Do Not Disturb: An addictive psychological thriller

by Freida McFadden

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we’ve got some leads.”

  “Did you find her phone?”

  Scott hesitates. “We tracked it to Vermont, and I’ve got an officer going over there. But we have reason to believe she’s still in the state. I don’t think she’s gone far.”

  I get a queasy feeling in my stomach. I thought dumping that cell phone in the car at the cemetery would send Scott on a wild goose chase that would give my sister at least another day of leeway. But it turns out he’s smarter than I gave him credit for.

  “Why do you say that?” I ask carefully.

  “We found out she got pulled over last night on I-93 North, just before the state line. They didn’t issue a ticket or anything like that, but she had a blown out tail light. The officer told her she had to get off the road, and he said he didn’t see her again, so he assumed she did.”

  Oh Quinn, how could you be so stupid? I chew on my thumbnail. “But that was last night. She could be hundreds of miles away by now.”

  “Maybe. But there was a blizzard going on and she was in a compact car. She probably had to get off the road anyway, even without the tail light issue. And wherever she pulled over, she may very well be stuck. Anyway, we’re checking it out.”

  I cringe. If she’s still in New Hampshire, they’ll find her soon. How did she not even manage to make it out of the state? I can get out of the state in less than two hours.

  Of course, in the weather we were having last night, without all-wheel drive or snow tires, she would’ve had to go pretty slowly. Still.

  “Scott,” I say, “you… you don’t think Quinn killed her husband, do you?”

  There’s a long silence on the other line. “I’m not sure what to think right now. But it isn’t looking good for her, Claudia. She left him lying dead in her house. And there was nobody else in the car with her when she got pulled over. It’s not like somebody was holding a gun to her head.”

  I clench my right hand into a fist. “You know her though. You know she wouldn’t do something like this.”

  “I don’t know her.”

  I’m surprised how cold Scott’s voice sounds. He dated Quinn. He was so infatuated with her. I could see it all over his face. And when she moved back here, I ran into him on the street and he started asking me all kinds of questions about her.

  “What are you talking about?” I say. “She was your girlfriend.”

  “We dated for a few months ten years ago.”

  “She was your girlfriend. I know you cared about her a lot.”

  “That was a very long time ago.” He pauses. “We were just kids then. It was nothing. I don’t know her anymore—you know she keeps to herself.”

  He’s not wrong about that. Derek and Quinn almost never entertained guests. My sister used to be outgoing, but after she got married, she turned into a hermit.

  Scott lets out a sigh. “Claudia, I have to go. If you hear anything from Quinn, let me know right away.”

  “Will you tell me if you think you know where she is?”

  “Yes.”

  But he hesitates for several seconds before answering, which makes me think he has absolutely no intention of telling me anything. Why should he? He doesn’t want me to tip her off, after all.

  Deputy Dwyer may be a better police officer than I gave him credit for. Although I still can’t believe he didn’t go into her house yesterday after he got the call about the screams.

  After I hang up with Scott, I can’t stop pacing across the living room. I was trying to give my sister a clear shot to escape the police, figuring she would contact me when they stopped looking for her, but it’s not working. How did she manage to get herself pulled over? What was she doing with a blown out tail light anyway?

  That’s when I make a split second decision:

  I’m going to look for her.

  This is New England—the main roads will be clear by now. I need to find her before the police do. I have a sense of where they pulled her over. And I know Quinn better than anyone in the world.

  I’m going to find my sister.

  Chapter 22

  It’s dark by the time I get on the road. Fortunately, the snow has been cleared from the streets, so the tires don’t slip too badly. I can only imagine Quinn taking this route last night, when the snow was really coming down. She didn’t have a chance.

  I merge onto the highway and start driving north. I filled up my tank in anticipation of the storm, so I’ve got enough gas to get me well across state lines, but I don’t think I’ll need to go that far.

  Only a day earlier, Quinn took this exact route in her attempt to escape. I imagine her gripping the steering wheel, her eyes pinned down the road. I’m the one who taught Quinn to drive. She was very responsible about it. She would sit in the driver’s seat, holding the wheel carefully in the nine and three positions, her shoulders stiff as a board. She passed the driving test on her first try, and the first thing she did was hug me.

  I can find her. I know I can.

  About an hour after I get on the road, my phone rings. I rifle around in my purse, searching for it with my fingers, but the first thing they come in contact with is the pocket knife. It’s Rob’s knife, which he uses when he goes fishing, but I borrowed it. I thought it would be a good idea to have a little protection handy. Just in case.

  My fingers finally locate my phone. I pull it out of my purse without taking my eyes off the road. I glance down at the name on the screen.

  It’s the police station.

  I put the phone on speaker and drop it into the cupholder. “Hello?” I say.

  “Claudia? It's Deputy Dwyer.”

  “Hi, Scotty.”

  There’s a pause in the other line. I wonder if I finally got to him by using his old nickname. “Listen, Claudia. Where are you?”

  I freeze. “I’m… at home.”

  “No, you’re not. I was just at your house and your husband told me you weren’t home. He said he hasn’t seen you since the morning and didn’t know where you are.”

