And whether it had gotten David killed too.
The turnoff appeared suddenly, marked only by a faded sign half-hidden by overgrown ferns. The access road curved through towering pines, their branches filtering the afternoon light into green shadow. Moss hung from the lower branches like tattered curtains.
Seafoam Lodge materialized through the trees like something from another era. Single-story, paint peeling in long strips that exposed gray wood beneath. Twelve rooms facing a gravel parking lot pocked with puddles. Two cars sat outside units at opposite ends, both covered in a fine layer of pollen. The office squatted at the near corner, its windows reflecting nothing but forest and sky.
Gabe's instincts prickled. This was exactly where someone would stay if they wanted to disappear.
The office smelled like cigarette smoke and Pine-Sol, underlaid with the musty scent of old carpet. A man in his sixties looked up from behind a desk cluttered with paperwork and a small television playing a game show with the sound off. His eyes tracked Gabe's movement with the wariness of someone who'd learned not to trust strangers.
"Help you?"
Gabe badged him. "FBI. I need your guest registry."
The man's expression closed down faster than a slammed door. He didn't even glance at the badge. "Can't do that."
"Murder investigation. Marco Ruiz. He was staying here."
"Don't know the name." The manager crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. The vinyl creaked. "Can't show you anything without a warrant."
Gabe studied him. Nervous twitch in his left eye. Gaze kept darting to the phone mounted on the wall. Defensive posture that screamed someone had gotten to him first.
"Homicide," Gabe said. "Man's dead. Anything you know could help us find his killer."
"I know my rights. And my guests' rights." The manager's jaw set. "No warrant, no information. That's the law."
Gabe could push. Could threaten obstruction charges. Could probably intimidate this man into cooperation. But it would take time he didn't have. And the fear in the manager's eyes told him everything he needed to know.
Someone had warned him. Told him to keep quiet. Made it worth his while to stonewall any investigation.
"What room was he in?"
"I told you?—"
"What room?"
The manager's eyes flicked involuntarily toward the window. Just for a second. Then back to Gabe's face.
Gabe followed the glance. Room 12. Far end of the building.
"Appreciate your cooperation." The sarcasm was subtle but present.
Outside, the air was cooler, cleaner. Pine sap and damp earth. Gabe moved casually toward his SUV, then kept walking past it toward the tree line. From there, he had a clear view of Room 12 without being obvious.
The curtains were drawn. Door closed. But even from here, Gabe could see fresh scuff marks on the window frame. The kind made by someone prying at the latch. And the lock itself looked old, easy to manipulate.
He crouched low and moved closer through the trees. Pine needles crunched softly under his boots.
Footprints in the needles. Recent. Size nine or ten, probably men's. The impressions were clear, pressed deep into the soft layer of forest debris. Someone had stood right here, in this exact spot, examining that window.
Someone else was interested in Room 12.
Gabe's gut clenched. Another investigator? One of the locals who'd stonewalled him? Or whoever killed Ruiz, coming back to clean up loose ends?
He straightened and scanned the area. No security cameras. No witnesses. The two occupied rooms were too far away to see anything. The manager had probably been paid to look the other way.
Perfect setup for evidence to disappear.
He walked back to his SUV, jaw tight. The gravel crunched under his feet, loud in the forest quiet. Climbed in. Gripped the steering wheel, the leather warm and slightly tacky from the sun. He stared at Room 12 through the windshield.
