office window, watched him climb the stairs to the upper level.
Helen’s car was gone, and so was the car in the back of the parking lot. Damn it—she’d missed it. The only piece of excitement promised for the rest of the night.
She walked back to the desk and looked at the guest register. The salesman had written his name in big, bold letters: JAMES MARCH .
She flipped back in the book, remembering back to the night with the smoke and the voices. She paged back and back until she saw that same bold, black handwriting.
MICHAEL ENNIS , he’d written.
No one here tells the truth , Viv thought. Not ever.
Fell, New York
November 2017
CARLY
Nick had a black pickup truck, a big machine that made a lot of noise and smelled a little of aftershave. Even in my panicked, half-delirious state, the testosterone was like a bong hit. I crouched in the huge leather-upholstered seat as we roared off down Number Six Road. It was comforting and unsettling at the same time. I wasn’t alone anymore. There was a man taking care of things now. And yet.
And yet.
We pulled into the parking lot of an all-night Denny’s. I had no idea what direction we’d driven or how long we’d traveled. It felt like minutes and hours at the same time. “Wait here,” Nick said, and got out.
I watched him walk toward the restaurant. My hands were shaking, my back cold with half-dried sweat. He moved with an ease that made my stomach swirl and made me tense at the same time. You don’t know this man , my hopped-up instincts told me. The last time you saw him, he had a gun. His father is a murderer. You’re alone in his car in the middle of the night. I’d left my messenger bag at the motel, with my cell phone and the Mace Heather had given me. I put my hand on the passenger door handle, pressing it experimentally. Of course it gave. I wasn’t locked in. There was no such thing as locking someone in your truck.
Then again, there was no such thing as little boys who vanished or the woman in 216.
I gulped breaths in the quiet of the truck, trying not to let panic overtake me. I could get out, go ask for help in the restaurant. But what kind of help did I want? The police? Did I just want to get out of here? To go home?
Where was home? In that moment, I couldn’t even picture Illinois. I had no idea what it looked like. The only thing I could picture was my apartment with Heather and the Sun Down Motel. Should I call Heather? Would it panic her if I did?
The driver’s door cracked open and I jumped. I hadn’t even seen Nick come back. He swung into the truck, but he didn’t touch the ignition. Instead he handed me a take-out cup and kept one for himself.
I inhaled. It was hot chocolate. I peeked through the gap in the lid and saw there was whipped cream on the top of the drink. I stared for a second, so surprised I didn’t even sip it.
“I didn’t know if you liked coffee,” Nick said. I turned to see him watching me stare at my drink. “I forgot to ask. I figured chocolate was a safe bet.”
“Thank you,” I said, my voice rusty.
He looked at me for another long minute. The harsh light from the restaurant was dimmed by distance and the shadows of the truck’s cab. It made his face look half lit, half sliced with darkness. It was hard to figure out how old he was in this light, even though I knew his age from the newspaper stories—he was twenty-nine. He looked handsome and jaded and a little bit crazy. I probably looked crazy myself, and I’d bet the light glinting off my glasses wasn’t very flattering.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice harsh.
I blinked, surprised. I realized I’d never told him. Well, if he was a serial-killer-slash-date-rapist who specialized in women who had just seen ghosts, it was too late now. I’d just throw my hot drink at him and run. “Carly,” I said, sipping my chocolate. It was heavenly, the whipped cream melting into the hot drink and making it teeth-achingly
Helen’s car was gone, and so was the car in the back of the parking lot. Damn it—she’d missed it. The only piece of excitement promised for the rest of the night.
She walked back to the desk and looked at the guest register. The salesman had written his name in big, bold letters: JAMES MARCH .
She flipped back in the book, remembering back to the night with the smoke and the voices. She paged back and back until she saw that same bold, black handwriting.
MICHAEL ENNIS , he’d written.
No one here tells the truth , Viv thought. Not ever.
Fell, New York
November 2017
CARLY
Nick had a black pickup truck, a big machine that made a lot of noise and smelled a little of aftershave. Even in my panicked, half-delirious state, the testosterone was like a bong hit. I crouched in the huge leather-upholstered seat as we roared off down Number Six Road. It was comforting and unsettling at the same time. I wasn’t alone anymore. There was a man taking care of things now. And yet.
And yet.
We pulled into the parking lot of an all-night Denny’s. I had no idea what direction we’d driven or how long we’d traveled. It felt like minutes and hours at the same time. “Wait here,” Nick said, and got out.
I watched him walk toward the restaurant. My hands were shaking, my back cold with half-dried sweat. He moved with an ease that made my stomach swirl and made me tense at the same time. You don’t know this man , my hopped-up instincts told me. The last time you saw him, he had a gun. His father is a murderer. You’re alone in his car in the middle of the night. I’d left my messenger bag at the motel, with my cell phone and the Mace Heather had given me. I put my hand on the passenger door handle, pressing it experimentally. Of course it gave. I wasn’t locked in. There was no such thing as locking someone in your truck.
Then again, there was no such thing as little boys who vanished or the woman in 216.
I gulped breaths in the quiet of the truck, trying not to let panic overtake me. I could get out, go ask for help in the restaurant. But what kind of help did I want? The police? Did I just want to get out of here? To go home?
Where was home? In that moment, I couldn’t even picture Illinois. I had no idea what it looked like. The only thing I could picture was my apartment with Heather and the Sun Down Motel. Should I call Heather? Would it panic her if I did?
The driver’s door cracked open and I jumped. I hadn’t even seen Nick come back. He swung into the truck, but he didn’t touch the ignition. Instead he handed me a take-out cup and kept one for himself.
I inhaled. It was hot chocolate. I peeked through the gap in the lid and saw there was whipped cream on the top of the drink. I stared for a second, so surprised I didn’t even sip it.
“I didn’t know if you liked coffee,” Nick said. I turned to see him watching me stare at my drink. “I forgot to ask. I figured chocolate was a safe bet.”
“Thank you,” I said, my voice rusty.
He looked at me for another long minute. The harsh light from the restaurant was dimmed by distance and the shadows of the truck’s cab. It made his face look half lit, half sliced with darkness. It was hard to figure out how old he was in this light, even though I knew his age from the newspaper stories—he was twenty-nine. He looked handsome and jaded and a little bit crazy. I probably looked crazy myself, and I’d bet the light glinting off my glasses wasn’t very flattering.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice harsh.
I blinked, surprised. I realized I’d never told him. Well, if he was a serial-killer-slash-date-rapist who specialized in women who had just seen ghosts, it was too late now. I’d just throw my hot drink at him and run. “Carly,” I said, sipping my chocolate. It was heavenly, the whipped cream melting into the hot drink and making it teeth-achingly
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