LET ME BREATHE, page 7
The woman interrupted Ashley’s thoughts. “Y’all want the room or not?”
“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “We’ll take it.”
He gave Ashley an apologetic look. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”
Turning back to the woman behind the counter, he said, “We need extra pillows and blankets.”
She nodded and took his credit card.
Ashley wandered back toward the office door, wondering what else would go wrong.
With the paperwork complete, Wyatt handed her a keycard. She followed him out of the office and down the sidewalk. When they reached the door of their room, Wyatt paused and looked at her.
“I know this is awkward…”
His voice trailed off as if he wasn’t really sure what to say to improve the situation.
“Wyatt, it’s not your fault that they only had one room left,” Ashley said. “It’s not a problem, so don’t worry about it.”
But in reality, she did have a problem with them sharing a room. And they both knew it.
Wyatt unlocked the door, pushed it open, and motioned for Ashley to go inside. The first thing that hit her was the odor of mildew. Her gaze darted to the worn brown carpeting.
“How can we be sure that this is not one of the rooms that flooded?” she asked.
“You don’t trust Ms. Pink Tulip?”
She cut her eyes at Wyatt—an acknowledgement of the fact that neither of them trusted the woman.
Ashley surveyed the tiny room. She’d been hoping to find a sofa or a semi-comfortable looking armchair where one of them could sleep. But besides the bed, the room only contained a small desk and a stiff lattice-back chair.
Wyatt must have read her mind.
“The floor is fine with me,” he assured her.
Ashley wheeled her suitcase toward the closet. An uneasy feeling washed over her at the thought of unpacking. What would she wear to sleep? The nightgowns she’d brought were inappropriate considering the situation. And she realized that she’d packed in such a rush, she’d forgotten her robe.
The clicking of computer keys drew her attention. Wyatt had opened his laptop on the desk. He slid into the chair and stared at the screen.
“I really thought Jenkins was our guy,” he said.
Ashley had felt the same way. But after grilling the man for over two hours at the Sparks County Sheriff’s Department, they’d finally managed to get Bill, the bartender at Wally’s Place, to come in for an interview. Bill had confirmed Jenkins’s alibi. The bartender had locked the drunk man in the back seat of his own car around ten o’clock.
After the bar had closed at two a.m., Bill had roused Jenkins enough to transfer him to Bill’s car. Then he’d driven Jenkins home.
But although Jenkins proved not to be Hannah’s killer, they did manage to get a confession from him. He’d admitted to breaking into his ex-wife’s house the week before. He’d stolen a credit card and a small amount of cash. Rhonda had caught him in the act, but she’d never contacted the police.
Realizing Wyatt was looking at something related to the homicide case, Ashley moved toward his chair and scanned his computer screen. He was scrolling back through all the photos from Hannah’s crime scene. He was obviously trying to find some minute detail that they’d overlooked.
At this point, they had no suspects.
They’d spent most of the evening wading through police records, searching for a person of interest who fit their profile. They’d come up empty.
And Brenda had called Wyatt several times throughout the day. For some reason—one he hadn’t confided in Ashley—the deputy director was riding him hard this case. Ashley almost felt sorry for him.
She pulled out her phone and checked the time. It was too late to go out and buy a pair of long pajamas or a t-shirt and sweatpants. She’d have to wait until tomorrow to pick up something. Tonight, she’d be sleeping in her jeans.
But before she could even think about crawling into bed, she needed that shower.
As she headed back toward her suitcase, her cell phone rang. Glee filled her heart when she saw Daniel’s name flash on the caller ID. But the feeling evaporated before the second ring.
Instead, anxiety carved a pit in her stomach.
How would she explain her sleeping arrangements to Daniel?
CHAPTER TWELVE
The brakes on Trina Hollis’s twelve-year-old sedan squealed in protest as she rolled to a stop at the end of her driveway. The car was falling apart. A diagonal crack marred the driver’s side of the windshield. The muffler had broken loose weeks earlier and now dragged the pavement when she drove, shooting a trail of sparks in its wake. The air conditioner had stopped working two summers ago, and the near-bald tires needed replacing.
But come spring, she wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore.
In April, she’d buy a brand-new car. One with real leather seats that heated up in the wintertime, and wipers that turned on by themselves when it rained.
Trina switched off the headlights—the auto feature no longer worked—and killed the engine. She grabbed her purse and coffee thermos from the passenger seat along with the envelope that she’d received from her supervisor. The form detailing her annual raise lay folded inside.
A meager twenty-five cents per hour.
For seven long years, she’d toiled away at the paper mill and all she was worth to them was twenty-five cents. It had taken every ounce of her willpower to resist the urge to laugh in her supervisor’s face. She’d wanted to rip up the form and quit on the spot. But she’d held her tongue.
No one at work knew about her impending good fortune. It was easier that way. She didn’t have to listen to sob stories and field requests for loans. And by the time anyone found out, she’d be long gone. She planned to move to a town closer to Nashville, leaving the poverty of the mountains behind. But there were still four more months of expenses left to pay before her new life could begin.
