Chapter Twenty-Nine

My first instinct—probably heightened by the adrenaline slicing through me—is to throw an elbow. My second is to punctuate that with a holler of my title. But just in time, I catch the flash of a hotel uniform, and I manage to stop myself from delivering the blow. I take a breath, order myself to remain calm, and turn to face the person on the other end of the intrusion. I recognize him right away. It’s Bobby, the same doorman who’d so kindly “supervised” Asher the previous day.

“Miss?” he says, a slightly forced smile gracing his face. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’m fine,” I reply, wishing his voice was a little softer and less attention-grabbing—already, a woman has turned our way. “Thank you.”

“This area is for construction staff only.”

“I understand.”

But Bobby doesn’t budge. And now his large frame is completely blocking my view.

Dammit.

“Miss?” says the doorman. “Mr. Jim has specifically asked me to ensure that no one comes past here for safety reasons.”

I want to argue and tell him where Buddy Jim can take his concerns over safety, but there’s little point in pushing it. And any bit of an unobtrusive advantage I might have had has evaporated.

“I think I took a wrong turn somewhere,” I lie smoothly. “I just came down to ask the concierge if I could get some more coffee for my room.”

Bobby’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m happy to let them know.”

“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” I give him my own forced smile, then spin and make my way toward the elevators.

Once I’m outside my room, I do a careful check for signs that someone has been there. But the “Do Not Disturb” door hanger is just where I left it and the door is properly latched. I still perform a careful entrance, and when I finally go in, I do a full sweep of the unit. I find no hint that anyone—not even the cleaning staff—has been through. And I feel an unreasonable prick of disappointment at finding it completely clean.

Great, Calhoun. Now you want something to go wrong? Definitely time to close the gaps in this investigation.

My fingers find my thigh, and they tap out their usual rhythm as I spin a final look around the room. I don’t think that I actually want to spy any evidence of an uninvited guest. But what I would like is to solidify a few clues. So far, I have very little. And what I do have is slippery. I’ve got Asher’s somewhat questionable conjectures and his interference slowing me down. I’ve got an unidentified male pretending to be a reporter, and I’ve got a creep—who at the very least, was involved with Jennika in some way—on the other end of a dating site. And now, I’m acquiring the resurgence of my hangover headache.

“Looking a little worse for wear, aren’t we?” I say as I spy my reflection in the mirror.

It’s true. Despite my efforts a short while ago at Gabe’s, my hair is doing questionable things. I apparently missed wiping away a smudge of mascara on my cheek, too. And of course, wrinkles abound on my once-crisp outfit.

I decide the clues can wait until after I’ve taken care of my disheveled appearance.

I peel off my day-old clothes, then grab a shower before finding something comfortable to wear. I brew myself a cup of much needed coffee, and I drink it without letting my mind slide to the missing women. Finally, when my mug is at last drained, I feel a little more human. And definitely more clear-headed.

First things first, I think, grabbing my cell.

On the off chance that Asher has finally listened to me and set up his new phone and used the same number, I try to call him. Unsurprisingly, I get his voicemail. I make a mental note to track him down, then focus my efforts on trying to find the missing link that will bring together Jennika, Monica, and Savannah. I sit down, flip open my laptop, and wait for the computer to load, letting my attention stray around the room as I try to maintain my patience. Almost right away, my eyes land on my suitcase. Asher’s folder is poking out of the side pocket, just where I’d left it. I feel an inexplicable urge to look over it again.

Frowning, I abandon my computer so that I can follow through on the compulsion. I flip past the nonsense to get to the first page of my detailed essay, and I start reading. As soon as I do, it all comes back to me, the words so familiar that I can almost recite them out loud without looking. I can feel my own anger in the searing sentences. My frustration at the way the police abandoned the case in favor of the town’s reputation. The way they all but buried it.

I recall the way my fingers flew across the keyboard as I typed it all up. My mind had only been half on the requirements of the assignment. The remainder of my thoughts had been focused on what I wanted to say about the case. On how Savannah’s last moves weren’t investigated. How even the smallest detail was pushed aside. Take, for example—

I stop. I blink. I draw in a sharp breath, and I flip ahead two pages. And there it is. The example that just sprung to mind.

A witness—a fellow Whimsy resident—said that they had overheard Savannah talking about meeting a man. The local police didn’t even bother to follow the potential lead. According to their report, the other statement wasn’t a lead at all.

“She’d met a man,” I say.

Just like Jennika. And that could be a coincidence. It really could. But my gut is alight with the possibility that it’s not. I think of the momentary recognition I’d felt when Jennika’s roommate told me about the online dating experience, and my heart jumps. This is it. This is where that came from. Subconsciously, I’d drawn upon the old information.

The pads of my fingers move restlessly against my thigh. I’m annoyed that I didn’t recall this important detail. But I don’t waste time cursing myself for not thinking of it before. Moving on is more important than that.

What about Monica Burns? Had she, too, met someone just before she disappeared?

How can I find out?

