Page 47

Claire

Now

“I’m coming with you,” Declan insists after a brief pause. “But how will we get inside? Randy must have closed it up after this morning.”

“Maybe he hid a spare key somewhere. If not, then I’ll break a window. I’m about to be arrested for murder; I think the police are going to be a bit too preoccupied to be concerned with a vandalism charge.”

My answer reflects a confidence I don’t quite feel.

It takes a while, Declan considering other infeasible options that don’t involve breaking and entering, but eventually we come up with a rough plan. Get inside; watch the remaining videos, focusing on the ones that feature room 11, Ellery’s room; get the evidence; get out.

We wait until the sounds from the other rooms have fizzled out and silence has covered the Royal Hotel like a blanket. When the clock finally ticks over to midnight, we tiptoe out of the room, down the stairs, and through the front door of the hotel, barely daring to exhale.

And then we’re out in the night, the air immediately smelling like danger.

I glance upwards, prepared for the glittering show the night sky usually puts on, but tonight the stars are hidden behind a rolling curtain.

The faint smell of smoke from earlier seems stronger, and I remember the wildfire warnings.

They must be getting closer. But the realization doesn’t ignite fear.

If anything, it’s motivating. I pick up the pace as we head to the Inn.

I need to get to those videos before it’s too late.

At one point, Declan slips his hand into mine, my fingers coming alive at his touch. Neither of us acknowledge it. We just continue walking, fingers laced. Even in the face of everything, the lies, the truths, the history, this feels good. Right.

But any warm feelings fade as we approach the Inn.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it looks like an entirely different place than it was this morning.

Police tape is looped around the parking area where Randy’s crappy pick-up truck and our useless rental cars still sit, forgotten like some never-visited monuments.

The front of the building looks even more run-down, more desolate than it does in the daytime.

I stop and take it in, the reality of what we’re about to do finally hitting me. Declan squeezes my hand in his, and when I look over, his eyes are clear, reassuring. It’s enough to propel me forward.

As we approach the door, I pull my hand from Declan’s and begin searching around the building for either a spare key or something large enough to crash through one of the windows.

“Wait,” he whispers, going instead to the door. He places his hand softly on the handle, and it turns easily under his palm, the door opening without resistance.

“Well, that was easier than expected,” I say with a slight chuckle, and I wait to feel relief, but realization strikes me instead. Randy wouldn’t simply leave the building unlocked. That would be too easy.

I hear a small noise from somewhere nearby. An unidentifiable sound filtering through the night. There’s something off about all of this; I just can’t tell what it is.

“Randy must not have locked up after the police left.” Declan shrugs, and I nod as if I believe him, but I notice the white crease in his forehead that tells me he shares my hesitation. I remember from last time we were here that Randy has an apartment in town. It’s where he spends his nights.

We tiptoe in, neither of us daring to turn on the lights, reaching our hands out straight ahead as our eyes adjust, feeling as we go to avoid colliding with anything. An eerie darkness drapes over the lobby.

After a few steps, my eyes begin to adjust. I take in the front desk, the small table and chairs, and I find myself aching for a time when our full group would sit together each morning for breakfast, before losing Tomas, and Phoebe, and then Hari, and now possibly Kyan.

Before everything went so drastically wrong.

Finally, we reach the door to the closet where Randy keeps the computer. I pull it open, preparing to step forward. But I stop short.

The chairs we sat in earlier are folded up neatly against the wall, the stacks of boxes still in place.

But the computer is gone.

“No.” My voice is loud, too loud.

“Maybe the police found it,” Declan says, but it’s clear he doesn’t believe that. He seems like he’s about to say something more, but before he can, a noise hits my eardrums. Loud and savage. A grunt.

My spine stiffens, every muscle in my body tensing. Someone’s here.

The sound comes again, followed by another pause.

Declan and I freeze.

It’s coming from out back, and I walk from the closet to the rear door, noticing a light through the window that wasn’t there when we walked in.

