Kate Holland.
“His ex-wife,” I say, feeling like an idiot. Because this whole time I was so intent on Miles being the main suspect that I never even considered Kate. Kate has a motive, and probably hates me even more than all my suspects combined.
“There is no one else staying in the room,” he snaps at her. “I should have you fired.” The girl looks terrified then. “You’re going to get us into a new room, immediately, now that a psychopath has our fucking room key, do you hear me?”
“Y-yes.” She scrambles around the desk, checking availability. “I can move you to the fourth floor right now. I’ll send someone for your bags—”
“No,” Asher cuts her off. “We’ll grab our own bags. Just give me the new room key.”
She hands us the key to 408. “I—I’m sorry, she said your names and knew the room number. I just thought—”
Asher only huffs in irritation, pushing me along to the elevator.
“Kate Holland,” I whisper, shaking my head.
We get into the room and I take off the hoodie, once again staring at the blood on my hands. It’s my fault. It’s my fault he’s dead.
Asher puts the new key in my hand. “Go to the new room. I’ll grab our stuff.”
“What about the gun on the bed?”
“I’ll wrap it in a towel and bring it with us.”
“Bring it with us?!”
“I can’t leave it in here!” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Go to the room.”
I do what he says, mindlessly walking to room 408. I get intothe elevator with another couple. They move close to the wall when they see me. Asher comes into the room a few minutes later and puts the towel with the gun on the table. And we stand there staring at it.
“We should’ve done something,” I whisper.
“What could we have done?”
“The past two months we carried on like this wasn’t happening: We stopped digging. We could’ve figured this out sooner but we went on that stupid fucking ski trip and now Graham is dead.” Asher doesn’t say anything, either because he thinks I’m right or because he’s tired of arguing with me. The handgun sits unmoving on the table and it’s hard to imagine something so small causing so much pain.
“I didn’t have time to take the eulogy,” he says after a while.
“Good,” I reply, and head toward the bathroom, where I sit under the hot shower water watching streaks of red snake down the white porcelain tub. Even after I scrub my hands clean I still see Graham’s blood everywhere.
Asher is on the couch with a pillow and blanket when I finally come out of the shower. I go into the bedroom to put on the other oversized T-shirt I brought for bed. Thank god for overpacking. I don’t text Ty or Austin about tonight. I wonder if they’ve heard by now. If they’re still out with Laken, I’d imagine they have.
The bed is big and cold and I toss and turn in it, saying their names again, adding the newest addition. Jonah, Ryan, Marco, Bryce, Graham. Jonah, Ryan, Marco, Bryce, Graham. I sit up, looking out toward the couch.
“Asher?” I say into the darkness.
He’s quiet for a moment and I think he may have fallen asleep already, but then he replies, “Yeah?”
“Will you sleep in the bed with me?”
“Yeah.” I hear him move around on the couch, and the sound of his footsteps as he comes into the room. The bed moves and the familiar, now comforting scent of cinnamon and pine fills the space between us. “Are you... okay?” he asks after a while.
My face crumples but he won’t see it in the dark. “No.” And I’ve come to expect that every time I cry in front of him, he only awkwardly stands at a distance and waits for it to be over. So when he reaches out a hand to hold mine, I let him.
I open my eyes early Sunday morning and Asher’s face is the first thing I see. I watch him sleep while his eyes flutter under long lashes, and I count the faded freckles over the bridge of his nose. I hope he’s dreaming of something nice, something better than this. I carefully remove myself from the bed, slipping on my jeans and sweater from when I got here yesterday. I grab my duffel bag and put in the towel holding the gun, before I leave the hotel and drive straight to the Boston Police Department.
I look up at the tall brick-and-concrete building before me with “Boston Police Department” in big gray letters above the double doors. It’s busy inside for a Sunday, but I suppose crime doesn’t stop for the weekends. I walk up to a woman at the front desk who is stirring cream into a cup of coffee.
“Hi,” I say nervously.
