Do Not Disturb(18)

“Okay.” He lifts his shoulders. “We can give it a shot.” He looks down at my feet. “You got boots?”

Of course I don’t have boots. I didn’t even have freaking socks. “No. It’s fine though.”

He rubs the stubble on his jaw. “Let me borrow a pair from Rosalie. You look like you’re about the same size.”

Something about borrowing a pair of boots from his sick wife makes me feel a little uneasy. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. There’s a lot of snow out there. You’re going to lose a toe if you don’t have a pair of decent boots on.”

He makes a good point. “If you’re sure it’s okay…”

He nods at the plate of food. “Why don’t you eat breakfast, then I’ll meet you downstairs with the boots.”

I agree to do it, but his expression doesn’t make me feel hopeful. What if I can’t get out of here? I’m a sitting duck right now.

After he’s gone, I shovel eggs into my mouth while I attempt to get reception on the television. The eggs are pretty terrible. They are dry and bland, and the bacon is burned. He did better with the turkey sandwich. To be fair, it’s hard to ruin a turkey sandwich.

I tune into the local news, but there’s no mention of any sort of murder. Again, most of the news is about the blizzard. I don’t know if it’s just that the story hasn’t hit the news yet, or if nobody has discovered Derek’s body yet.

It seems almost impossible they haven’t discovered him yet. That he’s just lying on the kitchen floor, dead, and nobody knows it. How long does it take for a body to decompose? It couldn’t already be happening, could it? Not in the cold, at least.

It’s almost impossible to think of Derek that way. He was so strong and big and full of life. He was larger than life. For him to be dead…

He is dead, isn’t he?

Isn’t he?

The thought hadn’t occurred to me. I stood there and waited to make sure he was gone. He bled out all over the kitchen floor. He’s definitely dead. He wasn’t breathing.

He’s dead.

But…

It’s not like I’m a doctor. It seemed like he wasn’t breathing. I couldn’t feel a pulse. He was so still. And there was so much blood. There’s no way he could still be alive.

Before I left the house, I didn’t check him. I couldn’t bear to. I just assumed he was still lying on the kitchen floor, the way I left him. It’s like that feeling you get when you left your house in the morning and you’re not sure if you shut off the lights or locked the door. Except a million times worse.

What if the reason nobody’s looking for me is that Derek isn’t actually dead?

I feel like I’m going to throw up the eggs I just ate. A few moments ago, I felt confident of one thing: Derek was dead. I was sure of it. But now I’m not so sure anymore. What if he got up off the floor, got himself patched up, and now he’s out there looking for me?

Either way, I need to get the hell out of here.

I look down at my left hand, where my wedding band is still there, taunting me. Whatever else, I want that stupid thing off my hand. I yank it off roughly. My skin is a couple of shades whiter where the band used to be. The first thing I’m going to do is get rid of that tan line.

I pull open the dresser drawer next to the bed. The only thing inside is a copy of the Bible. I shove my ring in the drawer and slam it shut.

I grab the key to the room and lock it behind me when I leave. I consider bringing my bag with me, but I decide to leave it behind. I can swing by the motel entrance and toss it in on my way out.

“Leaving so soon?”

I whirl around—Greta standing behind me. She’s wearing a long, light blue nightgown that grazes her ankles. Unlike me, she doesn’t seem all bothered by being in her bare feet.

“Uh, yeah,” I say. “Got to get going.”

“There’s a great deal of snow out there.”

“Right,” I say irritably. “Nick is going to help me dig my car out.”

Greta looks down at my feet. All I’ve got on now are my socks. “Interesting choice of footwear.”

I grit my teeth. “Nick told me he would borrow a pair of boots from his wife.”

Greta’s lips curl up. “Be careful what you borrow from that man’s wife.”

Something about her expression makes me very uneasy. “He said it was fine. It was his idea.”

“Of course it was.” She scoffs. “I’m just saying. Rosalie will not be happy about handing over a pair of her boots so that her husband can help a pretty young guest.” Her eyes narrow at me. “She’s always watching him, you know.”

I think of the shadow in the window of the house across from the motel. My breath catches. “There’s nothing to be jealous of. Believe me.”

“Tell that to Christina Marsh.”

My throat goes dry. What is she saying? Is she implying that Rosalie Baxter had something to do with the death of that girl in Room 201?

But no. That’s crazy. Nick said that his wife is sick. She’s ill—she’s not going around murdering anyone.

Of course, he didn’t say what she was sick with. What if she’s mentally ill?

I shake my head. This is ridiculous. I’m going to be gone within the hour. I don’t need to think about Nick’s crazy wife. And Greta is just trying to scare me. Nick said she had a flair for the dramatic.