Time to call Jolene.
I take a big bite of my lunch and pull a three-wick candle closer, propping my phone against it. The call rings and rings, and I stare out at the olive orchard beyond the picture window over the sink. Hugo's home is beautiful, like a little slice of a fairy tale dropped in the middle of the Sonoran Desert.
"Hey," Jolene says, voice snapping my attention back to the screen. "Where are you?"
I swallow. "Hugo's kitchen."
Jolene's eyebrows cinch. "You're in Hugo's kitchen with wet hair because...?"
I explain in detail what happened last night, alternating getting the story out with eating my food while it's warm. When I'm finished, Jolene hammers me with question after question, lawyer mode activated.
What time did this occur? Where did you go prior to the inn? Who did you see when you went to those places? Did you speak to anybody when you arrived at the inn?
Jolene has her notepad out, recording my answers.
"Do you clearly remember locking your door?" she asks.
"I wish I could say I remember, but I don't. I tripped when I walked in and everything went flying, and I was so concerned with catching myself and not hurting Peanut. I have no specific memory of locking the door."
Jolene nods, pen moving across the paper.
The possibility that I did not lock the hotel room door, that it's me who exposed myself and my baby to potential harm, makes me sick. "Jolene, I am a terrible mother. Last night could have been one hundred times worse. How could I forget to lock the door?"
"You don't know if that's what happened," she reminds me. "But also, please cut yourself some slack. Yesterday was Maggie's birthday. I've known you for a long time, so I can confirm that you are a basket case on that day. Now," she says, adopting her stern tone. "Let's keep going. Focus on facts. Not feelings. Who else had access to the room besides you?"
"Everybody, if I left the room unlocked." The idea makes me want to tear my hair out.
"For argument's sake, let's assume the room was locked. Who has access?"
"The hotel manager, I suppose. Whatever key housekeeping uses to service the room." As I say it, I picture Braxton. He was working last night. He didn't have a single word to say to me when I returned to the inn, arms full as I walked through the lobby. And then later, he tried to tell me I needed to check out, and Hugo shut him down. "The night manager probably has access to a master key. I got a weird vibe from him the first time I met him."
The top of Jolene's head moves like she's nodding, pen scribbling. "What behavior did you find objectionable?"
I love Jolene in lawyer mode. She is such a boss.
"He looks at me longer than is socially acceptable. He's unfriendly. His whole vibe is very off-putting. It's probably why he works at night."
Jolene finishes writing down what I'm saying, her gaze refocusing on the screen. "Those are opinions."
I blow out a breath. "I know."
She's biting the side of her lip, thinking. "Why take pictures with your phone? Let's assume whoever did this is sexually perverse. Taking photos of a woman sleeping may arouse them. If that were the case, he would've taken them with his phone. Unless," she holds one finger up, "he took them with both phones. Maybe he gets off on picturing you being scared when you find the photos."
"Ugh," I groan. "This gets worse the longer we talk about it. I'm never leaving the house again."
"I know, I know, it's disgusting, but stick with me here. I think you have two possibilities. One, he took photos with both phones, in which case he's likely a pervert. Two, he only took photos with your phone, in which case?—"
"It's a scare tactic," I finish.
"Exactly. Now, who would want you scared? And scared enough to do what, exactly?"
"Someone who knows why I'm in Olive Township."
"Yep. Maybe someone who has information and doesn't want it discovered, or?—"
"The person who killed Simon De la Vega."
We stare at each other, her caramel eyes looking meaningfully into my chocolate color. "You know what this means. You're onto something. Someone played their hand."
