Even as I thought it, I saw the headlights disappear.
And there was only one place they could have gone.
Curiosity piqued, I broke into a jog as I made my way toward the long, low brick building that served as the only accommodations in the town for outsiders visiting, people having affairs, johns and their sex workers, and the occasional ex-con needing temporary lodging while they figured out their next steps.
Not for wealthy women like Lula.
My memory flashed back to her leaving that other motel—much like this one—with her luggage in her hand.
Like she’d been staying there.
Still, staying at a motel in some backwoods town, that I could almost understand. Staying at a motel in your own town? That made no sense.
I guess maybe an argument could be made for them redoing her floors or painting her walls or something. But why wouldn’t she stay out of town in a nice hotel then? Or see if there were any short-term rentals around? Hell, demand that one of the Murphy brothers take her in for a few days.
Anything but staying at Jack’s place.
I mean, the place hadn’t seen an update since the seventies. The Lula I knew wouldn’t willingly stay there.
Which was why I came up on the side of the building and then crept around to the back lot where mostly only Jack parked. Or truckers.
There was one truck there. And Jack’s car.
And also a small amount of white poking out from behind the dumpster.
I glanced toward the back door, seeing if Lula was around before creeping forward to double-check.
It wasn’t like I knew Lula’s license plate. I wasn’t that big of a creep. But she’d sprung for a custom interior package that I’d never seen before.
I didn’t even need to get close to confirm it was her car.
Glancing back at the motel, I pursed my lips.
So.
She was there.
But for what?
Was she having an affair? But if so, why not just do it in the comfort of her own bed? Which I would imagine had much nicer (and cleaner) sheets? Did she maybe have a relative or friend staying there? But, again, why not host them if that was the case?
More curious than I probably had any right to be, I made my way back around the building toward the office door.
Jack kept the place a wreck.
Or maybe it was more accurate to say he’d inherited a mess and simply… never felt the need to change anything.
Filing cabinets lined the walls with towering piles of paperwork on top. Old, faded pictures were stuck to exposed nails here and there. The wall color itself was sun-bleached. The floors were worn.
Even the desk in the center of the space was one of those faux wood vinyl ones you saw in old cop dramas.
The desk was neater than usual, though. Most of the paperwork that used to adorn it was piled on top of a nearby closed garbage can, leaving only Jack’s four cups of coffee, two books, and the expensive desktop computer that cost more than the whole damn building.
Jack himself was sitting leaned back in his old chair.
Jack was handsome in what people might call a ruggedly good-looking way: tall, classic features, a beard, blue eyes, and a frame that said he did move it occasionally but also wouldn’t turn down a good steak. Even in this godforsaken heatwave we were dealing with, he was in jeans and one of his flannels—this one green and gray—but he did have it open for once, revealing a ribbed tank beneath.
An oscillating fan blew back and forth over his desk while the window unit groaned away near the entrance.
