Stone turned back around. “I thought you said no maids died here.”
“They didn’t. But I got another story. You wanna hear it or not? I don’t give a shit either way—I got stuff to do.”
His “stuff to do” was probably watching porn on his phone, but Stone shrugged and produced another twenty. “Let’s have the story.”
Frank grinned and squirreled the bill away. “We had one disappear a couple months back.”
“Disappear?”
“Yeah. She worked here a couple weeks, maybe. Then showed up one night and by mornin’ she was gone. Never saw ’er again after that. She didn’t even show up to pick up ’er check the next day.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Them not comin’ to work? Yeah, sure. Lots of ’em are illegals, so somethin’ spooks ’em and they take off, or ICE picks ’em up or whatever. But not pickin’ up their check? Maybe this might come as a surprise to a fancy type like you, but round here, nobody skips out on money.”
Stone narrowed his eyes. “Did you call the police? Do anything to figure out where she might have gone?”
Frank barked a laugh and looked at him like he was crazy. “For some maid? You’re shittin’ me. What do I care? Maids are a dime a dozen. Always a bunch of ’em lookin’ for work. We had a new one the next day.” He glared at Stone. “What diff’rence does it make to you, anyway?”
“I told you—I’m doing research.”
The clerk gave him a long, appraising stare, then snorted and waved him off. “You know what? I don’t give a shit why you wanna know. I get enough weirdos in here every night, and at least you don’t stink. You got what you wanted, now get the hell outta here.”
Stone turned to leave, then stopped. “One more question, if I may?”
Frank was already focusing on his phone screen. “What?”
“Do you happen to remember her name?”
“Seriously? The maid?” He scratched his ample gut thoughtfully. “Uh…it was Luisa somethin’, I think. Don’t remember ’er last name. Prob’ly fake anyway. Nowout.”
She was still in his room when he returned.
She stood in the same place, at the foot of his bed, and turned slightly to look at him as he entered. Her silvery eyes still burned with the same combination of rage and pleading in her bizarrely angled face, though it was hard to tell which—if either—was aimed at him.
He dropped into the room’s only chair, which creaked alarmingly even under his tall, slim frame’s weight. “Right, then,” he said casually. “Frank at the front desk is a bit unpleasant, but he might have given me something useful. Are you called Luisa?”
Her eyes widened.
“Ah. Brilliant. Now we’re getting somewhere. Frank says you disappeared one night. But you didn’t, did you?” He shot a pointed look at her twisted neck. “Someone murdered you. Here at the motel, I’m guessing, which is why you’re stuck here.”
Luisa’s frustration couldn’t have been more obvious. She clenched her fists and drifted back and forth, passing through the out-of-order TV as if she didn’t even notice it. The ghostly equivalent of angry pacing.
Her behavior didn’t surprise Stone. Most people who believed in ghosts at all got their ideas about how they conducted themselves from too many horror movies or paranormal romance novels. But echoes—the leftover psychic energy of people who’d experienced a violent death or had compelling unfinished business—were frustratingly single-minded things. Communicating with the living wasn’t something most of them found easy to do. Sometimes, they needed a little nudge.
“Listen,” he said, joining her in pacing. “I want to help you. Itruly do. But I’m tired, it’s hot as the devil’s armpit in here, and I’ve got an early morning tomorrow. So either give me something to go on, or kindly bugger off and let me get some sleep.” To punctuate his words, he sat down on the edge of the bed and reached down to pull off his T-shirt.
Luisagrowled. There was no sound, but she conveyed the effect just fine in silent pantomime.
And then, before Stone could move or even react, she was there in front of him—and a split second later she’d passed through him. The incandescent rage in her eyes burned flashing, staccato images into his brain, like a stuttering old film reel unspooling almost too quickly to allow conscious comprehension.
Pushing her cart along, whistling a cheerful tune.
Opening a door to what she thought was an unoccupied room.
Two shadowy figures, hunched over a table.
Two faces look up.
