Ami had created a diversion to give me a cherry-red matchbook, which I clutched tightly. It was obviously clue number two. But as with the key, I didn’t dare examine it while passing under the cameras. How had Ami smuggled a matchbook into Willow Point? I supposed she could have had Sean, her husband, smuggle it in. Or maybe it had already been hidden in an article of clothing, and her husband had had no idea. Ami was crafty like that, so I leaned toward that explanation.
When I finally reached the car and was safely inside, I opened my hand. “Oh wow,” I murmured.
I immediately recognized the writing printed on the matchbook—Fowler’s Motel. Fowler’s was the seedy roadside motel where Ami had holed up when she’d supposedly gone missing, back in those early days of November. I had no doubt, though, that this clue alluded to something far more pertinent than her stay in the fall.
Fowler’s Motel. I’d passed the place a bunch of times over the years. It was located out on the old state route, right outside of Harbour Falls, the only establishment along a long stretch of lonely country road for miles and miles. But it wasn’t the kind of place you pulled into just for the heck of it. You went to Fowler’s if you were up to no good, hiding from something, or on the run.
The motel sat back away from the road, nestled in the deep surrounding forest. If not for the 1950s-era roadside sign blinking Fowler’s Motel in blazing red neon all night long, people would probably miss it. Even with the sign, the entrance was hidden, and once you pulled in you still had to travel back the gravel drive, snaking through a thick grove of pine, to finally reach the low brick building housing the guest rooms and registration office.
With images of lonely, old Fowler’s Motel in my head, I started the car. It wouldn’t be dark for a few more hours. If I took the old state route back into Harbour Falls, I would pass the motel. Maybe I could pull in for a few minutes, take a look around. Hmm…
I thought about the clues Ami had given me thus far: a fake key with #11 painted on it and a red pack of matches from Fowler’s Motel…
Suddenly it clicked!
The number eleven painted on a reproduction of a key…and a matchbook from a motel with numbered rooms. Could it be this simple? Yes! Ami was leading me to room #11 at Fowler’s Motel. I felt almost certain.
But what could be in that particular room—number eleven—that connected Adam to a secret so horrific it had led to blackmail? And how were Ami and Helena (maybe Nate, too) tied to a room in a seedy, old motel? The scenarios popping into my head sickened me. God, I hoped it wasn’t anything too twisted. What if it ended up being worse than the things running wild in my imagination?
I didn’t know what I would find, but I was ready to face it. I had two deadlines now, after all. One from Ami—the whole tick tock bit—and the two-week timeframe set by Adam.
With both these deadlines in mind, I sped away from Willow Point. If there was anything hidden in that room at Fowler’s, that was even remotely connected to this damn secret, I planned to find out.
Chapter Twelve
A thick cover of ashen clouds rolled in, making the already gloomy afternoon far gloomier. The old state route felt as if it was narrowing as I closed in on the far west boundary of Harbour Falls. But it was just an illusion, of course. The forest out here was thick, the pines close to the edge of the road, giving the impression one was traveling straight through a tunnel of evergreens.
I rounded a bend and saw the sign—Fowler’s Motel—looming ahead. The large sign glowed flashy and bright, the red neon more suited to Vegas than these deep woods. A vacancy sign, just below the motel name and faded to dark pink neon, blinked methodically as I closed in.
I slowed to a crawl and cautiously turned into the gravel drive. Nothing ever changed at Fowler’s, not for as long as I could remember. Not that I knew the place well, but in addition to passing it innumerable times, I had attended a few parties held out here back in high school. Nobody ever checked identification when you checked in, and kids drank here all the time. It was like some time-honored tradition to have partied at Fowler’s at least once.
I traveled down the pine-canopied drive until it opened up into a rather large parking area. There, I stopped. Straight ahead stood the single-story red brick structure with the twenty guest rooms—ten in the front, ten in the back. An office sign—red neon, of course—burned brightly at the far left end of the building. There was only one other car in the lot, way off to the right, so I headed left and parked directly in front of the registration office.
Rooms one through ten faced the front; number eleven was in the back. I got out of the car, locked it, and walked around to the side of the building, just to get my bearings. There was a small shed, the kind for storing maintenance tools, in the back corner. A snow shovel and a regular shovel for digging were leaned up against it. Next to the shed a narrow trail snaked back into the forest. The densely packed trees practically came right up to where I stood, giving the whole back area of the building a closed-off, claustrophobic feel. Room number twenty was right behind me, meaning number eleven was at the other end, reminding me of just how close I now stood to finding out why that
