He skipped the bagel. Maybe he wasn’t sure if the sad woman had changed her clothes, but he was certain the bagel with the dead fly on it had not been moved. The coffee he needed, though. Even if it was only to wake him enough to get to someplace with better coffee.
His rental was still at Bell’s house.
Ledger lifted one of the pots off the warmer and filled a cheap polystyrene cup with thin bitter-black coffee. He left it that color—the milk looked like it was mostly water—but added a couple of packets of sugar to thicken it. Little chunks of it floated stubbornly on the top, like icebergs. Ledger poked them around briefly with a plastic spoon and then took his coffee over to a beige table near the rack of faded, optimistic Things to Do in Sutton County pamphlets.
The Jawbone Caves, named after the old human jaw someone had found in there; an outlet mall two counties over; and a fishing tour on the lake.
Ledger sat down next to them and drank his coffee grimly.
He’d woken up alone.
It wasn’t like he’d gotten drunk just to have an excuse for low inhibitions and bad decisions. Ledger had perfectly good reasons to drink last night. If he’d made a list of the pros and cons of downing all that whiskey, though, a get-out-of-regret for a badly thought out one-night stand would have been in the top five.
Ledger supposed he should be grateful, though. The situation was bad enough without sleeping with the enemy. Although it did leave him in need of a lift. He raised the coffee to take a drink as he idly wondered if any of the local taxi companies would take him out to Bell’s house.
The sugar still hadn’t dissolved. It was gritty between Ledger’s teeth. Like…
Salt.
The smell of Earl washed up out of Ledger’s pores—as if all the time under the lukewarm shower had done nothing—and he nearly choked on it. He tightened his hand around the cup he’d just poured, and the hot liquid slopped over his knuckles.
It stung. Ledger focused on that, and the unnatural hangover ebbed sullenly back down under the more bearable mundane whiskey hangover.
“Hey,” someone said. “You OK?”
Ledger looked up at the motel receptionist. The kid seemed to be about seventeen, and the acne on his cheeks looked odd against the hairline that was already starting to creep back from his temples.
“Yeah,” Ledger said. He shook the coffee off his fingers and glanced around vaguely for something to wipe them on. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
The kid grabbed one of the leaflets he’d been about to slot into the rack and used it to mop up the spill on the table. Or, more accurately, scrape the puddle of liquid over to the edge and onto the floor.
“Are you staying here?” the kid asked with a suspicious squint. He left the balled-up leaflet on the table and stepped back to point to a sign stuck to the off-white wall. “Refreshments are for guests only. There’s a soup kitchen in town if you’ve nowhere else to go.”
Ledger looked down at himself: chinos and a preppy dark gray shirt, open at the collar so it wasn’t too dressy. It was his Work 101 outfit. Nice enough to make him look professional but casual enough that people wouldn’t be suspicious of his motives.
“I don’t look like I could afford to stay here?”
The kid shrugged. “Takes all types.”
That meant nothing. Ledger took a drink of his coffee as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the motel room key. A heavy plastic fob dangled from it.
“Room 134,” he said and set it down on the table. “Ledger Conroy.”
Something like recognition swam through the kid’s bored hazel eyes. He cocked his head to the side, and Ledger braced himself for whatever it was going to be.
“Ledger,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of messages for you. Hold on.”
He set the pile of leaflets down and headed back to the desk. Ledger waited. It took longer than he’d expected as the kid hunted around behind the desk. After a minute, he picked up one of the pamphlets and glanced at it.
Apparently, the carnival was coming to town.
That felt about right. Before Ledger could set the pamphlet back down, the kid found what he was looking for and came back to the table with a handful of sticky-notes.
“Friends of your father, I guess,” he said as he set them down. “Sorry for your loss, I guess.”
“Don’t be,” Ledger said. He gestured vaguely with the notes. “Thanks for this.”
The kid scratched his forehead and looked confused. Then he gave up, shoved the leaflets into the rack, and took an empty coffee pot to be refilled.
