Chapter 3 Abi
ABI
The owner of the Palm Breeze Hotel is not at all what I expected.
He’s a lot younger, for one—probably the same age as me.
But he’s also handsome in a way you never seen in the guys around here.
Most of them are either cowboy rednecks who wandered in from the ranches to the west of town, or wannabe surfer types who drink at the bars along the beach and watch the weather report for hurricanes, since that’s the only time we get waves worth surfing on.
I know I shouldn’t be thinking about the Blood Raiser movies or about Rowan Hanover, even with his soft, curling hair and big dark eyes and a shy, infectious smile.
I’m here to find out what happened to Mr. Nielson.
To find anything that will get Kaplan to take me seriously instead of continuing to see me as the unpopular freak who killed a football star when I was sixteen.
That was also ruled an accident. But unlike the deaths in Rosado, it was an accident.
Mostly.
I shove the thought aside. Rowan set me up with a table in the hotel’s dining room, closed before the lunch rush.
It’s a nice table, too, right next to the sun-warmed window that looks out over the hotel’s glittering swimming pool and then, past that, to the vine-covered dunes and the Gulf of Mexico.
He brings me over a pitcher of water, his hair falling casually into his eyes. God, he’s cute.
“Just let Maddie know if you need anything else,” he says, pointing to the hostess. “She can call down to my office. And I’ll tell the staff they can come up here and talk to you if they have anything they want to share.”
He pours the water with a practiced flourish and gives me another one of those shy, crooked smiles. My heart flutters around in my chest.
Has this guy seriously lived in Rosado this whole time? I think about all the nights I chatted with Penelope and Chloe, my two best friends who, unfortunately, live on opposite sides of the country, about my dismal dating options here. It seems I was missing at least one possibility.
“Good luck,” he adds, setting the pitcher on the table. “Hope you find something out.”
That just sets the butterflies to fluttering even more. Because it feels like he believes me, which is not something I can say for the other men I’ve told this to. Uncle Vic would probably have come around at this point, but having the confidence of a ghost doesn’t really mean much.
“Thanks,” I say, wrapping my fingers around the glass of water.
Rowan leaves me alone after that, and Maria, the housekeeper, comes in a few minutes later. She looks a little drawn, with a big crease down the center of her forehead. “Are you the police officer?” she asks.
“I’m not with the police.” She stands next to the table while I launch into the same explanation I gave Rowan, about who I am and what I’m looking for.
Maria listens carefully the whole time, the furrow in her brow deepening.
When I finish, she slides into the chair across from me, although only halfway, like she doesn’t expect to be here long.
“I didn’t see anything strange,” she says. “It was—it was awful, finding him like that. But the room was normal, you know. Not—” She swallows. “Disturbed, or anything.”
It occurs to me, from the nervous way she tugs on her skirt, that I don’t really know how to question people about a murder. I’m sure she’s told all of this to the police, too. A dark knot of guilt tightens in my chest.
“You didn’t notice anything before you went into the room?” I say, choosing my words carefully. “You know, strange people at the hotel, that sort of thing?”
Maria frowns and scrunches up her brow, like she’s thinking.
“No,” she finally says. “No, I came in at my usual time, 4:30. It was quiet, being so early. No one was around. And I didn’t hear about any—” She waves her hand around.
“Weirdos, you know. We get them sometimes, and Darcy will warn me to watch out. But we didn’t have any when I…
” Her voice kind of trails off, and she swallows.
“Darcy?” I ask gently.
“Oh, the head of housekeeping.” Maria smiles sadly. “She talks to the girls at the check-in counter to see if there’s anyone we need to watch out for. But there wasn’t.”
I nod. “Thanks,” I tell her. “That—that’s good to know.”
Maria smiles at me before she leaves. I settle back in my chair and look out the window at the beach below.
So no one strange checked into the hotel.
That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m wrong.
Would they even check in as a guest? All the other deaths happened in Rosado, so it makes sense that it’s someone in the area.
It could be a contractor, then. A repairman. Or even just someone who came in from the beach and made themselves look like a guest—
It could be someone who works at the hotel.
The thought hits me with a shiver of fear as sharp as an electrical current. But then, none of the other deaths had anything to do with the Palm Breeze Hotel. The locations are random, more or less. So it feels unlikely.
Whoever did do it had to find a way into the hotel room, though. I wonder if the police looked into that at all. I’m not surprised they interviewed Maria, since she found the body, but did they go any further than that? Talk to the clerks at the front desk?
I swivel my head around, but the hostess has vanished from her spot at the front of the restaurant. I’m alone.
I suppose I could wait for her, but there’s the soft, light feeling inside me that wants an excuse to see Rowan again. So I gather up my purse and take the elevator back down to his office.
The door’s hanging open, and I take a deep breath before I knock on it with the back of my knuckles.
There’s an uncomfortably long pause, and then Rowan’s soft voice calls out, “Julia? Is that you?”
