Do Not Disturb(54)

“No,” I say, but the lie catches in my throat.

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“Yes.”

I try to adjust myself in my wheelchair, but it sets off a spasm in my right leg. I grab it with my hands, trying to calm my jumping limb. Because of the lesions in my spinal cord, my legs sometimes do what they want to do and I can’t control it. It takes me almost a minute of readjusting my leg until it stops jumping. When I look up again, I see pity in the detective’s eyes.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Baxter?”

I swallow. “Yes. I’m fine. I think I’ve answered all your questions.”

He hesitates, then finally nods. “I’m going to go downstairs and talk to your husband again.”

After Detective Esposito leaves the bedroom, I watch him again through the window, talking to Nick. Even from here, Nick is visibly upset. At any moment, I expect the detective to snap a pair of handcuffs on my husband. But he doesn’t.

The police cars linger for a long while, but eventually, they all take off. It isn’t until nearly one o’clock that Nick raps on the door to our bedroom with a plate of food in his hand. My lunch. He brings it to me every day.

“How are you doing?” he asks me.

“Been better. How are you doing?”

“Been better.” He sinks down onto the bed and puts the plate down next to him. “Rosie, you don’t think that I…?”

I wasn’t going to say anything. I planned to keep my silence till the day we died, but I can't do it. I have to tell him. “I saw you.”

“You…”

“I saw you at the dumpster,” I say. “In the middle of the night two nights ago. At three in the morning. What were you doing there?”

The panic spreads across his handsome features. “I was taking out the garbage.”

“At three in the morning? Do you think I’m stupid?”

“I was.” His hands are shaking as he tugs at his T-shirt hem. “Look, I got distracted by, you know, what happened with Christina, and I forgot to take it out to the dumpster. The truck arrives early in the morning, and I was worried if I didn’t put it out then, I’d miss it.”

He’s looking me right in the eye when he says it. Is it possible he’s telling the truth? That he was up at three in the morning simply taking out the trash? “But how come you told me you were getting some air? You lied.”

“I know.” He squeezes his knees. “I lied to you. But I didn’t want to remind you about what I had done—why I’d been too distracted to take out the trash—and it just seemed easier.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Do I believe him? I’m not sure.

He shakes his head. “What do you think I was throwing out?”

“I don’t know. Bloody clothing that you were wearing.”

I hear the sharp inhale of his breath. “Rosie…”

“You asked me.”

“I didn’t kill her.” His voice sounds choked. “I swear to you. I’d never do anything like that. The police think I did it, but…” He buries his face in his hands. “Christ, this sucks.”

“Nick…”

He raises his face to look at me. “Please tell me you believe me. Tell me you don’t think I killed her.”

That night I confronted him about her, Nick promised he would make things right. He swore it. That night, Nick was skulking around the hotel at three in the morning. And the next morning, the other woman was dead. Stabbed to death. And Nick is the only person who had the key to her room.

“I believe you,” I lie.

That psychic at the carnival was right. My husband is a murderer. And it’s all because of me.





Chapter 33


One Day Earlier



Even through the snow and darkness, I can see how attractive she is.

She has blond hair, the same as Christina Marsh did. She’s clutching her luggage as she shuffles through the freezing rain from her car to the motel door. I watch from my perch at the bedroom window, willing her to turn around. But she doesn’t turn around. She pushes the door open and goes inside.

She probably doesn’t know the motel’s sordid history. We have quite the reputation. The Murder Motel, they called us.

It’s been two years since Christina Marsh was found murdered in room 201. For a couple of weeks, I was certain Nick was going to be taken away in handcuffs, but ultimately, they never arrested him. It’s a good thing, because we were broke enough as it was, and we never could have afforded a decent lawyer. But the consensus on the Internet was that he murdered her.

Even my family thought he was a killer. My mother called me up a week after it all went down. “Come home, Rosalie. You can’t stay with that man.”

She always called me Rosalie. Everyone called me Rosalie. Nick is the only one who ever called me Rosie.

“I’m not leaving my husband,” I told her.

“He cheated on you and then killed that girl. Watch—you’ll be next.”

“Mom!”

But I wasn’t surprised. My mother was never supportive of anything I did, including marrying Nick. It didn’t matter that I loved him. She thought I could do better. Not that I could do better these days. If I weren’t with Nick, I would be alone for the rest of my life.