I move towards it to peer out, but as I do, a figure fills the window.

“Claire!” Declan whispers urgently. But it’s as if my muscles are frozen, my feet glued to the floor. I feel his fingers wrap around my wrist as he yanks me away from the door just as it flies open, inches from me.

We manage to make it a few steps away so that we’re standing at the bottom of the staircase, our backs flattened against the wall, by the time the door ricochets right where I’d been standing seconds ago.

The figure that comes into the lobby is breathing hard, anger radiating off him. I force myself even further into the wall.

He’s so close that his smell wafts into my nostrils. A musty, familiar scent.

Randy.

He doesn’t turn on the lobby light, and I send up a silent prayer of gratitude. If he did, he would surely see us. Instead, he moves forward to the closet, and I realize, with a stab of regret, that we never shut its door. He grunts again, muttering something under his breath, and slams it shut.

I wait for him to turn, knowing that when he does, we will be entirely and utterly exposed. For the second time tonight, I feel Declan’s hand snake silently into mine, and I squeeze back.

Randy stands in front of the closet door for a moment, his spindly limbs suddenly looking larger, more formidable.

I don’t dare to move an inch, to even inhale.

And as if my prayer has been answered, he turns in the opposite direction, walking away from us. He stops for a second as he looks to the right, taking in the backyard, and there’s something sad in his gesture.

And then he continues onwards, through the front door without pausing.

Seconds later comes the telltale click of the lock in the door, but still, I don’t dare to move.

I don’t know how long I wait there, long after I hear the engine of Randy’s truck roar to life, his tires crunching on the dirt parking lot as he pulls out, until Declan nudges me.

His touch sparks me back to life.

I rush to the back door, throwing it open and racing outside, although I already know what I’m going to see.

A fire roars in the pit, flagrantly violating all the wildfire warnings. An unidentifiable metallic smell emanates from its source.

“The computer,” I say flatly, watching the flames lick the dark sky. Even with the warmth from the fire, I’m cold. It’s an unbearable, bone tickling cold that invades my skin from every which way. I begin to shiver, slightly at first, then uncontrollably.

Because I realize what this means.

There’s nothing left to connect Ellery or anybody other than me to Phoebe’s murder. Nothing to even show that Randy had been filming us.

The AFP are coming in a few hours to arrest me. With the proof they have, I’ll no doubt be convicted, sentenced to rot in some Australian prison. Forced to spend the rest of my life in this country.

Just like Phoebe.

Suddenly, I feel movement behind me, and Declan is there. I fall into him, my legs giving out, tears pooling in my eyes.

“Hey, hey,” he says, pulling me up to face him. “It’s going to be okay.”

But I can’t bring myself to meet his eye.

He brushes back the hair from my forehead so delicately that it makes the tears come faster.

“I’m going to do everything I can to protect you from this. I’ll stay with you in Australia for as long as it takes.”

Slowly, I lift my chin to meet his gaze. Those hazel eyes that I used to know so well stare back at me. And the meaning of what he’s saying slowly trickles through the shock of the last few minutes.

I’m not alone.

They’re the words I’ve longed to hear all this time. Since I returned to Australia without Phoebe. Since I lost my mother. Since I forged a life based in solitude and isolation and guilt.

Before I can stop myself, I lean forward, pressing my lips against his. I know this isn’t the time and it’s certainly not the place, but I can’t help myself.

His lips are tentative at first, fleeting, as though he wants to resist. But he must reach the same conclusion that I do. That another time may never come.

And then he’s kissing me back, hard. He lifts me up, and I wrap my legs tightly around his waist.

Effortlessly, he carries me back to the Inn, where I shove the door open behind me, my lips never straying from his. He leads me up the stairs, and as if on autopilot, he guides me to the room he was staying in, using the key he still has to open the door, and we tumble inside.

He lays me down gently on his twin-size bed, his lips exploring every part of my skin, and it’s only a moment before I lose myself to him entirely.