3. one
one
. . .
ASPEN
What an adorably quaint little town.
That was the first thought I had as I navigated Black Betty, my beat up, rusted out old Chevy Suburban, down the main thoroughfare. I had a reservation at the motel back on the highway, but I wanted to get a feel for the place before I settled into my room.
My head was on a swivel as I attempted to take everything in on one pass, a feat I knew would be impossible. My feet itched with the desire to park, get out, and strut up and down the sidewalks, seeing all this map dot had to offer. My nosy, curious nature tended to get the better of me in moments like this. I needed to feel, touch, smell, and taste. I needed to awaken all of my senses and fully immerse myself in the locality.
But I resisted the urge, for now, settling for an optical perusal.
The residents of Dusk Valley clearly took pride in the presentation of their home, because there wasn’t any chipped paint to be found or a decoration out of place, and the streets remained clear of any unwanted debris. The storefronts were an eclectic but somehow cohesive mix of craftsman and brick, each distinguished by a shingle rocking on the gentle breeze or a merrily striped awning. Flowers overflowed from hanging baskets and window boxes.
The whole facade was quintessentially Small Town, USA.
Unfortunately, it also masked a dark history.
I wasn’t delusional enough to think I was capable of tracking down a killer when over forty years of law enforcement professionals hadn’t been able to, but something about this one had my bones humming with an unnameable energy.
This guy was living right under these people’s noses, a true testament to the duality of human nature that everyone went about their daily errands and jobs like there wasn’t a killer walking among them.
I was making it my personal mission to root this fucker out and bring him to justice.
With that thought, I reached the lone stoplight, which didn’t shift colors, merely blinked yellow in caution, at the intersection of two perpendicular roads. I glanced in my rearview to confirm no one was waiting behind me, then lifted my phone to plug the address of my motel into my maps app. As soon as I touched it, however, it rang.
Narrowly avoiding rolling my eyes, I answered.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Did you arrive?”
No, “hello, Aspen.”
No, “hi, honey, how are you?”
She cut right to the chase. That was my mother’s way.
“Just got here,” I lied smoothly. Every time I traveled somewhere new, though my parents hated my job, I had strict instructions that I let them know the moment I crossed town lines.
I tended to push the boundaries, mostly because I was thirty-three years old and didn’t need them babying me. I’m not sure I ever needed that .
They refused to get the memo, though Dad had loosened his reins a lot more in recent years. Still, it seemed for every inch of control he gave up, Mom picked up a mile of slack.
Frankly, it was fucking exhausting.
And they wondered why I rarely went home to Chicago.
I knew it came from a place of love and worry, but they were fucking suffocating me.
It had been that way ever since my sister died.
But I cut that thought off before it could fully bloom, unable and unwilling to go there right now. Not when I had a job to do.
My sister, Lola, had been everything I wasn’t. Bright and bubbly, never met a stranger, on her way to becoming an incredible pediatrician.
Until the fire that took her from us in an instant, and our entire world crashed down around us.
I was the only child they had left, and I understood wanting to protect me, but I wasn’t the sixteen-year-old girl who would crawl into bed with them at night because it was the only way I could stay whole when I felt like half of me had died with Lola. While they’d been dealing with their own grief, they’d still helped me navigate mine, and for that I was eternally grateful.
But that was a long time ago—over half my life had passed since then. They needed to let me live without this dark cloud of guilt and obligation hanging over me.
“You’re supposed to call when you arrive.”
This time, I did roll my eyes. “Mom, I’m literally still in my car. I haven’t even gotten to the motel yet.”
“Do you have your taser?”
“Yes.”
“Your gun?”
“Yes,” I replied, my eyes darting to the hump in the floor between the driver and passenger footwells, where my Ruger SR22 was safely stowed in its lockbox .
“And your self-defense keychain?”
“Yes,” I gritted out. My jaw ached from clenching my teeth.
She had given me the keychain as a gift a few Christmases back, and it had come in handy—mainly to open beer bottles that didn’t have a twist off cap. Usually, the infernal thing with all its bells and literal whistles remained in the center console of Black Betty, out of sight and out of mind.
I did keep the taser she’d bought me on my person at all times, though, more so than even my gun. I wasn’t above putting someone on their ass if they touched me in an uninvited or threatening manner. After all, I was a petite woman traveling alone. My parents worried needlessly because I wasn’t taking any chances where my safety was concerned.
“Don’t take that tone with me, Aspen,” Mom snapped.
“Sorry,” I mumbled without an ounce of feeling behind the word.
“How’s the motel?”
I considered the best response and settled on, “Budget friendly.”
Mom heaved a sigh that echoed in my ears and settled heavily on my bones. Amazing how she managed to do that, even from fifteen hundred miles away.
“I don’t know why you insist on doing this,” she said, and I could feel her disappointment like a passenger in the car with me.
“It’s my job.”
“Come home,” she implored me. “Get a real job. I’m sure the paper would take you back. You can even live with me and Dad until you find your own place.”
“No.”
