“Hit me,” I whisper.

  Sanchez dispenses with pleasantries. “Claire Holt doesn’t exist.”

  I rub my temple. “Figured. What else?”

  “The name attached to the car is Andrea Clemmons. She was a witness in a federal securities fraud case five years ago. Testified against a hedge fund crook named Vincent Dane out of San Francisco. Big deal at the time. The name Claire Holt’s a dead end. On paper she’s solid... credit card, Social, license... but it’s all too clean. Nothing before five years ago. That screams Witness Protection, which tracks. They build airtight identities, but they don’t give you a past.” He says it like I’m new to this; truth is, I don’t mind the refresher. “She went into witness protection for about a year, then dropped off the map. No trace until now.”

  “Funny.”

  “Funny how?”

  “Plates don’t usually come back to witnesses in protection.”

  “Could’ve been a second car,” he says. “One she kept under the radar. But it’s sloppy if so. Either way, someone found her.”

  “And killed her. For revenge?”

  “Seems that way.”

  “Think the feds will care?” I ask.

  Sanchez scoffs. “Only if it leaks. If she was out of the system, they’ll pretend she never existed.”

  “Got it, and thanks, amigo.”

  “Be careful. Jimbo. Let me know if you need me to come up there and save the day... again.”

  “Will do,” I say and hang up, then lean against the wall.

  Andrea Clemmons. Star witness in a high-dollar fraud case. Forced into witness protection, new name, new life. She picked a foggy little inn at the edge of nowhere, paid in cash, and maybe thought she could finally breathe. Instead, someone ended her story… with a seashell flourish. Hell of a way to go.

  A soft creak. A door easing shut at the far end of the hallway.

  Room Eleven. If memory serves, it’s registered to a guy named Dorian Finche. Haven’t seen him yet. He skipped dinner last night, skipped breakfast too. The ledger said he was here with a young daughter, I believe. But I’ve seen no trace of her. No toys. No laughter. No kid energy drifting down the halls. Just silence; the kind that sets my teeth on edge.

  I pad down the hall on cat feet. No limp, no pain, no creak of the old floorboards under me. I don’t knock. I just listen, keeping to the side of the peephole.

  And I can’t shake the suspicion that someone on the other side of the door is doing the exact same thing.

  I back off and return to my room. First stop: the ledger. Yup, Dorian Finche, checked in with a daughter, ten years old.

  So where the hell are they?

  And who opened the door to Room Eleven?

  Chapter Six

  Every good detective novel tells you the same thing: once the body drops, the clock starts ticking. I don’t disagree.

  But what those books rarely mention is the other sound you start hearing besides the ticking, is the whispering, usually low and hushed and just out of reach. Every glance becomes loaded. Every smile, too wide. Every silence, too long.

  It’s coming on noon when I head to the dining room, where the coffee has gone cold and the guests are gathering in small, uncomfortable clumps. The mood is somewhere between funeral reception and jury duty orientation.

  I stand at the edge of the room and look them over.

  The Seven Remaining Guests:

  Suspect #1: Graham Willis. Mid-40s. British. Flashes too many teeth when he smiles. Claims to teach yoga in Santa Barbara. Wears white sneakers with scuffed soles and has a stress fracture limp he tries to hide. Talks too much.

  Suspect #2 and #3: David and Leah Russo. Married, barely. Late 30s. She’s glued to her phone. He’s presently nursing a hangover and avoids eye contact with everyone, especially his wife. I heard them arguing earlier about “money” and “something stupid you said.”

  Suspect #4: Marjorie Day. Former actress. Wears more perfume than oxygen. Loves attention. Loves gossip more. Claims she used to “do Shakespeare on the West End” but misquoted Hamlet twice in one conversation (according to Cindy).

  Suspect #5: Eddie “Fix-It” Owens. The handyman. Probably in his 60s, walks with a limp, smells like motor oil and lemon drops. I’ve only seen him twice, once carrying a mop and once muttering about a fuse box.

