Page 47 of Little Last Words

“I get it. You should know, though, I won over your dad, and I’ll win you over too.”

It was strange.

A few minutes ago, all I wanted was to get away from him.

Now I wanted to stay and listen to any other stories Whitlock had to tell. I was just about to continue what had started out as a somewhat awkward conversation when a sound rang out from across the street.

A distinct sound.

It reminded me of a gun being fired.

CHAPTER18

“Was that a …” I turned toward the Seascape Hotel. “Whatever we just heard, I think it came from the hotel where Dean’s staying.”

“Yep,” Whitlock said. “I agree.”

“It sounded like a gunshot.”

“I thought the same thing. I should call it in.”

“Why?” I asked. “Just because wethinka shot was fired doesn’t mean we’re right. We need to check it out first.”

He grinned. “We, huh? Now you’re talking.”

The two of us sprinted in the hotel’s direction, darting through traffic as we rushed toward the hotel. I replayed the sound in my mind, trying to tell myself it was all just a coincidence. Even though Dean was staying at this hotel and even though I’d heard what sounded like a gunshot, there could be another explanation.

In situations like this, I tended to err on the side of the worst possible outcome imaginable. I couldn’t help it.

We made it to the hotel parking lot, and I looked around, taking in all the cars parked in the lot. Dean’s car was still there, and his wasn’t the only one I recognized.

I pointed out a car parked a couple of spaces to the right of Dean’s. “That’s Angelica DuPont’s car.”

Whitlock turned, squinting toward the vehicle I’d pointed at. “Penelope’s mother? Are you certain?”

“One hundred percent. I have a habit of not just remembering cars, but their license plate numbers.”

We exchanged worried glances and rounded the corner toward Dean’s hotel room. The door was closed when we got to it.

I knocked.

Nothing.

I tried the doorknob.

It was locked.

Whitlock was next to me, his gun drawn, ready for anything.

I pounded on the door, shouting, “Dean, are you in there? Is everything all right?”

Inside the hotel room, I heard something clank onto the floor, followed by a muffled voice.

I turned toward Whitlock. “I hear a high-pitched, squeaky voice, but I can’t make out what’s being said. Dean’s voice is low and gravelly. Someone’s in there with him, and my money’s on Angelica.”

Whitlock stepped up to the door. “Dean, it’s Detective Amos Whitlock. Open the door.”

We waited. Nothing happened, and the squeaky voice I’d heard went silent. The curtains on the window were drawn, but there was a small slit on one side. I tried looking through it, but it was too dark inside to make anything out.