Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
C’mon, answer. Claire shifted on her heels and knocked on the motel room’s door for the umpteenth time, but still, no sound, no movement on the other side.
God, what was she doing here? Winslow wasn’t answering her texts or calls, but since Fairview had its little population boom in recent years, they actually had a cab company now, and Claire had her driver make a detour after the bar.
From there, it wasn’t hard to figure out which room Winslow was in, considering Gary Stillwell, the owner of the motel, was passed out cold and she could just… check the records.
Which was completely insane, Claire reminded herself. Bordering on stalker behavior, but hell, this might be her last chance to pick his brain before he was gone.
But the seconds ticked on, and still no answer. Her logical mind crept back in.
There were a million explanations for why the necklace was in her dad’s room. Maybe her mom hadn’t actually been wearing it that day. Maybe her dad had kept it as a keepsake. Maybe he actually did love her mom. Maybe he’d kept more of her things than Claire realized.
Or maybe he killed her and made it look like an accident and kept that necklace as a trophy.
Oh, boy.
You can’t be serious.
The thought made her head light, even as doubt worked through her stomach. Her dad had done a lot of terrible things, but murder? She wanted Winslow to draw his own conclusions first. A professional take. That’d give her something to latch onto, good or bad.
Claire knocked once more. Defeat weighed on her shoulders. He wasn’t here. Or he wasn’t answering.
She sulked away, stealing a peek inside the room as she passed. The curtain was parted a gap, and a beam of light from outside led to the end of the bed. An alarm bell went off in her mind. She’d been creepy enough already, but she leaned closer to the window till her vision adjusted.
Winslow was inside, slumped on the floor, his back rested on the other side of the bed. She could only make out the top of his head and half of his body, but his bare arm slumped on the carpet beside him.
And on the floor, next to his hand, was a shape she knew well. Small, long, wrapped in sterile plastic and paper.
A needle.
Claire’s brain didn’t have time to reconcile with reality—she just acted, because she’d seen this before, too many times. Brad. Brad, who she’d had to rescue from asphyxiating on his own vomit a dozen times, who was now dead because of this shit.
She skittered down the stairs and across the lot till she reached Gary’s office.
He was still passed out with the fan blowing on him, so she grabbed his spare key for 204 off the rack behind the desk and ran to the room.
She fumbled to unlock the door and burst right in, finding herself alone in the dark motel room with Winslow.
She hurried over to him. His head was lulled into the crook of his neck, his eyes closed.
Peaceful, but pale. A twenty-sixer of vodka was tucked into his side.
She struggled to make sense of it; the wicker garbage basket nearby, the needle beside him, the smell of vodka permeating the air.
Winslow was wearing a black T-shirt, exposing his arms, and the inner part of his elbow was marred by track marks.
His palm was open with a dime bag on it, a red stripe across the top.
Claire’s heart lurched. “Oh, sweetheart, why would you do this to yourself?”
Memories of her past with Brad blended with the present. She’d never understood how he could be so careless with something as precious as his own life.
But it was more confusing now, because this was no Brad Bailey.
She knelt down and gently tapped Winslow’s warm cheek. His skin had the slightest grit to it, but he’d shaved since she saw him last. “Hey, wake up.”
Winslow’s eyes sluggishly opened, a dreary blue.
“Claire? What the—” He cut himself off with a violent retch and reached for the garbage bin, knocking over the near-empty bottle of vodka.
Claire helped him grab the basket. Winslow keeled over and threw up right into it—nothing but liquid, the pure smell of booze. “Fuck,” he sputtered.
When Brad used to shoot up, he’d go through these fits of puking, but they’d border on blissful. She still remembered how sick she’d feel, seeing him throw his guts up, then float back with a smile.
This wasn’t like that. Winslow had the look of a man served well over his limit, like he’d rather die than deal with the way the room was spinning.
The dime bag had been left on the carpet.
There was still something in it—a lump of some kind.
And the needle was still in its packaging, unopened, an orange cap covering the tip. There was no spoon, no lighter.
Oh.
Thank God.
“I’m sorry, I… I thought you shot up,” she said. “I was worried.”
“Almost. I wanted to,” he slurred. “All I had to do was throw that stuff out… the bag, the needle… shit, I gotta get up.”
He was practically green as she helped him onto the bed, where he quickly rolled onto his side like he’d done this before, a thousand times over.
