right,” I said. I thought of the black hole of the window, and I shuddered. My face and shoulders were hurting, I was covered with dried dots and smears of blood, and suddenly I began shivering, now that I had the luxury of time for myself. Now that I thought Tolliver would be all right.
Matthew appeared in the office doorway. “Your stuff’s in your new room, and I don’t think anything is missing. Everything seems to be in your purse.”
I didn’t like the idea of Matthew having access to my purse, but he had been a real help tonight, and I had to give the devil his due. I told Deneise I was grateful she’d been so thoughtful, and with my new key card in hand, I went out to the lobby with Matthew to get in the elevator.
“Thanks,” I said, as it rumbled up to the open area with snack machines and the ice maker. A couple coming up the stairs glanced at us curiously, and when they’d absorbed my bloody state, they hurried away to their room.
“That’s okay,” Matthew said. “I heard the shot, and I heard you scream. I ran across that parking lot pretty damn fast.” He laughed.
I hadn’t even realized I’d screamed.
“You didn’t see anyone in the parking lot?”
“Nope. And it makes me nuts, because the shooter had to have been really close to me.”
I stowed that idea away to think over later. “Well, I guess
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