  “Oh…”

  “Have you spoken to your husband recently?”

  “No, I don’t generally get his permission when I leave the house.”

  Scott ignores my jab. “So where are you then?

  There’s no way I can tell him where I really am. “I just stepped out for a bit. To the grocery store.”

  “I see.” He doesn’t sound like he believes me, but what can he do? Arrest me for not being home? “I’d be happy to meet you wherever you are. I’d like to speak to you.”

  A shiver runs down my spine. “About what?”

  Another silence on the other line. “I’d rather talk in person. Where are you?”

  I press my foot down on the gas, my head whipping back as the car accelerates. “Did you find Quinn?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  I don’t understand why he wants to speak to me so badly. And I don’t like the idea of meeting him somewhere that isn’t the police station. Not for the first time since I discovered my brother-in-law’s dead body, I don’t entirely trust Deputy Scott Dwyer.

  “Claudia—”

  “I’ll let you know when I get home from the grocery store,” I say.

  Before he can say another word, I hang up the phone. There’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. What does Scott want to talk to me about? What was such a secret that he couldn’t tell me about it on the phone?

  It doesn’t matter though. I’m not turning around and heading back home. I’ve come this far. I’m going to keep pushing forward.

  An hour later, I’m getting close to the end of New Hampshire. This is where Quinn must’ve been when the police officer pulled her over for the broken tail light. I keep my eyes peeled for any area she might have pulled her car into. Now that the sun is down, any liquid left on the road is starting to freeze. I have to slow down to keep my wheels from slipping.

  There’s no way she could’ve gone much furt
her than this in a snowstorm.

  And that’s when I see it. The tiny faded sign that I almost miss, but just barely catch.

  Baxter Motel.

  I don’t know why, but my gut is telling me this is where Quinn ended up. She would have been looking for something small and out-of-the-way. And this is around where she got pulled over, so she knew she had to get off the road.

  As I turn off the highway, following an equally faded sign pointing in the direction of the hotel, I pass a police car going in the opposite direction. It looks like they had the same idea I did. I slow down as much as I can and catch a glimpse of the backseat of the car. It’s empty.

  So they didn’t find Quinn at the Baxter Motel.

  I pull over on the side of the road, debating what to do next. The police obviously searched the motel and didn’t find her there. Am I wasting my time?

  But I still have that feeling. I think she would have stopped here.

  I’m going to check it out.

  Chapter 23

  The Baxter Motel is about what I might have expected from an out-of-the-way motel at a nearly nonexistent rest stop. It’s decrepit, with the sign peeling and almost rotting, abutted by an equally decrepit house and what looks like it used to be a restaurant—now abandoned. If Quinn wanted a place to sleep for the night, and didn’t want to sleep in her freezing car, this would be a perfect place to hide out.

  The light is on in the motel’s lobby. I step inside, and the first thing I see is a bucket in the center of the room, with water leaking down into it from the ceiling. There’s a desk at the far end, and a man is sitting at a desk, looking down at his phone. But when he sees me walk in, he sits up rigidly.

  I approach the desk tentatively. The guy sitting at the desk reminds me of the boys Quinn used to date in high school and college. He has those boy-next-door type of good looks, like Scotty Dwyer. That was her type—much more so than classically handsome Derek. I was always surprised she fell for Derek.

  The man doesn’t return my smile. His brown eyes are wary as they rake over me. I wonder if he recognizes me—people say Quinn and I have a resemblance although less so since she started dyeing her hair. “Yes?” he says.

  He looks suspicious of me and I haven’t even opened my mouth. Right off the bat, I sense I won’t get much out of this guy. I have to try something else.

  “Do you have any rooms for the night?” I ask.

  He narrows his eyes at me. “A room?”

  I blink at him. “This is a motel, isn’t it?”

  He looks at me for a long time, and he nods. “Yes. It’s fifty dollars a night.”

  “Cash okay?”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  He stands there, waiting while I fish around in my purse for my wallet. I pull out a twenty, two tens, and a five. I’ve got another three dollar bills, and now I’m counting change out.

  “Fine,” he says after I’ve counted out almost a dollar in change. “That’ll do.”

  I let out a breath. I thought he was going to turn me away for being fifty cents short. “Thanks.”

  “I have to go change the sheets on the bed.” He reaches under the table and pulls out a yellowing sheet of paper. “I need you to fill this out for me.”

  It’s the standard information sheet. Name, contact information, address. I’ll have to make it all up.

  The man ambles off, presumably to change the sheets on the bed, even though it’s unnecessary. I’m not going to spend the night here. I’m only going to stay long enough to get the information I need.

  I make up a fake name, and scribble in some fake address in my most illegible handwriting. My name is Melissa Smith and I live in Jefferson, New Hampshire.

  While I’m waiting for the man to return, I get out my cell phone. There’s another missed call from the police station. I don’t call Scott back. Not now, anyway. Maybe after I get back home.

  Idly, I type into the search engine on my phone: Baxter Motel New Hampshire.

  I didn’t expect to get any hits. Maybe a Facebook page with a link to a website “under construction.” But instead, my entire screen fills with stories about the Baxter Motel. And the one word present in every single result is “murder.” My heart jumps in my chest.