  Suspect #6 and #7: Dorian Finche and his daughter. On the guest registry. Occupants of Room Eleven. But the room seems unused, and no one’s seen them, other than Fran. No bags, no toiletries, no one coming or going. I don’t like it.

  Harold steps into the dining room and clears his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, we appreciate your patience. The police have asked that everyone remain on-site for the next few days, or until they finish their investigation.”

  A flurry of objections follows, especially from Leah, who looks about ready to lawyer up.

  “You can’t hold us here,” she says, standing now. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “This is ridiculous,” David adds, but with less heat, as if he’s worried the attention might stick.

  “Are we under suspicion?” Marjorie demands. “Because I’ll have you know I was in my room rehearsing a monologue when all this happened.”

  “You were screaming at your cat, Marj,” Graham says with a tight smile.

  “She’s method,” someone mutters.

  Harold tries to calm them, hands raised, voice cracking. “It’s just temporary. Please, stay calm.”

  I let the moment stretch thin, then step in.

  “Let’s make this easier,” I say, as friendly as I can manage despite my imposing

  (some might even say hulking) size. “Why don’t we all just share where we were last night, between, say, midnight and three?”

  The room goes silent.

  “I was asleep,” David blurts.

  “So was I,” Leah adds, a beat too late.

  “I read until about one,” Graham offers. “Then I put on my sleep mask and drifted off to the sound of the crashing waves.”

  “Graham snores like a chainsaw,” Marjorie says.

  He shrugs. “Then I’ve got an alibi.”

  “I was running lines,” Marjorie declares with a dramatic wave. “Alone.”

  I nod, then glance toward the hallway. “Mr. Fix-It?”

  Eddie appears like a reluctant shadow. He clears his throat. “I was in the basement last night. Boiler kept tripping. Had to reset it twice.”

  “Anyone see you?”

  “Nope.”

  Convenient, I think, but all I say is, “Noted.”

  He frowns and melts back into the hallway.

  None of this is much. But it’s enough to tell me someone here is lying. Maybe more than one someone. After all, I heard footsteps around three a.m., and I was only two doors down from Claire’s room.

  “Thanks, everyone,” I say aloud. “Just gathering details for, you know, the police.”

  Not technically a lie. I’ll tell them I’m working the case eventually, but right now the room’s too hot. Too many shifting eyes.

  And one name on that registry still hasn’t shown up. He and his daughter.

  For now, I turn to Fran and Harold. “And you two?”

  “Both in our room, asleep,” they answer in near-perfect unison. Almost rehearsed.

  What in the Agatha Christie is going on here?

  Chapter Seven

  It’s early afternoon by the time I head back to Room Seven.

  The detectives are gone, called off to review hotel footage and check in with someone higher up the food chain. They’ve left one officer behind, a stocky kid with a tight crew cut who looks like he spends half his life in the gym and the other half memorizing procedure.

  He gives me a long, suspicious once-over before stepping aside to let me in. Probably wondering what I’m doing here. Probably also wondering if he could take me.

  Quick answer: not a chance

  Still, he lets me through. The license in my wallet doesn’t carry any official power, but it buys me a little professional courtesy every now and then. This is one of those times. Enough to get me inside, at least.

  Claire Holt’s body (Andrea Clemmons’ body) is gone now. What remained is a faint depression in the carpet where she’d lain, the fibers pressed flat, darker in some spots. The kind of imprint you don’t need chalk to see.

  The bed is still made. Nightstand tidy. A paperback mystery is tucked under the pillow. I reach for it and read the back. Something about a vampire mama, a witch, and a werewolf attorney. Realistic stuff, obviously. I return it to the pillow. There’s a glass of water on the table by her bed. I remember seeing it from before. No obvious signs of a struggle. No overturned furniture. No blood.

  I take more pictures, then glance in her trash can and note it’s empty, though lined in plastic. I take pictures of the bathroom. There’s a single toothbrush. She was here alone. No surprise there. I knew that already.

  If she was murdered, the killer had done a helluva job making it look clean. Then why dirty it up with the whole sand-dollar-in-the-mouth business? What the hell was that all about?

