The Dead and the Dark(31)

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At the Bates, morning came without ceremony.

It wasn’t like the cascading pink light of LA’s slow-rolling dawns. In Snakebite, it was dark and then it was light. If Logan blinked, she was sure to miss it. When she put her coffee in the microwave, it was dark as midnight. When she stepped outside for a breath of fresh air only moments later, it was a cream-colored morning.

It probably didn’t mean anything, but given everything she’d seen lately, it made her nervous.

Logan sat in the parking lot alone most mornings, microwave-nuked coffee in hand. The sunrise made it easier to think, but this morning she struggled to focus. She’d dreamed about being buried again, and the nightmare lingered like a second skin. It was different from the first time. This time, she’d clawed her way out of her tomb. She’d pulled herself from the earth, crawled to her stomach, and looked out into the tar-thick night.

She crawled out of her grave and ended up here.

In Snakebite.

At that stupid lake.

The door to room eight opened and Brandon stepped out into the sweltering morning. He was dressed in jeans that slouched at his ankles, and a backpack full of ghost-hunting equipment. His sweatshirt read BARTON LUMBER. He stopped in front of the Neon, apparently surprised to see Logan on the curb.

“Nice sweatshirt,” Logan said. “I thought the Bartons were evil.”

“When in Snakebite…” Brandon said, looking down at the logo. His grimace was small but impossible to miss. “You’re up early.”

“I’m up early every morning.”

“Oh.” Brandon stood there a moment longer. He tapped his foot on the pavement, searching for something to say.

Logan remained silent. Given what Ashley had seen at the cabin, she had no idea what to say to him. Then again, she never knew what to say to him. Even if he had nothing to do with Tristan’s disappearance, even if the paint on his door was a joke, he was hiding something.

Brandon cleared his throat and said, “See you later, then.”

She offered a quick wave and that was that. Brandon climbed into the Neon and carefully pulled away from the Bates. Logan watched him turn left toward the highway and made a mental note of it. Either he was making a trip into the city or he was heading out toward the lake. Toward the cabin.

Behind her, Alejo cleared his throat. He stood in the doorway of room eight dressed in a plaid robe, shoulder-length hair still wet from the shower. He motioned to the curb she squatted on. “That looks comfortable.”

“It’s great.”

“You could make more of an effort.”

Logan arched a brow. “To what?”

“Your dad just tried to have a conversation with you, or did you miss that?” Alejo leaned against the doorframe. “He’s trying. You could try, too.”

“Me and him are fine.”

“Logan.”

“What? Sorry I’m not super talkative all the time. I hate it here. I just sit around with nothing to do.” Logan took another sip of coffee and stared out at the soft glow of the horizon. This wasn’t usually how she talked to Alejo—this ire was usually reserved for homophobes on her dads’ Twitter page—but she was tired of this. She was tired of being treated like she was the unreasonable one when she was being lied to and shut down left and right. She was tired of being the bad guy.

Alejo shifted. “I get that you’re bored, but you don’t have to sit around all day. You could apply for schools.”

“To do what?”

“I don’t know. You like history,” Alejo said. “It’s probably too late for fall term, but you could still get in for spring. I loved college. You might learn a lot about yourself.”

“I already know all about me.” Logan leaned back and closed her eyes. “And besides, I’m on my gap year.”

“Jesus,” Alejo said, covering his mouth to stifle a laugh. “Why don’t you come inside for some coffee?”

Logan raised her mug. “Already got some.”

“Let me rephrase—come inside. We need to talk.”

Logan pushed herself up from the curb and followed Alejo inside. Where she’d at least made an effort to humanize her room, Brandon and Alejo had seemingly done the opposite. The walls were bare, beds clean and precisely made, motel toiletries untouched. It was the kind of room she’d seen in crime shows when a secret agent wanted to fly under the radar. They’d been at the Bates for almost a month, and Brandon had been here even longer.

Something was off.

Alejo pulled out a seat at their window-side table and motioned for Logan to sit. “I’m just making a pot. You want a refill?”

“Uh, sure,” Logan said. “You guys are keeping it super clean in here.”

“Yeah, well…” Alejo slid into the seat across from her. The sunlight was copper over his face. “I lived in this motel my whole life before I met your dad. I’m not exactly thrilled to be back here. This helps me remember it’s temporary.”

“Oh,” Logan said. “I didn’t know you lived here here.”

“I told you Gracia is mi tía,” Alejo said. “When I was a kid, this motel was mostly us Ortizes. Me and my parents lived on the other side of the motel.” He looked around. “I don’t remember if anyone lived in this one. Might’ve been empty back then.”