***
I should wait, at least until it’s dark, until Randy’s gone for the night. But I can’t just sit here and let it be.
I reposition the camera back on the picture frame, just in case Randy’s still watching, take a deep breath, and head out of the room.
I tiptoe downstairs, but I needn’t have worried. The sign is still at the front desk. I check my watch: 4:06 p.m. That gives me almost an hour until he comes back.
I duck behind the desk, unclear at first what it is I’m looking for. Wouldn’t these cameras record to a computer of sorts? The only thing back here is the rusty PC that looks like it’s incapable of loading anything other than WordPerfect, let alone storing videos.
Even so, I turn it on. As it loads, I direct my attention to the mess of papers littering the desk. Ten years of paperwork lies before me. Unopened envelopes from the Bank of Queensland sit among discarded spreadsheets and ripped-out loose-leaf papers covered in Randy’s spindly handwriting. I shuffle the papers, and they part to reveal a small blue notebook. I open it, the first page nothing more than doodles. I flip through a few more, until I reach one that contains only two lines.
R.Campbell_82
Collingwood123!
It’s clearly a username and password. I smile. So much for high security at the Raven Inn. The thought gives me an idea, and I look around for a CCTV camera in the lobby. While I’m at it, it may be worth trying to find old footage from that as well—I can onlyassume the Jagged Rock police never requested it. But a quick glance around doesn’t reveal anything of the sort. Apparently, Randy’s only into cameras of the hidden variety.
The computer dings, notifying me that it’s fully booted up. The sound ricochets throughout the silent lobby, and my head immediately jerks around to see if anyone has noticed.
All clear. The Inn is still silent, the others still chatting and drinking outside. No one has even bothered to turn in this direction.
But strangely enough, the computer opens directly onto the desktop, not a lock screen. So what was the username and password in Randy’s journal for?
I don’t waste any time trying to come up with an answer. God only knows why Randy does anything he does. Instead, I start with the home page, scanning the folders he’s saved to his desktop. My heart catches when I stumble upon one labeled as “Personal,” but when it loads, it reveals only a dozen or so documents that appear to be bills or bank statements, most of which are covered in bold red-colored font.
I switch to the internet icon and wait as the page loads mercilessly slowly, before navigating to the history tab and scanning the list of web pages Randy last visited. By their URLs, most appear to be porn sites, and I cringe at the thought of Randy down here looking at them. But there is one website that I recognize as a big hotel corporation. That must be the company Nick had mentioned was planning to buy up the surrounding land. Despite everything, I still feel a sharp pang in my chest when I think of how close Randy came to getting out, to starting over.
I scan more of his internet history but realize within a few minutes there’s nothing helpful. I sigh, leaning back in the chair, defeated. Where else could he possibly be storing these videos?
My eyes roam the lobby. The makeshift breakfast table with a decades-old coffee machine in the corner, some threadbare couches and chairs, the door out to the back, and then…
The other door. The one to the room we saw Randy come out of when we first arrived at the Inn, which I thought was a bathroom.
I’m there within seconds, the notebook from the front desk clasped tightly in my hands. Part of me expects the door to be locked, to meet yet another obstacle, but the knob turns easily under my hand. Inside, I’m met with darkness.
I trace the side of the wall with my fingers, but there’s no light switch. So I take another step forward and nearly scream as something brushes against my cheek.
My hands fly frantically to my face, but as my fingertips touch the foreign object, I breathe out and pull down on it sharply.
The cord ignites the light above it, and I realize with a jolt that I’m not in a bathroom, as I’d assumed, but a small closet, its walls crowded with stuff. Or junk, from the looks of it.
I close the door behind me in case Randy or any others happen to walk by. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I make out the shape of discarded fold-up chairs, a few broken umbrellas, stacks of old boxes, and a large shapeless item over which a blanket has been thrown.
I grip the edge of the blanket, yanking it free to reveal exactly what I expect.
Another desktop and computer monitor, this one much moremodern than the one at the front desk. I hold my breath as it boots up and the screen comes to life.
A password request. Unlike the computer on the front desk, this one has something worth hiding. I barely finish inputting the exclamation point in “Collingwood123!” when the desktop comes to life. I don’t have to search long. There’s only one folder saved to the desktop aside from those automatically loaded from the computer, and it’s conspicuously marked “Private.”
I click on it, and the screen floods with icons. Small pixelated images, all with the same background. The once-maroon carpet, the faded green walls. The Inn’s guest rooms.
I steal a glance at the bottom left-hand side of the corner. Seven hundred and sixty-two files.
I roll my shoulders and click on the first one.
The first minute or so captures nothing but the walls and the two beds, and despite the similarities between each of the rooms, I recognize the backdrop immediately. The chip in the wallpaper where the walls join, my shoulder bag propped in the corner. Room 13.
My room.
