Page 25

Claire

Now

I drop the camera as if it’s burned me. Once it’s crashed to the floor, I notice a red light blinking from the back of it.

There’s only one person who could be behind this.

Randy.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I think about the way his eyes seemed to follow the girls in our group anytime we’d walk past the front desk, or the dirty looks I’d see him shoot at the guys behind their backs. But this is a new low.

How long has this been here? He had no idea we were coming back. Hell, even we didn’t know we were coming.

Which means Randy didn’t just install these for our return.

He’s used these cameras for previous guests. And maybe, just maybe, he’s had them for quite a while. In which case, they may have captured something that can help me figure out who killed Phoebe.

***

I should wait, at least until it’s dark, until Randy’s gone for the night. But I can’t just sit here and let it be.

I reposition the camera back on the picture frame, just in case Randy’s still watching, take a deep breath, and head out of the room.

I tiptoe downstairs, but I needn’t have worried. The sign is still at the front desk. I check my watch: 4:06 p.m. That gives me almost an hour until he comes back.

I duck behind the desk, unclear at first what it is I’m looking for. Wouldn’t these cameras record to a computer of sorts? The only thing back here is the rusty PC that looks like it’s incapable of loading anything other than WordPerfect, let alone storing videos.

Even so, I turn it on. As it loads, I direct my attention to the mess of papers littering the desk.

Ten years of paperwork lies before me. Unopened envelopes from the Bank of Queensland sit among discarded spreadsheets and ripped-out loose-leaf papers covered in Randy’s spindly handwriting.

I shuffle the papers, and they part to reveal a small blue notebook.

I open it, the first page nothing more than doodles.

I flip through a few more, until I reach one that contains only two lines.

R.Campbell_82

Collingwood123!

It’s clearly a username and password. I smile.

So much for high security at the Raven Inn.

The thought gives me an idea, and I look around for a CCTV camera in the lobby.

While I’m at it, it may be worth trying to find old footage from that as well—I can only assume the Jagged Rock police never requested it.

But a quick glance around doesn’t reveal anything of the sort.

Apparently, Randy’s only into cameras of the hidden variety.

The computer dings, notifying me that it’s fully booted up. The sound ricochets throughout the silent lobby, and my head immediately jerks around to see if anyone has noticed.

All clear. The Inn is still silent, the others still chatting and drinking outside. No one has even bothered to turn in this direction.

But strangely enough, the computer opens directly onto the desktop, not a lock screen. So what was the username and password in Randy’s journal for?

I don’t waste any time trying to come up with an answer.

God only knows why Randy does anything he does.

Instead, I start with the home page, scanning the folders he’s saved to his desktop.

My heart catches when I stumble upon one labeled as “Personal,” but when it loads, it reveals only a dozen or so documents that appear to be bills or bank statements, most of which are covered in bold red-colored font.

I switch to the internet icon and wait as the page loads mercilessly slowly, before navigating to the history tab and scanning the list of web pages Randy last visited.

By their URLs, most appear to be porn sites, and I cringe at the thought of Randy down here looking at them.

But there is one website that I recognize as a big hotel corporation.

That must be the company Nick had mentioned was planning to buy up the surrounding land.

Despite everything, I still feel a sharp pang in my chest when I think of how close Randy came to getting out, to starting over.

I scan more of his internet history but realize within a few minutes there’s nothing helpful. I sigh, leaning back in the chair, defeated. Where else could he possibly be storing these videos?

My eyes roam the lobby. The makeshift breakfast table with a decades-old coffee machine in the corner, some threadbare couches and chairs, the door out to the back, and then…

The other door. The one to the room we saw Randy come out of when we first arrived at the Inn, which I thought was a bathroom.

I’m there within seconds, the notebook from the front desk clasped tightly in my hands. Part of me expects the door to be locked, to meet yet another obstacle, but the knob turns easily under my hand. Inside, I’m met with darkness.

I trace the side of the wall with my fingers, but there’s no light switch. So I take another step forward and nearly scream as something brushes against my cheek.

My hands fly frantically to my face, but as my fingertips touch the foreign object, I breathe out and pull down on it sharply.

The cord ignites the light above it, and I realize with a jolt that I’m not in a bathroom, as I’d assumed, but a small closet, its walls crowded with stuff. Or junk, from the looks of it.

