Perfect for someone who didn't want to be found.
Or for someone breaking in.
Seafoam Lodge looked exactly like the kind of place Reagan and Pearl had described - the sort of establishment that had seen better days and stopped caring. A flickering neon VACANCYsign cast sickly red light across the parking lot. Single-story, L-shaped. Maybe a dozen rooms total. Most sat dark. Two vehicles parked at opposite ends - a pickup truck and a sedan, both old enough to suggest long-term residents rather than tourists.
The manager's office glowed blue white from a television visible through grimy windows. Cara could make out a silhouette slumped in a chair, unmoving.
She killed her headlights and coasted to a stop near the tree line, far enough from the office to avoid notice. Her hands were steady on the wheel, but her heart hammered against her ribs.
Room 12 would be at the far end. Away from the office. Away from the other guests.
Away from witnesses.
The red neon reflected off puddles in the gravel, turning them the color of blood.
Cara killed her headlights and rolled past the main lot. Two spaces down, she found a turnout half-hidden by overgrown ferns. She parked, cut the engine, and sat in the sudden silence.
Her pulse hammered at the base of her throat. She pulled on the gloves, tucked the flashlight into her pocket, and slipped out of the car.
Pine needles muffled her footsteps as she moved through the cold shadows toward the building. The darkness amplified every sound. The hum of a vending machine. A dog barking somewhere distant. The creak of wood settling.
She paused at the edge of the parking lot, scanning for movement. The manager's office window showed a silhouette slumped in a chair, transfixed by whatever was on the TV.
No one else visible.
Cara crossed to Room 12 in three quick strides, her body pressed against the wall beside the window. She counted to ten, listening.
No sounds from inside. No movement behind the curtain.
The window latch was perfect. Old. Rusted. The kind of cheap hardware that hadn't been upgraded since the lodge was built.
She crouched beneath the sill and pulled out the bobby pin. Slid it into the gap between the frame and the latch. Applied gentle pressure. Felt the mechanism resist, then give.
The soft click seemed impossibly loud.
She eased the window up, inch by careful inch. The smell hit her first. Stale cigarette smoke. Old carpet. The particular mustiness of a room that never been properly aired.
She hoisted herself through and landed softly on the worn carpet inside.
Her breath came too loud in the enclosed space. She froze, listening for any sound that suggested she wasn't alone. Nothing but the hum of a mini-fridge and the distant murmur of the television from the office.
The room was exactly what she'd expected. Queen bed with a sagging mattress. Beat up nightstand with one crooked drawer lamp. Dresser with a mirror. Small bathroom visible through an open door. Everything coated in that particular film of neglect that budget motels wore like a second skin.
Someone had been living here. Fast food bags in the trash. Clothes draped over the chair. A half-empty bottle of water on the nightstand. The bed unmade, sheets twisted like someone had tossed through restless sleep.
Cara pulled out her flashlight, keeping the beam low and away from the window. She started with the trash can. Burger wrappers. Coffee cups. A receipt from a gas station in Lincoln City dated three weeks ago.
The dresser drawers were empty except for a Bible and a phone book. She checked behind them anyway.
Nothing.
The nightstand held a notepad. Her pulse spiked. She lifted it carefully, angling it toward the anemic light filtering in from between the shades. She made out fragments. Letters. Partial words.
And initials:DS
She thumbed quickly through the other pages. Most were full. Frustration caught at the back of her throat. No time to read them now.
She shoved the notepad into her jacket pocket and moved to check under the mattress. As soon as she made certain there was no information about her, she’d make sure Gabe got the notepad. Somehow. Without implicating herself in this mess.
