“Couldn’t stay away, I reckon?”
“We, uh, we’ve found ourselves back in Jagged Rock, and we would love to stay here for two nights if you have rooms available.” Kyan’s eyes flick obviously to the cubbyhole chock-full of keys. A lack of vacancy doesn’t seem to be a problem.
I see something flash in Randy’s eyes that I can’t quite identify. There was always something about him that made me squeamish.The way his eyes would track us from his stoop behind the front desk, or how he always seemed to be hovering on the outskirts of our conversations, listening.
“Well,” he says resignedly, as if he has no other option. “Let’s get yous sorted, then.”
We do the whole song and dance of surrendering our passports and Kyan’s credit card—he’s again insisted on paying—while Randy fiddles with the desktop computer. After what feels like an eternity, it’s time for him to divvy up the rooms.
He starts with me.
“I figured you’d like to be in the same one you were last time,” he says, handing me a key, his crepey skin brushing mine.
How could he possibly remember the room I stayed in ten years ago? But before I can ask, he’s already moved on, talking to Josh.
I barely wait for the others to collect their keys before heading towards the staircase, gripping mine so tightly my knuckles turn white. I’d forgotten how heavy it was—a single silver key looped onto a wooden engraving of a hand-carved raven, overly large and ostentatious, so it would be more difficult for a guest to lose.
My body moves of its own volition, following the pathway I took so many times without thinking. I turn right at the top of the staircase, barely stopping to take in the hallway and its faded green carpets and peeling flowered wallpaper—a mix between what you would find in a funeral home and a crime scene—and pause in front of the third door on the left.
A brass13stares back at me from the center of the red framed door, tarnish breaking through the metal’s dull sheen.
I pause, bracing myself for the memories that will rush back as soon as I open the door. I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. And then I shove the key into the lock and turn.
What a dump.
The memory of Phoebe’s words hits me like a slap in the face as I push open the door. Her bed is the first thing I see. It’s in the same position it was back then: the headboard shoved against the wall, diagonal from the other twin bed in the room, leaving nothing but a small dresser and a wide expanse of faded carpet between them.
And then I see her. Phoebe’s impossibly thin body spread out on the twin-sized mattress, her head resting on her hand, staring over at me.
I shake my head, and the image disappears. I sit down on her bed, trying to ignore the puff of dust that escapes from beneath me as I do, and take another look around the room. My eyes scan the maroon-colored walls, the door that leads into the small bathroom, the painting of a raven done in glossy colors so that its feathers appear greasy, its beady eyes staring from its perch on a bending tree branch. A shiver runs through me; something about that painting always creeped me out, but now it’s as if I’m drawn to it. I get up off the bed and walk until I’m right in front of it. My brain seems to register something off, but I can’t determine what. I reach a cautious hand out towards it and—
A vibration pulses against my leg, and I jump back before realizing it’s my phone. I pull it out, the screen lighting up with a number that looks too long by American standards.
“Good evening. Am I speaking with Ms. Whitlock?”
I recognize the voice instantly, and my spine goes rigid. I manage to squeak out a noise of affirmation.
“Ms. Whitlock, this is Inspector Villanueva from the Australian Federal Police. I’m calling to see whether you could come back into our office tomorrow morning?”
The dampness in my palms comes so suddenly that I almost fumble the phone.They’ve found out.
“Ms. Whitlock?”
When I force the words out, they’re tight, strained. “I…I’m not in Sydney.”
“Oh,” Villanueva says, her surprise evident. “May I ask where exactly you are?”
I look through the small chest-height window that faces the back of the Inn. Land stretches, marked with sun-bleached bushes and the odd half-dead eucalyptus tree, until it seemingly erupts out of the ground into the dominating mold that is Beulah.
Villanueva would be furious if she knew we’d come back here. In fact, she’d told each of us to stay local until the AFP had finished their investigation.
“I’m visiting an old friend out of town,” I say after a second-too-long pause. “We’d organized it before our…conversation yesterday.”
Despite the bile rising in my throat, I manage for the lie to sound somewhat truthful. I guess I’ve had enough practice over the years.
“Hmm.” I can hear the skepticism in her voice. I’m afraid she’s about to press me further, and my mind races, eager to remember the name of any Australian towns I can use to support my fake trip.
“Well, I didn’t want to do this over the phone.” Villanueva sighs.“But we received more information from the coroner’s office this afternoon on Ms. Barton’s case.”