I close the door behind me in case Randy or any others happen to walk by. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I make out the shape of discarded fold-up chairs, a few broken umbrellas, stacks of old boxes, and a large shapeless item over which a blanket has been thrown.

I grip the edge of the blanket, yanking it free to reveal exactly what I expect.

Another desktop and computer monitor, this one much more modern than the one at the front desk. I hold my breath as it boots up and the screen comes to life.

A password request. Unlike the computer on the front desk, this one has something worth hiding.

I barely finish inputting the exclamation point in “Collingwood123!” when the desktop comes to life.

I don’t have to search long. There’s only one folder saved to the desktop aside from those automatically loaded from the computer, and it’s conspicuously marked “Private.”

I click on it, and the screen floods with icons. Small pixelated images, all with the same background. The once-maroon carpet, the faded green walls. The Inn’s guest rooms.

I steal a glance at the bottom left-hand side of the corner. Seven hundred and sixty-two files.

I roll my shoulders and click on the first one.

The first minute or so captures nothing but the walls and the two beds, and despite the similarities between each of the rooms, I recognize the backdrop immediately. The chip in the wallpaper where the walls join, my shoulder bag propped in the corner. Room 13.

My room.

I fast forward impatiently until a body fills the screen. Despite how much I prepare, I still jump when I see myself wandering out of the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

It’s from earlier this morning, I realize with a start, when I thought I was entirely alone.

The skin on my arms prickles, and a shudder runs through me.

I yank at the sleeves of my T-shirt as if that will help ease how violated I feel.

I quickly close out of the video, knowing what comes next.

I can’t bear to see myself dropping the towel, standing naked, completely vulnerable for a moment before pulling back on the one pair of underwear I have with me on this trip.

Instead, I scroll down, choose another video at random. It reveals a man and a woman, both middle-aged, rummaging in their suitcases, and I quickly close out. Another attempt reveals a man in his twenties watching TV on his laptop while lying on the room’s single bed.

I scroll even further, clicking again and again, finding nothing helpful.

Eventually, after several more attempts, I toggle the folder options to show the date each video was uploaded. And then I scroll immediately to the day I’m looking for: December 25, 2015. I click on one whose file number starts with 13, which by now I’ve realized indicates the room.

The image of my room as it was ten years ago fills the screen. It sits empty as the seconds of the red time stamp tick slowly upwards. I skip ahead on the video, pausing when a figure comes into view.

I can tell immediately that it’s Phoebe. The sight of her takes my breath away. Her eyes are red, her short hair wild. She’s thin, painfully so. She moves frantically, arms flying as she throws her belongings into the black designer backpack she used to carry.

My hands tremble as I watch Phoebe’s frenzied motions.

And then, suddenly, she stops. She breathes slowly, as if to compose herself, and then turns.

Her eyes lock with the camera, like she knew it was there.

I fumble to pause the video, and Phoebe stares back at me.

Her face gaunt, eyes panicked. There’s an aura to her as well. One I don’t remember from that night.

Fear.

I don’t know how long I stare back at her, my heart silently breaking as I consider all the things I could have done differently. Everything I should have done.

Eventually, I check the time stamp: 9:34 p.m.

I think back, trying to situate the video in my memory of that night’s timeline. And I know what’s going to come next. Phoebe will leave, flee the Inn. I’ll come back to this room, anger radiating off me as I realize she’s already gone. And then I’ll take off, eager to find her.

But not before first stopping downstairs in the small room that served as the Inn’s kitchen. Nothing more than a few drawers, a stove top, and a refrigerator that barely worked. I’ll pull out one of those drawers, grab the biggest knife I can find. And I’ll go out to look for her.

Before I can watch the rest of the video, a sound breaks into the room. A soft thud, followed by another. Footsteps.

Someone’s in the lobby.

I think of Nick’s story earlier, about how Randy’s life was ruined when the construction company found Phoebe’s remains. And then I remember Randy’s anger from this morning, how he seemed ready to rip Kyan’s throat out.

What will he do if he finds me in here?

Hackles raised, I hold my breath, trying to be as quiet as possible.

The footsteps slow gradually, before coming to a stop. I can feel a presence hovering just on the other side of the door. I squeeze my eyes shut, try to will him away.

But I flick them back open when I hear another sound. One too familiar, one that signifies I can’t escape.

The slow creaking of the doorknob turning.