Until then, she was stuck at the paper mill.
The crisp night air chilled her cheeks and nipped at her ears as she plodded along the dirt path leading from the driveway to her trailer’s wooden porch. Rounding a dormant maple tree, she glanced up at the mobile home’s wide front window.
Trina froze.
The lousy pay wasn’t the only drawback to her job. Forced to work second shift, her day ended at eleven p.m. Driving home alone at night was unsettling enough, as she always worried that her car would break down. But she absolutely hated walking into a dark house. For that reason, she’d purchased an automatic timer that switched on a floor lamp every evening at sunset.
But tonight, no light shone from the window.
She stood still and listened. The only sound that greeted her was the rattle of dry leaves stirred up by the late-autumn breeze. Maybe the bulb in her lamp had burned out. Or maybe the timer had gone on the fritz.
Trepidation washing over her, Trina mounted the porch steps. She inched toward the window and tried to peer inside. Backlit by moonlight, she could only see shadows and her own reflection. She inspected the front door. Closed tight—as it should be. She reached out her hand and curled her fingers around the doorknob. It was locked.
So why was she still engulfed by the feeling that something was wrong?
If a thief had broken in, they wouldn’t go to the trouble of relocking the door. But it also stood to reason that a thief might not enter through the front. Breaking in the back door would lower the risk of being seen by a passing neighbor.
Trina dropped her thermos and the envelope on the porch and circled around to the rear side of the trailer. She scanned the backyard. With her eyes adjusted to the soft glow of the moon, she could make out the two weatherworn lawn chairs and the old charcoal grill. The mobile home’s windows were all closed. Nothing seemed out of place.
Climbing the steps of the back stoop, she checked the door. Locked as well.
It was obvious that she’d been watching too many late-night horror movies on the satellite channels. She pulled the backdoor key from her purse and slipped it into the knob lock first, then the deadbolt.
As she crossed the threshold into the hallway, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
It’s just the darkness that’s creeping me out, she told herself. That’s all.
Trina slid her hand along the wall, found the overhead light switch and flipped it on. Nothing happened.
The electricity was out; that was the problem. Maybe a transformer had blown. Preoccupied by thoughts of her new life during the drive home from work, she’d failed to notice whether or not any lights had been on at the house up the road. Either way, she had no power now.
As she relocked the back door, a chill ran down Trina’s spine.
Standing in the hallway, she could almost sense another presence as though the shadows around her had come to life.
Stop acting like a child.
There was no one else in the trailer. She was alone. Thieves didn’t lock themselves inside people’s houses. They grabbed the loot—as fast as they could—and ran.
And Trina knew the electric company would have the power back on in a few hours. Then her problem would be solved. No big deal. There was no reason for her to be afraid.
And yet, something still felt … wrong. As though danger lurked between the walls of the trailer. But that was silly. This was her home. Her safe place.
You’ve got to calm down. Your mind’s just playing tricks.
The sound of her own heartbeat pounded in Trina’s ears as she shuffled down the short hallway. A flashlight and a box of matches lay tucked inside one of her kitchen drawers. And several scented candles decorated the living room as well as her bedroom. She’d have the place lit up in no time. And then the eerie feeling would fade away.
The boxy silhouette of the sofa appeared as she made her way into the living room. Dropping her purse on the coffee table, her gaze swept to the front window. Only a scant amount of pale light seeped through the panes. The moon must have hidden itself behind a layer of clouds.
She padded toward the kitchen doorway. To her left stood a tiny pantry, to her right a coat closet. The shadows waxed deeper here, morphing into a wall of inky blackness. The sensation that the darkness itself was a living being—that she was not alone—grew more intense.
Trina’s breath caught in her throat.
She thought she’d felt one of the shadows move. A dull vibration in the floor beneath her feet. Fear raced through her heart. She took a step backwards.
Strong arms clamped around her like a vice. The muscled arms of a man.
Trina screamed—a loud, bloodcurdling cry. But there was no one around to hear her. Her neighbors lived too far away.
The man wrestled her to the living room floor, straddling her. She struggled and kicked and tried to break free. He jerked her jacket down off of her left shoulder. She cried out again as he ripped the cotton fabric of her shirt.
He’s going to rape me!
“Please don’t do this,” she begged.
A stinging pain shot through her left arm. It was the prick of a needle.
A date-rape drug?
The man shifted his weight atop her. “I told you it’d be today,” he muttered. “Ain’t I always kept my word?”
What was he talking about? Did he think that she was someone else? Had he broken into the wrong trailer?
“My name is Trina Hollis,” she said, her voice choked with tears. She hoped that he’d realize he’d made a mistake. That he’d let her go.
Trina’s fingers tingled. What had he injected her with?
She felt the man’s weight shift again. And then, as if in answer to her prayers, he released his grip on her shoulders. The man climbed off of her.
I have to get out of here. Before he changes his mind.
Pressing her palms against the floor, she tried to push herself up. But her hands and arms felt as though they’d fallen asleep. Pins and needles. Their strength had been sapped. Trina curled her legs, got her feet under her. Her toes tingled.