Claire moved the bin closer so if he needed it again, he wouldn’t be stuck cleaning sick off the motel carpet.
It was a good thing she did, too, because he threw up again instantly.
Poor thing. She knew how painful this was, all too well.
Clementine used to take care of her when she got too drunk, during her brief party phase near the end of high school.
She’d taught her a little trick, which Claire had then used to comfort Brad during his withdrawals.
She went into the bathroom and searched for a washcloth.
It felt too intimate to be here, next to Winslow’s toothbrush and toothpaste on the sink, his bodywash and shampoo on the edge of the bathtub.
Men’s products always had stupid names like slate and stone, but they smelled nice.
Masculine. Like him. She tried not to think about it as she dampened the cloth and returned to the bed, then placed it on his forehead.
He relaxed at the feeling and reached up, gently touching it.
“Thank you. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t suppose you’ve got any bread or something kicking around here?” she asked. “Something to soak up the alcohol?”
Winslow shook his head. “Just gotta sleep it off. I’ll be okay. I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“I don’t even know what I’m seeing.” She laughed half-heartedly. “You’re the last person I expected this from.”
His eyes remained open, staring across the room. “I just wanted to sleep.”
Something had rattled him, no doubt. He barely seemed shaken when they found Kelsey’s body. Then again, Claire knew nothing about this man, about how he coped. But he’d never seemed like a booze hound, at least not one she’d ever served.
Eventually, he sat upright and left the washcloth on the nightstand.
He peeled off his shirt, too sweaty to keep on, and tossed it on the bed behind him.
He leaned forward on his elbows and pinched the bridge of his nose.
There was a reusable water bottle on the table across the room next to some folders—case files, probably—so she handed it to him.
He accepted it, though he was still green.
“You’re so nice,” he murmured. “Thanks…”
Claire’s cheeks warmed as she sat on the bed beside him and fidgeted with her rope bracelets, trying not to stare at his arms or the exposed muscles of his abdomen. “When was the last time you used? I see those track marks. I know you’ve got a history.”
“Few years ago. I was working undercover in narcotics, got hooked again. Then got clean again.”
She chewed on her lip. The image she’d built of this man, so put together from the day he was born, crumbled before her. “Again?”
“Yeah. High school, I was a different person, but I got clean before I became a cop.” His brows pinched in pain. “It’s all bullshit. I still kept a needle on me after the narcotics job. I wanted to.”
Claire tried to think of something to say, but another wave of nausea turned him green again. He keeled over and threw up into the trash bin—so much for the water. After he was done, he lay back in the bed, taking the washcloth with him and placing it on his chest, above his heart.
Part of her figured she should keep her trap shut, but she found herself wanting to understand this side of him. “What made you stop? You have everything you need, but you got drunk instead. Why?”
Winslow’s gaze was haunted. “I’ve never been a big drinker.
I was tempted, very tempted, to get high.
I went out to clear my head, but the feeling wouldn’t leave, so I grabbed a bottle of vodka.
Figured if I chugged it, I’d get sick, and I wouldn’t be able to shoot up.
I had to do something. ’Cause I wasn’t gonna make it through the night.
And I couldn’t do that. To them, I mean. They deserve better.”
“Eliza and Kelsey,” Claire said, and Winslow nodded. “But I read someone was arrested. Norm Stanfield, the Mr. Giggles guy.”
The mere mention of Norm’s name made Winslow’s face contort. He clamped his eyes shut. “Jus’, tell me something—tell me you never interacted with that guy.”
“Not really, no. Maybe when I was a kid. He’s always been a bit off.”
He relaxed. “Good. I’m glad.”
“Why? Is it him?”
“No, I don’t think so. But he’s… something else.”
“I don’t understand. What’d he do? I remember the moms used to think he was creepy.”
Winslow shook his head. He almost smiled as he sank into the pillow. “Don’t worry about it. We got him.”
She wasn’t sure what to say. Whatever Norman had done, whatever Winslow had seen because of it, must’ve pushed him in this direction. It must’ve been bad.
“Anyway, I’m really glad you’re okay,” she said. “I should go. Sorry I broke into your motel room… you should probably talk to Gary about making it a bit more secure…” She went to stand up, but his voice stopped her.
“Hold on, don’t go. Why’d you come here? You okay?”