I turn to my laptop and groan when I see that it’s timed out. I give the keyboard a tap, then move to grab my notebook from where I left it. But my hand meets only the smooth plane of the desk. And a glance down confirms that the spot is empty. My notebook is gone.

A trickle of nerves worms its way through me, but I order myself not to jump to any negative conclusions. And it works. At least at first. I simply start a hunt. I bend down and check the floor under the desk. It’s not there. Concern edges in again. Frowning to myself, I question whether or not I remember correctly; maybe I put the notebook somewhere else. I widen my search.

I check the nightstand. Then I look under the bed, and then on the other side of it. I scour the entire carpet. And with the widening of my search to include other areas of the room, my disquiet grows. I even peek into the bathroom. But when I step back out and spin in a circle, visually sweeping the space, I become more and more certain that I did put the notebook on the desk. And even if I’m having some kind of memory lapse, it’s not just misplaced; it’s actually missing. Which means that someone has most definitely been in my room and taken it. Which is disconcerting enough that I’m momentarily paralyzed.

C’mon, Calhoun. You’ve got this. I nod, and silently answer myself. Yes, as a matter of fact…I do have this.

I’m an experienced cop, not a scared civilian.

And speaking of cops…maybe it’s finally time to call them.

I eye my phone, and I try to imagine what the exchange between me and the Whimsy PD would look like. It’s even more laughable than before. Why would anyone want my notebook? The stuff in there has zero meaning to anyone but me. And even putting aside the fact that I have zero proof of any wrongdoing, and that I’d essentially be reporting a stolen diary, I think about the questions that I would pose if the positions were reversed. And I don’t get any further than the initial query. Because the first thing I’d want to know would be why the out-of-jurisdiction cop—me, in this case—was in town. And the second would be to demand an explanation for why they—also me—hadn’t reached out in the first place. My excuses would sound hollow. Dishonest, even. Would I believe my own story if I wasn’t the one telling it? Maybe. Eventually. But possibly not. And the very moment I contact the local PD is the same moment that I’ll be forced to stop looking into things myself.

Okay, then…what do I do instead?

Feeling frustrated, I rub my hand over my forehead. But a moment later, I realize that I have an option. I can contact the front desk. After all, I now have a legitimate reason to do it. It’s easy enough for me to ask, in a non-accusatory way, if they have a means of finding out if anyone other than me has accessed my room since the previous evening. And if that doesn’t work, then maybe I just flash my badge and tell them that the missing book is where I keep my police notes. It’s the truth.

But is it safe to leave the hotel room? Is Smarty-Pants still here, and on the prowl?

I roll through a few possible scenarios. That I’m currently being watched. That the watcher is waiting just outside my door, ready to pounce. But after less than a minute of deliberation, I rule out the likelihood of an immediate threat on my life for a very simple reason. If the person on the other end of this was going to kill me, they wouldn’t have bothered with sneakiness. They wouldn’t steal my notebook only to follow up with taking my life; they would’ve done the opposite.

With that bit of assurance, I give my appearance a quick onceover—I’m looking a hundred times less ragtag now—then tuck my phone into my pocket and move to exit the room. But just as my fingers find the handle, a thump on the door makes me jump back. And even though it’s pretty damn unlikely that someone with harmful intentions would announce their presence with a knock, my pulse still races. Careful not to make a sound, I lean in and take a look through the peephole. Standing in the hall is a man whom I recognize as the most recent concierge from the front desk. There’s no one else in sight. I expel a breath and open the door, making myself smile as I issue a friendly greeting.

“Hi,” I say. “Is something wrong?”

He gives me a funny look and holds out a brown paper bag. “Did you change your mind about the extra coffee? Bobby said you wanted some.”

My cheeks warm, and I don’t have to force the laugh that escapes my lips as I take the bag. “Oh. No. But clearly, I need the caffeine more than I thought. Thanks for bringing it up for me.”

“No problem. Let me know if you need anything else.”

I hesitate. I could tell him about the missing notebook now. But I reject the idea. I want to direct the narrative, and I suspect that if I mention it now, things might take a direction that I can’t control.

“Will do,” I say with a smile. “Thanks.”

Not wanting to explain why I both want coffee and am leaving, I let the door close and start a slow count up to a hundred. But when I reach twenty-two, I belatedly realize I probably should’ve offered a tip. For no good reason, it strikes me as terribly important that I make sure he gets one. Quickly, I rummage through my bag in search of some cash. But by the time I snag a five-dollar bill from its crevices, then hurry back to the door with the intention of catching the concierge before he heads back to the front desk, he’s already out of sight.

“Dammit,” I grumble.

Briefly, I consider chasing after him. Then I decide to add the gratuity to my bill instead. I’m about to let my door close again. Then I stop. Because at the end of the hall, the elevator doors open, and a man steps out. He’s dressed in a gray hoodie and a red-and-black ballcap, and he’s hunched over, making his features indiscernible.

Every hair on my body stands up. His presence could be a coincidence. Really, it could. But somehow, I’m convinced that it’s not.