“Then you need to be more cautious than ever, Bailey. The guy may be unraveling. I’m going to send a car over there now and have the hotel watched tonight.”
“Thanks, that makes me feel better.”
It did, alongside the fact the caller hadn’t given any indication that he thought I knew his identity, that I’d been tipped off by Alice.
“And please, don’t post anything about this on theCrime Beatwebsite yet,” Killian said. “I want to keep it under wraps while we try to learn more.”
“I’m sorry, I appreciate what you’re up against, but I can’t have my hands tied as a reporter.”
“Just give me tomorrow to investigate, okay?”
I agreed. Though I hated being muzzled, I needed Killian on my side.
After signing off, I rang the front desk and asked the clerk if anyone had made inquiries tonight—by phone or in person—about whether I was a guest at the hotel. He told me no, not that he was aware of, and even if someonehad, theinformation would not have been divulged. Somehow, however, the killer had traced me here. As the clerk ran through a brief spiel about guest privacy being a priority, I parted the curtains and peered down to the street three stories below. It looked like a ghost town out there.
I crawled back into bed, knowing that falling asleep would be near impossible now. For the next few hours I twisted in the sheets, endlessly replaying the call in my head. Each time I came close to drifting off, I was startled awake by a noise—the window rattling, the drip of water from the showerhead, the churn of the ice machine down the corridor. Around five I finally managed to surrender to sleep.
I woke with a jolt the next morning. My heart was still pounding, as if I hadn’t been able to let go of the call even in slumber. This experience scared me far more than the first contact with the killer, because I now knew what the guy was capable of, what wretched evils he could inflict on another human being. I tried to remind myself that heneededme, though, that I was still his messenger.
And yet, as Killian had pointed out last night, the caller had provided no new information this time. It felt as if my role had shifted slightly, like a car drifting over the centerline of a highway.
As wigged out as the call had left me—compounded by the fact that I still hadn’t heard from Beau—I still intended to do everything possible to find this guy, first and foremost for Alice’s sake. That meant, for starters, having a nice littlechat with Doug Claiborne as soon as he arrived at the office. It also meant reactivating my attempt to follow in Alice’s digital footsteps—to uncover the clue that had cost her her life.
I threw off the covers and trudged to the bathroom. As my feet hit the floor, I noticed that my head was pounding, too, as if there were a little kid in there banging a pot with a spoon. In the midst of trying to dissuade J.J. from shooting Doug, meeting unexpectedly with Ben, and being forced to play sounding board to Matt Wong’s career fantasies, I’d managed to consume nothing but red wine last night.
After starting the coffeemaker on the counter, I ordered eggs to go from the restaurant on the ground floor since the hotel didn’t offer room service. Next, I tracked down a number online for Claiborne’s chiropractic business, the Back Wellness Center in Queensbury, which opened at nine.
I also checked my email, and saw that a message from Dodson Crowe had come in past eleven last night.
“Fantastic job,” he wrote. “I couldn’t be happier.”
Well, at least things were working out onthatfront. The next line, however, caused a flutter in my chest.
“We’re getting excellent traffic on the video, so we should do another. I want you to shoot one today.”
I should have expected as much, but I didn’t love the idea. With the killer’s eyes on me, it seemed stupid to engage in an activity that would make me feel even more exposed.
Dodson went on to write that Keith would meet me in the lobby today at two forty-five unless I indicated otherwise. He also said that he wanted to touch base with me and that he’d give me a call later this morning.
I was careful when I left the room to pick up my food, making sure no one was skulking around on the floor. I also hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob, having decided to handle my own housekeeping and not provide anyone access to my room.
After grabbing my breakfast and heading back upstairs, I drafted notes for the video. And at nine on the nose, I phoned the Back Wellness Center, asking to speak to Dr. Claiborne.
“I’m afraid he’s not available to take a call right now,” the receptionist told me in the kind of fake cheery tone suggesting that she secretly relished blocking access to him. “Are you a patient?”
“No, not a patient. Could you ask him to call Bailey Weggins, please?”
“Dr. Claiborne has a very busy day ahead. May I be of assistance somehow?”
“No, I’m a friend. It’s a personal matter.”
“If this is regarding his sister-in-law, Dr. Claiborne is asking people to communicate by email or leave a message on the funeral home website. I can give—”
“No, it’s not about that. I’m calling in regard to another matter entirely.”
“All right then.” She didn’t sound pleased, but I knew she’d sensed something was up—and she would be smart enough to inform her boss. I bet this was hardly the first call she’d fielded from a mystery female with an edge in her voice.
For the next few hours, I trolled the Internet again, continuing the missing-woman search I’d set aside a day agoand widening my hunt even more—to New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, as well as Canada. Nothing showed any promise.