I’m sure Julia is just someone who works at the hotel, but hearing another woman’s name still makes jealousy twinge hot in my belly. “No,” I say, sticking my head into the office. “No, it’s me. Um, Abi.”
Rowan immediately stands up when he sees me. “That was faster than I was expecting. Did Julia not come up to see you? She works the front desk, and I told her to chat with you when she had a chance.”
Heat floods into my cheeks. Of course. He said he was going to send some other employees up there, didn’t he?
That also answers the whole “who’s Julia” question
“No, I just—” I’m fumbling over my words, my heart racing around in my chest. Why do men make me so god damned nervous? Still? After all these years, even when they’re nothing like—
Nothing like him, the boy who attacked me when I was sixteen. Blake Fletcher.
“I had a thought,” I say, taking a deep breath. “And I wanted to ask you about it. If you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” He walks around his desk and comes to meet me in the doorway, staring expectantly down at me through his dark, tousled hair.
“The police,” I say. “How much did they really talk to your staff?”
Rowan frowns. “Not much,” he admits. “They seemed to assume it was an accident.”
“So they didn’t ask if anyone might have asked for a room card?” I say, my cheeks still warm. Rowan’s gaze is intense. Not in a bad way. Just—not in a way I’m used to. “To the room where—where Mr. Nielson was staying?”
Rowan’s eyes go wide with understanding. “Oh! No, I don’t think they did ask about that, now that you mention it. But I can check to see if we keyed any cards to that room.”
“You can?” I’m both relieved that I don’t look like a fool in front of him and also irritated that Kaplan apparently couldn’t order the bare minimum of detective work.
“Yeah, of course. It’s a good thought, actually.” Rowan flashes me a grin. “I’m surprised the police didn’t ask about it.”
I’m not. I keep my mouth shut, though.
Rowan slides behind his desk and taps away on the keyboard. My heart is pounding furiously with anticipation, with the hope that this will give me something. Even if I can’t investigate any further on my own, it might be enough to get Kaplan to actually listen to me—
“Ah, nope,” Rowan says, blinking at the screen. “Mr. Nielson was the last one to get a key to the room. Nobody came asking for a replacement.” He looks over at me. “I’m sorry. It really was a good idea.”
I nod, swallowing down my disappointment. A dead end. Anytime I try to investigate these deaths, that’s always where I end up. I shouldn’t be surprised that this time is any different, even if I put in the effort of talking to people.
“Well, I appreciate you checking it out for me.” I plaster on a smile, hoping I don’t sound too fake. I do appreciate Rowan’s help. I just wish I could catch a break.
Because I know there’s something more here. Those marks on the bodies aren’t some weird coincidence. Not after seven of them, for fuck’s sake.
“Is there—is there anything else I could help you with?” Rowan looks up at me through a curl of hair that’s fallen across his eyebrows.
I want to say yes, even though I don’t know what it could possibly be.
“Do you want me to call Julia in? She might be busy, if that’s why she didn’t come up to see you—”
“It’s fine.” The words come out too quickly, and they taste bitter on my tongue. I doubt she’ll have anything, either.
I can just hear Kaplan mocking me, asking me in that snide way he has if I really think I’m the best person for the coroner appointment.
Rowan frowns. He looks like he wants to say something, and I’m suddenly afraid he’s going to mock me, too. Crack a joke at my expense.
“Thanks for your help,” I say, stepping backward toward the door. “I, um, I don’t want to take up any of your time, but I just thought—” I swallow, not sure what to say. “I guess I was mistaken. I hope I didn’t scare any of your emp—”
“You didn’t,” he says, pushing his chair back so he can stand up. We stare at each other from across the office. “I was happy to help. Do you want…” His voice kind of trails off, and he looks over at the Blood Raiser poster. “I can give you my number.”
My heart leaps, stupidly.
“You know, in case you think of anything else.” He looks back over at me, his big brown eyes drinking me in. “And maybe… You can give me yours?”
Is he flirting with me? He can’t possibly be flirting with me.
“Yeah, I can do that.” My voice comes out kind of high-pitched and squeaky, and I slide my phone out of my purse, heart hammering.
“I’ll give you my number,” he says. “And then you can call me, okay? To make sure I have yours.”
He wants to make sure he has my number.
“In case I need to follow up on anything,” he adds.
Of course. He’s just being helpful. I told him I thought a murder took place in his hotel. Of course he wants to have my phone number.
Still, I punch off the number he rattles off to me. Then I press call, and his phone lights up on his desk.
“There you are.” He grins at me, and my heart starts fluttering stupidly again. “I’ll, um—” He stops, almost like he’s hesitating. “If anything comes up, I’ll give you a call.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
We stare at each other. If Penelope were here, she’d tell me to ask him out. Just go for it, she’d say. The worst he can do is say no.
But I can’t bring myself to do it, even though the question is on the tip of my tongue. A coffee date at the little shop on the beachfront. A five-minute walk from here. Nothing, really.
Rowan blinks at me.
And I just duck out the door.