Night Edge by Jessica Hawkins Page B

relief. “Which room?”
    “I can’t—”
    “Money. I have it. You can have it. For your cooperation.” Beau almost cringed, barely able to form a full sentence. He wanted to be better, to do this the right way, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d come too far, was too close, to start following some ambiguous set of rules. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for his wallet, pulled out three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. “You can come with me if you don’t trust me. Keep my wallet as collateral. Whatever. Just give me the room number.”
    The man looked from the money to Beau to the door behind him. He slid the cash toward himself on the counter and pocketed it. He wrote something on a slip of paper and held it out.
    Before Beau could take it, the clerk pulled it back and whispered, “I never gave this to you.”
    “Fine.”
    “Destroy it when you’re done.”
    “Give me the fucking paper.”
    The man’s eyes widened. He handed it over.
    118.
    Beau went to room 118 and knocked. He sniffed, stuck his hands in his pockets. So much for a thought-out, specially-tailored plan. He banged on the door until it opened to reveal a short, gray-haired woman.
    “Who are you?” he demanded.
    She scowled. “You knocked on my door.”
    “I’m looking for my—my girlfriend…my wife…”
    “Well, which is it?” the lady asked.
    “She told me she was in room 118.”
    “Harold,” the woman called behind her without removing her eyes from Beau.
    “I’m not here to bother you,” Beau said, holding up his palms. After a nostril-full of air, he said, “I’m just looking for my wife—have you seen her by any chance? Dark hair, slim, tall, blue eyes, shiny hair—”
    “Oh—shiny hair,” the woman exclaimed. “How on earth does she get it so shiny?”
    “What?”
    “I know exactly who you’re talking about. Lola.”
    “Right,” Beau said so loudly, the woman jumped. “That’s her. Is she in there?”
    “In here ?” The woman shook her head. “What a doll. What an angel. You are a lucky man.”
    “I’m a desperate man,” Beau said. “Where is she?”
    She tapped a finger on her chin. “Gone, I think.” Her eyebrows knit. “She didn’t mention anything about a husband.”
    His heart dropped. It was impossible. He wasn’t even in the room, and the walls seemed to be closing in around him. Somebody had to be responsible for putting him through this shit hour after fucking hour. He would wring that person’s neck for it—the clerk, this woman, Bragg. Lola. He steadied himself against the doorframe. “Gone? When did you see her?”
    “Well, earlier this afternoon, Harold and I were checking in at the front office right over there,” she pointed to where Beau had just been, “when this girl comes in behind us. See, Harold and I had some trouble with our trailer this morning, so we had nowhere to sleep and not much cash on us.”
    Beau’s face was getting hot. He rolled his lips together to keep from hurrying her along.
    “We were trying to work out a deal when Lola taps me on the shoulder and says she paid for two nights—”
    “Word for word,” Beau interrupted. “What’d she say?”
    “Ah. Um, let’s see. She introduces herself and goes, ‘I was thinking of canceling my second night, so why don’t you take it instead?’ I ask if she’s sure, and she says something like, ‘I’m sure. I just got some news, and it’s time for me to move on.’ The darling girl, she didn’t charge us a thing and was out of the room in ten minutes.”
    Beau was shaking his head. “No. That’s bullshit.”
    “You’re a bit pale,” she said. “You want to sit down? My husband’s right inside, so don’t get any ideas—”
    He walked away, got in his car and stared forward. Now, it was the roof that was falling on him. Lola had to have known he was coming somehow—to have done this on purpose. Revenge. Wasn’t it? She couldn’t know, though—it wasn’t like she’d violated his privacy like