The man was still there. A tall silhouette among the shadows.
I have to get away!
Trina stumbled as she tried to stand. Her legs trembled, as though she weighed a thousand pounds. Pins and needles. Her calves and thighs had succumbed to sleep.
Just slide one foot in front of the other.
Trina struggled to inch forward. She felt herself falling toward the living room chair. Her brain screamed for her to put out her hands, to catch herself, but her muscles refused to obey. She couldn’t lift her arms.
Her shoulder bumped the chair, and she hit the floor with a thud.
Terror sliced through Trina’s soul. Now, she couldn’t move her legs or her feet. Her whole body was numb. It was like she’d been paralyzed. Fresh tears stung her eyes.
“What did you give me?” she cried out.
“Quazodine,” came the soft reply.
The tears streamed down Trina’s face. “But why?”
The man knelt beside her.
“Because I’ve gotta kill you.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Hugging her cell phone to her chest, Ashley ducked into the motel’s small bathroom and closed the door. She flipped on the overhead fan, hoping the whirring noise would mask her voice. She didn’t want Wyatt to overhear her conversation with Daniel.
Her phone rang a third time.
Fighting the anxiety that had sprouted in her stomach, she answered.
“Hi, Daniel.”
“It’s good to hear your voice.”
She could feel him smiling on the other end of the line.
“I’ve been looking forward to talking to you too,” she said.
And she had—before she found out she’d be rooming with Wyatt. Now she dreaded having to explain the situation. Worried that it would rekindle Daniel’s jealousy.
“Is everything okay?” His smile had disappeared, replaced by concern. “Did you get another note?”
He must have heard a hint of apprehension in her tone. She’d almost forgotten how good he was at reading her.
“No, I haven’t received any more threats or anything like that,” she replied, wondering how to tell him about Wyatt. How to phrase the news so that it wouldn’t sound quite so bad.
“Then what’s wrong?”
She hesitated. “Well, we were almost an hour late for our meeting with Brenda this morning, and ever since, she’s been on the warpath.”
Although the deputy director’s irritation with them wasn’t what was plaguing Ashley at the moment, it was still true.
“Yeah, she can be tough. But don’t let it get to you. Just keep your mind on the case. Brenda will sing your praises again once it’s over.”
She sighed. She and Wyatt couldn’t solve the homicide fast enough to suit Ashley.
“I wish it was already over—that we had the killer in custody—and I was on my way back home.”
“Me too,” Daniel said, his voice softer. “I miss you.”
His words tugged at her heart.
“And I miss you.”
More than you realize, she thought.
“Hey, I’m getting another call,” he said. “You’ll never guess who it is.”
Which, she knew, meant the exact opposite.
“Brenda?”
“Yeah. So, I have to take it.”
Daniel was involved in a complicated homicide case of his own back in Briarwood. One that required him to work undercover. So late night calls were the norm.
“Okay, I guess we can talk again tomorrow.”
“I’ll call you.”
As Daniel cut the connection, Ashley’s conscious nudged at her. She’d broken a promise to herself. After she’d risked her life by confronting Chester Luckadoo at his farm, she’d vowed that she would never hide anything from Daniel again. No matter what the consequences.
And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him that she was sharing a motel room with Wyatt.
Was the omission that serious? After all, she knew that there was no way that anything inappropriate would ever happen between her and Wyatt. Even if—as Daniel feared—Wyatt did decide to hit on her, she would never reciprocate. She’d kick Wyatt out of the room and force him to sleep in the SUV, the weather be damned.
So why should she risk causing Daniel unnecessary stress?
Still, she wished she could find the right words—could tell him everything.
Ashley trudged out of the bathroom and grabbed her suitcase.
“I’m going to take a shower—unless you want to go first.”
Wyatt quit tapping on his computer keyboard and glanced at her. “Go ahead. It’s fine.”
The hot spray chiseled off the grime from her foot chase of Luke Jenkins, and soothed Ashley’s aching knee, but it couldn’t wash away the guilt she felt from keeping a secret from Daniel. Although she trusted him with all her heart, if he was ever forced to bunk with another woman, she’d want to know about it.
She made her decision. She had to tell Daniel. Maybe not tomorrow, but at least when the case was over. When she could explain in person.
Ashley slipped into a fresh pair of jeans and headed out of the bathroom.
She noticed that Wyatt had the motel landline phone stuck to his ear.
“I don’t care that housekeeping’s gone for the day,” he said. “We need extra pillows and blankets.”
He slammed down the phone.
“Did you check the closet?” Ashley asked.
Since she hadn’t unpacked, she had no way of knowing what was inside.
He nodded. “It’s empty.”
“You can have one of the pillows and the blanket from the bed,” she told Wyatt. “I can make do with just the sheets.”
There was no way she would subject him to sleeping directly on top of the grungy brown carpeting. And she still wasn’t convinced that they hadn’t been assigned one of the rooms that had flooded. There was no telling what kind of bacteria lurked in the rug’s worn fibers.