  I circle the room slowly, taking an abundance of pictures.

  The sand dollar is gone, of course, bagged and tagged as evidence, but I remember how it sat in her mouth like a sick joke.

  I snag a tissue from a Kleenex box in the bathroom, use said tissue to open the top drawer of the nightstand. Inside are a pair of socks, a receipt from a nearby corner market, and a peppermint candy that expired ten years ago. No ID. No wallet. No purse. Nothing that says who she really was, or who she was pretending to be.

  Either the killer took it all… or the cops did. Unsurprisingly, even small-town police know how to work a crime scene.

  The closet is empty except for two hangers and a folded towel on the top shelf. I tap the wall behind it. Solid enough.

  I move to the window.

  It’s one of those quaint bay-style setups, three long panes with only the center one stationary; the outer two are latched. The view outside is incredible: gray ocean, rocky cliffs, and gulls circling in the fog like winged ghosts. It’s the kind of view you write poems about. Or jump from. We have the same view from our room, just two doors down.

  It’s twelve feet up. No balcony. No ledge. Just stucco and ivy. The screen is in place. A metal latch is locked from the inside. I jiggle it once. Solid.

  I step back, circle the bed, and crouch low where the body had been stretched out in silent repose. There’s a ghost of her weight still imprinted in the carpet. I snap a few more photos: the dip in the pile, the angle of the dresser, the lines of the window, the lock on the door.

  On the surface, it’s just a room. But the pieces are tugging at me, trying to fit together. If it was poison as the foam at her lips suggested, then it, the poison, had done the heavy lifting. The rest is theater.

  A gut feeling is forming...

  Chapter Eight

  It’s mid-afternoon when I knock on Room Eleven again.

  Once. Twice. Nothing. Not that I expected anything else.

  According to the guest log, Dorian Finche checked in the same day as Claire Holt. Paid by credit card. Gave a cell number. All the boxes checked. But no one’s seen him or his kid. No movement inside, either. Just a name on a registry line and a door that stays shut. Which means it’s time to say hello.

  I head back downstairs and find Fran in the kitchen, aggressively polishing a silver tray. She jumps a little when I clear my throat.

  “Jim,” she says. “You startled me.”

  “Sorry. I’d like the extra key to Room Eleven, please.”

  She frowns. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t think Dorian Finche is in there. I’m worried about his kid, too.”

  Her eyes flick up, quick as a guilty thought, before she masks it with a tight smile. “Of course he’s in there. Harold personally checked him in.”

  “I’d like to verify his whereabouts.”

  Fran hesitates, knuckles whitening around the tray. “You’re not law enforcement.”

  “You asked for my help,” I remind her.

  She chews her lip, then sighs and reaches for the master key ring. Her hand lingers on it. “If the police ask, I didn’t authorize this.”

  “They won’t ask.”

  Her face tightens, like she’s about to argue, then she drops the keys into my palm. Probably a good thing, because I was two seconds from bashing in the door.

  ***

  Room Eleven sits at the far end of the second floor, next to a linen closet and across from a grandfather clock.

  The lock clicks open; the door swings wide.

  And reveals absolutely nothing.

  The bed is made, the desk spotless, and the closet empty. Neither a sock, nor a shoe, nor a stray anything. Definitely no suitcase for a kid, and no backpack, either. Just one black roller bag parked in the corner under the TV, zipped shut.

  I promptly unzip it. Inside is a crisp dress shirt still in plastic, a disposable razor, a toothbrush, a pack of gum. No underwear. No socks. No ID.

  No indication of a kid, either.

  I sit on the edge of the bed. Whoever stayed here didn’t really stay here. A front maybe, not a room.

  The window overlooks the back lot and a strip of woods beyond the fence. Perfect for someone who wants to slip in and out without being noticed.

  I glance around one last time and spot the trash can beneath the desk. It’s empty except for two scraps of paper. The first is a torn corner of hotel stationery, with words written in blocky print: “She cornered me. What do you want to do?”

