“What a miserable fuckhead,” Britt muttered, as she stormed out of a dance club called The Urinal. The loud, pulsating, pounding music still echoed in her ears.
Everything had been terrific when she and Webb first went into the place. They’d both been a little high. He had a couple of deals he needed to make there, so she’d expected to be ditched for a few minutes. She could handle that. She looked pretty damn good tonight in her favorite black jeans and a black sleeveless T-shirt with a blue thunderbolt on the front. The blue matched exactly with the streaks in her hair and the stone in her eyebrow ring. She caught several guys checking her out as she stood alone at the bar. She didn’t mind waiting for Webb.
But he was gone forty-five minutes, for God’s sake. She finally discovered him by the rest rooms. He had his tongue halfway down the throat of this skanky bitch with orange hair and a black bra for a top.
That was when Britt ran out of The Urinal.
Halfway down the block, she started crying. She began to think of all the awful things Webb had done. The most recent was earlier in the week, when she’d gotten a phone bill for three hundred bucks and change because he’d made a bunch of 1-900 sex-line calls on her phone. They’d fought. He punched her in the stomach and knocked the wind out of her. By the time she could breathe normally again, Webb was crying. So she forgave him.
Now she was the one crying. She was through forgiving him. The miserable prick wasn’t worth all this aggravation.
Britt was freezing as she hobbled down the sidewalk. Mascara streaked down her face. She didn’t see any cabs. She was wondering how the hell she’d get home when, just ahead, a burgundy Volvo pulled over to the curb.
Britt stopped. She watched a man step out of the car. He leaned on the roof of his car, his chin in his hand. It took a moment for Britt to recognize him from The Urinal. He’d been one of the guys checking her out.
“Do you need a ride, sad lady?” he called softly.
She took a few steps toward the car. “I know you,” she said.
“Yeah, I’m a friend of Hannah’s,” he said. His face was almost completely swallowed up by shadow.
“Hannah?” she repeated. Britt was about to tell him that she’d seen him in The Urinal. “You know Hannah?”
“Yeah, get in the car. I’ll take you home.”
“Thanks,” Britt said, reaching for the door.
“You look real, real sad,” he remarked as she climbed into the car. “I have something that will make you feel a lot better.”
Britt leaned back in the passenger seat. “Sounds good,” she muttered, wiping her eyes.
He got behind the wheel, then shut his door.
The burgundy Volvo drove off.
Hannah had to wait through one verse and the chorus of The Beatles’
“Hi again, Britt. It’s Hannah. I was hoping the third time tonight would be the charm. Call me. And you’ve got to change that message. If I never hear
Sara Middleton threw back the covers, switched on the nightstand lamp, then squinted at the digital clock: 2:43 A.M.
If she nodded off within ten minutes, she would still catch about four and a half hours of sleep. She would still be able to function and look halfway decent for her big presentation in the morning.
She’d been trying to fall asleep for the past ninety minutes. What she needed was a shot or two of bourbon to take the edge off. She’d packed a pint of Jack Daniel’s in her luggage for that very purpose. Lately, she’d been under a lot of pressure with her job. At thirty-one, she was the youngest executive manager at her company—and one of only three women in upper administration. With all her responsibilities came insomnia. She was becoming a slave to the bourbon-at-bedtime habit. Tonight she’d been determined to go without.
Well, screw that. Right now she was desperate for sleep—however she could get it.
Sara liked her bourbon on the rocks.
If she were staying at the Westin with the upper-upper management boys, she could have just picked up the phone and had room service bring her a bucket of ice. But the Best Western Maritime Inn was all her expense account could afford. She had to get her own ice.
Sara slept in panties and a white tank top. She’d be damned if she got completely dressed again for a trip down the hall in the middle of the night. She stepped into a pair of sweatpants, grabbed her room key and the ice bucket, then started down the dimly lit corridor.
She was so tired and frayed she didn’t care if someone saw her—barefoot, with her nipples practically poking through the flimsy tank top. The damn hallway was cold—and a bit creepy too.
Then Sara suddenly realized how vulnerable she was. When she’d booked the hotel two weeks ago, a friend back home in Santa Rosa had said this place was in an “iffy neighborhood.” Anybody could wander in from the street and hide in one of the shadowy doorways or alcoves.
Just a minute ago, Sara had been fearless. Now she couldn’t wait to go back inside her room and lock the door behind her.
She hurried toward the ice room. Sara figured once she got some ice in the bucket, at least she’d have something to throw at an attacker. She could scream and wake up half the hotel.
A few steps from the ice room door, Sara stopped in her tracks. Straight ahead, a man came around a corner and started down the hallway toward her. The light was in back of him, and for a moment all she could see was this tall, shadowy thing coming at her.
“Burning the midnight oil, huh?” she heard him say.
He stepped under a dim overhead light, and Sara noticed his tie and the hotel badge with his name on it. She also noticed him shyly checking out her breasts. She crossed her arms in front of her and almost dropped her ice bucket.
“Have a nice night,” he said, passing her.
“Thanks, you too,” she whispered.
Sara watched him continue down the hallway. She had to laugh a little. She put her hand over her heart and felt it pounding away. No doubt about it now, she really needed her Jack Daniel’s tonight. She’d catch four hours of sleep and take some aspirin in the morning.
Sara pushed open the ice room door. She gasped, and dropped the ice bucket.
The thing splayed on the tiled floor seemed to be staring back at her. The dead girl was so white her skin appeared chalky and translucent. Dark red blood was smeared around her nose and open mouth. The blue jewel in a ring that pierced her eyebrow was the same color as the streaks in her black hair; the same color as those unblinking eyes.
Sara screamed and screamed. She would wake up half the hotel.
That night—or what was left of it—Sara Middleton wouldn’t sleep at all.
Thirteen