This wasn’t the first time Mom had tried to have this conversation with me, and my stance was as firm now as it had been when I left Chicago eight years ago.
Whether they agreed with me or not, I was firmly on my feet with a real job. I had a sizable savings, and took on frequent cases that paid well enough to cover all of my expenses.
I didn’t need much. I was a simple woman who lived a quiet existence, and I liked it that way. I’d already suffered enough heartbreak for one lifetime. Holding myself apart from others saved me from experiencing any more.
Not to mention the fact that I enjoyed what I did. I’d always been a curious person, but it went beyond the norm of human nature, something I didn’t fully realize until I was in college. I was studying communications and, in one of my writing courses, we were tasked with picking a topic and writing a research article.
In the midst of the project, I’d gone to a frat party with my roommate and seen some things I shouldn’t have. Like a dog with a bone, I dug and dug until I wound up uncovering a massive drug ring within the Greek system.
That was the first time I’d really put myself in the line of fire in search of unearthing the truth, and my professor had taken notice. She told me I would be extremely successful as an investigative journalist, and that I should consider changing my major.
I’d taken her words to heart, ultimately graduating with a Bachelor of Arts in Journalism and working for five years at the Chicago Sun Times .
Until everything fell apart, and I left without a backward glance.
I shook those memories off before they could root and fester. I’d worked hard these years to heal from my trauma, and it hurt me that my mother didn’t realize how much it pained me when she continued to bring this shit up.
“Aspen…”
“ No ,” I repeated, more vehemently this time. “I’m not coming back to Chicago. I’m not going back to the paper. I’m not moving back in with you and Dad. Just…no!”
The silence in the wake of my outburst was deafening .
“Aspen—” Mom tried again, and the way she said my name told me she’d launch into a rant I’d never hear the end of if I didn’t nip it in the bud now.
“Sorry, Mom. I have to go.”
I hung up, and not a moment too soon as a car behind me laid on its horn. I fumbled to type in the address of my lodgings as I made a right-hand turn.
I knew from my drive by earlier that it wasn’t the nicest place on the planet, but when I actually stopped to look at it, the motel was even more than depressing. The rooms branched out in two wings that formed a ninety-degree angle, centered by a little enclosed lobby and reception area, the roof of which sagged in the middle. The paint on the siding was peeling, the wood beneath weathered and grey. At least the doors to the rooms appeared to be heavy metal instead of some other flimsy material.
With a weary sigh, I pushed out of Black Betty and approached reception.
The man behind the counter had seen better days, much like his place of employment. His head was pale and shiny, a few wisps of hair from the ring around his skull combed over top. He was pot-bellied and beady-eyed, and he boredly flipped through a Playboy magazine, not sparing me a glance as he said, “Name.”
“Kay Asplund,” I said.
Despite my mother’s opinions, I did take my personal safety seriously. I never gave places like this my real name, and I always paid in cash.
The man dropped his magazine off to the side and scooted his chair forward until he was belly up to the computer. He tapped the ancient keyboard then finally flicked his eyes up to me.
“Do you know how long you’ll be staying?”
“I’d like to pay by the week, if possible. ”
I had no idea how long this investigation would take, but I knew I’d be here for at least seven days.
His mouth twisted, as though he was considering it, before he said, “That’s a higher rate.”
“That’s fine,” I assured him, trying and failing to give him a bright smile. “I won’t cause any problems.”
He rolled his eyes but muttered, “Better not.”
After a few signatures and putting down a four hundred dollar deposit for the next seven days—which was highway robbery, if you asked me—he passed an old key across the counter to me. “Room twenty-two, down at the end.” He indicated toward the side of the motel that butted up to the road.
I gave him a terse smile and turned on my heel to leave. I hopped back behind the wheel and moved Black Betty in front of my door. I would’ve preferred a room on the other end, away from the bustle of traffic, but I knew asking the twit at reception would’ve been futile.
Before lugging my belongings inside, I unlocked the door and entered. At first glance, it appeared clean, if a bit stale. The cream curtains were heavy and blocked most of the light from outside, providing me with a fair amount of privacy. Two full-sized beds dominated most of the space, as well as a dresser on which an ancient, boxy television sat, and a small round table with two chairs in the corner by the window. At the back was a wide counter inlaid with a sink and a large mirror above. The small bathroom contained only a shower/tub combo and toilet.
It suited my purposes fine despite being far from the most glamorous place I’d ever stayed.
Returning to Black Betty, I pulled out my laptop bag and the old bankers box I used in lieu of a briefcase for files and other pertinent case materials, leaving those by the table in the corner before going back out for the rest of my stuff. It took three trips, but eventually all of my worldly possessions were in the room with me. I beeped Black Betty locked, then shut the door behind me, flipping the bolt and throwing the security chain.
Sagging against it, I sighed in relief. I’d driven from Denver to Salt Lake City yesterday before coming the rest of the way today, so the drive hadn’t been excruciating, but I was still exhausted. Too much time alone with my thoughts, especially on a case like this, had me running a little ragged.
Nothing a good night’s sleep couldn’t fix.