  “All set, ma’am.”

  I jerk my eyes up from my phone screen. That man is standing in front of me, even though I didn’t see him come back downstairs. I shove my phone back in my purse. Part of me wants to ask him if he knows that every single mention of his hotel on the Internet has the word “murder” in it. I have a feeling he does.

  I swallow. “Thanks.”

  He grabs the sheet of paper that I just got done filling out. He scans my details and rolls his eyes.

  “What?” I say.

  “Nothing.”

  “You just rolled your eyes.”

  He puts down the piece of paper on the desk. “You really want to have this conversation?”

  “What conversation?”

  “Your information is fake.” He shrugs. “It’s fine.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “What makes you so sure of that?”

  “I used to live in Jefferson. You got the zip code wrong. Way off.”

  I open my mouth, not sure how to respond to that. “I…”

  “I said it’s fine.” He waves to indicate I should follow him. “Come on upstairs, Melissa. I’m Nick, by the way.”

  I follow Nick up the stairs to the second floor. This motel could definitely use a new paint job, and it’s almost frightening how much the stairs creak as I walk up them. This motel could use a new everything.

  We pass rooms 201 and 202, and then we come to a stop in front of room 203. The door is still slightly open from when he must have changed the sheets. He drops the key into my hand. “Here you go.”

  I glance over his shoulder, into the tiny furnished motel room. At the hard bed and the tiny TV, and the small window. “Do you have anything for dinner here?”

  He shoots me an irritated look. “I can make you a sandwich.”

  “Is it included with the price of the room?”

  “I suppose it will have to be, since you didn’t even have enough money to pay for the room.”

  I look down the hallway behind him, at the two closed doors. Rooms 201 and 202. Is it possible that my sister occupied one of those rooms? It’s time to find out. “Is anyone else staying here?”

  He raises his eyebrows at me. “I respect your privacy. Maybe you could respect the privacy of the other people staying here.”

  With those words, he turns and leaves me.

  Wow, that guy really didn’t like me. I’m not sure why, because he seemed belligerent from the second I came into the hotel. Maybe it’s not me. Maybe he’s having a bad night.

  I enter the tiny motel room and shut the door behind me. I turn the lock, but then I notice a deadbolt as well. I swing it into place.

  The double bed is just as uncomfortable as it looks. I shrug off my coat and settle down onto it, and a spring jabs me in the butt. I adjust the pillows behind my back so I can sit up, but these pillows have seen better days. There are three of them, and they’re all flat as a pancake.

  My phone rings. I reach into my purse to pull it out, and Rob’s name is flashing on the screen. Undoubtedly, he’s wondering where I am. If I tell him I went off looking for Quinn, he’s not going to be thrilled. But I have to tell him something.

  I take the call, and immediately, I hear crackling on the other line. “Claudia?”

  “Hi, Rob,” I say. “Listen, I’m sorry about taking off. There’s just… There’s somewhere I had to go…”

  “Claudia, I……..” There’s a good five seconds of nothing but crackling. “What……. can’t hear…….”

  “I’m looking for Quinn,” I say. “I’ll be back late tonight. I promise.”

  There’s more crackling, and then the line goes dead. I guess the reception is still bad after the storm. Oh well. I answered the phone, so at least he k
nows I’m not dead.

  I settle down on the bed, and bring up the Internet browser on my phone. Now that I have some privacy, I can read about the Baxter Motel.

  I click on the first link, which is an article from two years ago. The headline jumps out at me: Woman Found Murdered in New Hampshire Motel. The woman in question was twenty-five-year-old Christina Marsh. She was discovered dead in one of the motel rooms. Stabbed to death. There were no signs of forced entry.

  The article notes that the owners of the hotel, Nicholas and Rosalie Baxter, were working with the police to find the perpetrator.

  I read the articles one by one, and the story materializes. The woman, Christina Marsh, had been staying at the hotel for about a week. She hadn’t left her room in a day, so Nick Baxter went to check on her. He discovered her lying dead in a pool of her own blood.

  Several of the articles mentioned a “relationship” between Nick Baxter and Christina Marsh. One went so far as to call her his girlfriend and implied the affair had been going on throughout her stay at the motel.

  He was never charged with anything, at least not according to any of the articles. And I would assume if he had been convicted of murder two years ago, he wouldn’t still be working here. So I’m guessing he was cleared.

  I look down at the bedspread underneath me. Did it happen here? Was she killed in this very room?

  I shove my phone into my purse. I’m supposed to be focused on Quinn, but something about this place makes me feel very uneasy. I need to do what I came here to do and get out.

  I crack open the door to the hotel room. The hallway is empty. Quiet. I slip into the hall and look at the other two rooms. 201 and 202. This motel isn’t much bigger than my house.

  I try room 201 first. There’s a “DO NOT DISTURB” sign hanging from the doorknob, but I ignore it as I rap my fist gently against the door. No answer. Then I knock again. Harder.

  Nothing.

  Then I try the doorknob. Locked.

  I feel this crawling sensation on the back of my neck. I whirl around, just in time to catch somebody staring at me from room 202. A watery blue eye. Some silver hair.