  The blocky letters look like they were pressed hard, as if the writer was afraid of something.

  My pulse skips. Claire must’ve confronted him. Or Harold. Or maybe both.

  About what, though?

  The second scrap is wadded tight, which I expertly unwad. It’s a receipt for a one-way taxi fare. Drop-off: bus depot, 11:45 p.m. Paid cash.

  The two pieces fit too neatly to ignore. She found out. She pushed for more information. Then Dorian (or someone) sent word up the chain, asking for instructions.

  I fold the papers and slip them into my pants pocket.

  The man in Room Eleven may exist. But the question he asked and the answer he received, may have sealed Claire’s fate.

  Chapter Nine

  Fran’s at the front desk this time, rearranging brochures with nervous energy.

  “Fran,” I say. “I’d like to see the inn’s security footage.”

  She stiffens. “The police have it.”

  “They have the footage from the night Claire died, I know.” I lean on the counter. “But that’s not what I’m asking for.”

  Her brow furrows. “Then what are you asking for?”

  “The day Claire checked in, which just so happens to be the same day as Dorian Finche. I want to see them both walk through that door.” I point dramatically at the inn’s front doors.

  She promptly shakes her head. “The police didn’t ask for that.”

  “Which is why I’m asking for it now. I just need a few hours of the check-in day, for both of them.” I give her the times I’m looking for based on the records in the registry.

  She presses her lips together, clearly debating how much to protest. “What could that possibly tell you?”

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Claire Holt looked like a woman on the run. I want to see if she was being followed. And I want to make sure Dorian checked in with his kid. Simple as that.”

  Her hands twitch, then pull back. “You’re not law enforcement; I don’t have to give it to you.”

  “You brought me in, Fran. You asked for my help. This is me helping.” I feel like a broken record.

  She hesitates long enough for it to feel like a confession, then finally pulls out an iPad from under the desk. Enters her password, presses a button. Once she’s in, she pulls up an app or two, flips to the day in question, and we both watch the screen as the lobby appears, timestamp in the corner: 3:17 p.m. Claire walks in, duffel bag slung over her shoulder, scanning the room like she’s checking for hitmen. She crosses the lobby alone and is greeted by Harold. They speak, and she pulls out a wad of cash. A thick wad of hundreds, in fact. She signs the guest log, looks around some more, then exits with key in hand, presumably heading for her room.

  “Forward it,” I say.

  At 4:02 p.m., Dorian Finche enters, tall, neat in a gray windbreaker. It’s the first time I’ve seen him, and I take a keen interest in everything. He pulls the familiar suitcase behind him and props it up next to him near the counter. Half-hidden in the shadows is a blond girl of about ten, clutching a pink backpack in front of her like a shield.

  “Freeze it there,” I say.

  Fran does. The screen captures it: Dorian ringing the bell on the counter, the girl’s eyes flicking toward the door, lips pressed thin.

  Fran clears her throat. “Satisfied?”

  I study the kid. The way she hunches her shoulders, the way her body leans ever so slightly away from the man beside her. Satisfied isn’t the word.

  And then, amazingly, Claire comes back into view, hurrying to the girl. She bends down, takes the girl’s hand with both of hers. Dorian looks perplexed, asks Claire something the microphone doesn’t catch. I see now the little girl is crying, wiping away tears the camera doesn’t quite register.

  In the end, Dorian shoos Claire away. She goes, reluctantly.

  “Yeah,” I say finally. “That’ll do.”

  But my gut knows better. I’d just watched the real reason Claire Holt ended up dead.

  Chapter Ten

  Later that day, I find myself in downtown Carmel-by-the-Sea, which looks like a Disney village built for people with too much money and too many little dogs.

  Or maybe this is where mystery writers come to retire: cobblestone walkways, hand-painted signs, shops with names like Whisker’s Cottage and The Quill and Thistle. A chocolatier charges an arm and a leg for a single truffle, and the local bookstore lines up hardbacks in the window like Playboy centerfolds.