Page 130 of The Midnight Knock

Hunter wanted to get back to his room because the best part of the night always came next. Hunter would return to their room. He would step directly into the bathroom, into the shower, unseen byEthan. He would scrub off any stray beads of Sarah’s blood that have gotten on his skin. In his hair. He’d rinse out his clothes.

And then Hunter would step out of the shower and the steam wearing nothing, nothing between him and this kind, smart, gentle, clever, handsome man who deserved so, so much better than Hunter. Hunter would curl up next to this man and press himself to his back and say,Can I hold you for a minute? Just like this?

Sarah finally saw the frustration on Hunter’s face. She said, “I’d heard stories about you from the guards in Huntsville. It’s why I told those lies about knowing your boyfriend’s mom in the office—I wanted you to come investigate. I wanted to get you here.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t sure if it would be both of y’all, or just you, but I heard that if I got you angry enough, you’d do something drastic. You seemed protective of Ethan in the office. I figured if I got you riled up enough you would… well.”

“I know. You lay a good trap. The very first night, it worked.”

The very first night.Hunter didn’t want to think about the very first night. Things had gone very, very badly the very first night.

Sarah tried to smile. “Maybe I should have called back that CIA recruiter I met in undergrad.”

Hunter had seen this a million times before, and not just from Sarah. People always babbled when they realized there was no escaping an imminent death. When they were right up against the wall of the hereafter.

He took control. “Get on the bed. Face down. Unzip your jeans. And hold still. It’ll be a lot worse if you start wriggling.”

“My jeans?”

“Don’t give me that look. I just need things to look confusing. To kill time.”

Sarah blinked. She stood near the bed and unzipped her jeans with an agonizing slowness, but at least she didn’t try to argue. “Should I take off my boots?”

“It doesn’t matter. Hand me those pillows. Lay face down.”

She did, far slower than Hunter’s nerves appreciated. On the corner table, the little smokeless fire was still burning. A weird energy thrummed in the air, making the grooved stone egg chitter and shake.

Somehow, after all these nights, it was that little pulsing egg that still gave Hunter the willies.

He eased himself on top of Sarah, a knee to either side of her waist. He guided her head, making sure her neck was stretched long. He picked up a pillow. He placed it over her neck.

She said in a small, small voice, “Will it hurt?”

“Only for a second. Trust me. I used to be a professional.”

He covered her head with the second pillow. An old cartel trick. One of many he’d learned in his time working out this way. Hunter balanced the knife carefully in his left hand. He brought the tip of it to the pillow over Sarah’s neck. He would drive it in with the heel of his other hand, sink the point of the blade straight into the aorta, and step back before the real hemorrhaging could kick in. She’d be dead in seconds. Quick and easy.

Hunter took a steadying breath. He balled his free hand into a fist. He brought it close to the butt of the blade’s hilt.

He said to Sarah, “Hold still.”

In his haste, Hunter had forgotten to lock the front door. He’d never bothered with it before. He was never interrupted before this, so why waste a second he didn’t need to?

He wished he had now.

The room’s front door swung open, and Ethan stepped inside, his shotgun braced against his shoulder. He had it aimed straight at Hunter’s head.

Ethan said, “We’re not doing this anymore.”

ETHAN

It was the headache that did it. Rather, it was the way Ethan’s headache had disappeared, last night, when his memories had returned. Yesterday, from the second he’d seen the silver glare at four p.m., a migraine had haunted Ethan until he’d stared at the strange mirror in the old house and felt the past come flooding back. Kyla had experienced the same thing earlier in the evening: when they’d recovered their memories, their headaches had left them. Just like that.

Last night, Ryan had explained that Penelope had an uncanny skill for voices. Ethan didn’t believe for a second that Penelope was a murderer, but by coming to this room long after Sarah was dead and feigning an argument between Sarah and some mystery man, she could give the killer a perfect alibi. By seven thirty, every man at the motel was more or less accounted for. It created the perfect crime. Or at least an impossible one to solve.

But if Penelope was working with the real killer, when would the pair have had the time to create this plan?