Emma’s hands reached out and touched something hard just seconds before she crashed into it. She pulled away, seeing a bookshelf lined with old texts. She felt around for a door, but there was none. “Oh my God,” she whispered. She’d hit a dead end.
Quinlan’s walkie-talkie squawked. “I’ve got one,” she heard him say.
Emma looked down, then up. Her heart lifted. A small window glowed a few inches above the shelf. Even better, it was slightly ajar. Her fingers grasped a middle row of the bookshelf, and she set her feet on the bottom row and started to climb. The structure swayed back and forth as she shimmied up the shelves.
“Stop!” Quinlan’s shape was visible down the hall. He was running at a full sprint, his club raised above his head.
Emma pulled herself up to the top of the bookshelf and cranked the window as wide as she could. The space was just big enough for her to fit. She turned onto her stomach and stuck her legs through the window. Her fingertips caught the metal grooves of the window frame as she pushed herself through and dropped onto the ground. Her knees bent to absorb the impact, and her hands hit the grass hard. Then she took off running. She was free. She’d done it. And Quinlan didn’t know who he’d almost caught.
But I felt less than thrilled for my sister. As I watched Emma bolt through the darkness, I wished she would have thrown herself in front of Quinlan and let him haul her downtown, even if it meant getting arrested. I realized, as I watched, that I didn’t want her to go to that motel—especially alone.
Answers were waiting in that room, I just knew it. And with those answers, came danger.
29
MOTEL HELL
“You are two miles from your destination,” the portable GPS’s tinny voice rang out through the cabin of Sutton’s car. Not that Emma needed directions now—she could see the Super 8’s neon sign glowing in the distance. Her stomach was a ball of nerves as she pulled off Route 10. In 1.9 miles, she’d have her answer. Now 1.8 miles, 1.7…
She took a left at the intersection. Barely any cars were out, the streets were deserted, and the fast food restaurants that dotted the two-lane road were eerily empty. Emma passed an Arby’s, a McDonald’s, and a tired-looking diner called The Horseshoe that had a couple of rusty pickups in the parking lot. As a light drizzle turned to rain, she rolled the window farther down and let the pelting water spray across her forearms. The chill kept her present and focused. She had to keep her composure no matter what she found at the motel.
Emma turned onto a dark, slick road, and the Super 8 loomed into view. VACANCIES, a sign announced at the entrance. But the V and C had burned out, and the N had tipped over.
Emma pulled Sutton’s car around the back and angled into a parking space. Only a lone red truck shared the lot. Was it Raven’s? She squinted hard at the Arizona plates, the big tires, the naked-girl mud flaps. Would she really drive something like that? Then again, she knew nothing about the woman. She could be anyone, into anything.
Emma stepped out of the car and locked it behind her. Rain pounded the premises, and an earthy smell rose from the desert beyond. She wound around the front of the motel and followed signs for room 105. Most of the windows were curtained, but the few that were opened revealed neatly made beds and tired-looking wood bureaus. A wrapper for a Filet-O-Fish lay crumpled in the corner. A spiderweb glistened from the eaves. Her sandals rang out loudly on the pavement, so she angled up onto her toes, trying to soften her footsteps.
Finally, she approached room 105 and stopped, her heart thudding so fast she thought it might implode. Yellow light streamed through a crack in the dingy pea-green curtains. Peeking through, she saw that a television was on.
Fear twined through me. Was this it? Was my sister going to figure out what happened? I knew exactly what Emma was hoping for: a confession and hard evidence about my murder. But how likely was that?
Emma moved to the door and knocked gently, wondering what the hell she was going to say when Raven answered the door. A long moment passed, but she heard no footsteps inside. She knocked harder. Still nothing. She pounded the door so hard that the latch caught and the door inched open with a long, loud creeeeak.
Emma froze. A bedside lamp was on. The bed was neatly made with a yellow-and-green-striped comforter and two thin pillows. There were no suitcases on the hassock or clothes hanging on the small metal garment rack. The TV flickered cheerfully, showing a sitcom so old Emma didn’t even recognize it. But the room was empty.
Okay, so then leave, I thought nervously. Get the hell out of there.
Emma glanced behind her, then stepped inside. A faint smell of cigarettes and stale bread filled her nostrils. “Hello?” she called softly. “Is anyone here?”
Her whole body shaking with nerves, she moved past the television to the bathroom door, which was closed. “Raven?” She pressed her ear against the door, straining to hear movement.
“Raven?” Emma pushed the door open. Tiny bottles of motel shampoo and conditioner lined the sink. An unused bar of soap sat on the ledge next to a disposable razor. She moved to the shower and, with a flash of trepidation, tore the curtain aside. Nothing. She opened the plywood cabinet beneath the sink, hoping to find some sort of makeup bag or personal item stored there, but other than a plunger and spare roll of toilet paper, it was empty.
She padded back to the bedroom and searched the closet. There were unused hangers and an iron. The dresser drawers were just as bare.
She’s not here, Emma thought with disappointment. Running her fingers through her hair, she sat down on the bed, trying to get her bearings. Her gaze fixed on the cream phone on the nightstand. The message indicator light wasn’t flashing. Did that mean Raven had gotten her message? Had she taken off to avoid learning the “information” she’d promised about Mr. Mercer?