Do Not Disturb(53)

I run my fingers through my hair, trying to prepare myself to see this stranger. I’m wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, which is what I wear most days. At least my clothes are clean. And I had a shower yesterday morning, although my hair still feels limp and greasy.

After a minute, there’s a knock on the bedroom door. “Yes?” My voice cracks. “Come in.”

The door swings open and there they are. My husband and the police officer. The officer is about Nick’s height, with dark hair and imposing dark eyes. He’s absolutely terrifying.

“This is my wife, Rosalie,” Nick says.

The officer’s eyes rake over me. He glances back at Nick. “That’s your wife?”

Nick glares at him. “Right. That’s what I just said.”

I can’t blame the officer for being skeptical. There was a time when I used to be beautiful, but I’m not anymore. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I avoid looking in the mirror these days, because when I do, a stranger stares back at me. I always have dark circles under my eyes and hollow cheeks that made me look ten years older than I am. My formally thick dark brown hair has lost all its luster. Nick is a good-looking guy, and the officer probably wonders what he’s doing stuck with me.

It’s probably a little suspicious as well.

“Mrs. Baxter,” the officer says, “I’m Detective Esposito. I don’t know how much you heard about what happened out there…”

I bite my lip. “Nick said one of our guests was… dead?”

“It looks like she was murdered, actually,” Esposito says. My stomach sinks—my fears are true. “She was stabbed in the chest.”

I look over at Nick, who is staring down at his sneakers, his face pale.

“I’m wondering if I could ask you a few questions, Mrs. Baxter,” Esposito says.

“Of course,” I manage.

When Nick doesn’t budge, the detective shoots him a look. “Mr. Baxter, would you step outside so I could talk to your wife?”

Nick looks like he’s going to be sick. He nods. “Sure. Rosie, if you need anything…”

“She’ll be fine,” Esposito snaps at him. “We’re just going to have a talk.”

My brain is going a mile a minute as my husband leaves the room and shuts the door behind him, leaving me alone with the terrifying detective. I lift my eyes to look at him.

“How are you doing, Mrs. Baxter?” he asks.

“Fine,” I squeak.

“I just have a few questions for you about the motel. Your husband mostly runs it?”

I nod. “Yes. I haven’t been able to recently. I… I can’t get around so easily anymore.”

“He told me you have multiple sclerosis and you can’t walk at all. Is that accurate?”

I flinch at the way he phrased it so harshly. “Yes.”

“When is the last time you’ve been inside the motel?”

“It’s been… a while.”

“Days? Weeks? Months?”

“At least a year,” I admit.

He looks over my shoulder, out the window. “You got a pretty good view of the motel from here?”

“Yes. I suppose.”

“Did you see anything suspicious in the last two days?” He taps his fingers against the top of my dresser. “Any suspicious strangers coming in or out of the hotel?”

“No.”

“Anything suspicious at all?”

I close my eyes for an instant, and I can see my husband disposing of something in the dumpster in the middle of the night. I open my eyes again and stare at the detective. “Nothing I can remember.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Did you ever meet Christina Marsh?”

Christina Marsh. That’s her name. I shake my head no.

“Do you know if your husband was friendly with her?”

My heart is beating so fast, it’s making me dizzy. “I… I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

Detective Esposito’s black eyebrows draw together. “What’s your relationship with your husband?”

“My relationship with my husband? What do you mean? He’s my husband.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Seven years.”

“And he… takes care of you?”

I narrow my eyes. “Yes. I mean, sort of.”

“He told me he helps you get dressed, shower, get in and out of bed. He makes your meals too. Is that right?”

I imagine the conversation Nick must’ve had with the detective, and I feel sick. “Yes… sort of…”

“So really, he’s more of your caregiver than anything…”

My eyes snap up. “What are you saying?”

“Mrs. Baxter, I’m just trying to get an accurate picture of your marriage.”

I hate what he was implying. Even worse, I hate that he’s right. Even though Nick and I reconnected for a night, things still aren’t the same as they used to be. It’s not anything like before. It never will be.

“Mrs. Baxter,” he says, “I have to ask you this, and I hope you’ll tell me the truth.”

My heart sinks. “Okay…”

“Was your husband having an affair with Christina Marsh?”