Page 91 of Wyatt

Why had he suggested a hotel to meet, instead of, say, a coffee shop?

She got out and looked at her phone. No reply to her message. She sent another one.I’m here.

“He said he booked me a room. In my name.”

Her mother had gotten out, pulling her satchel over her shoulder.

“You don’t have the gun in there, do you?”

“Doesn’t do me a lot of good sitting in the glove box, does it?”

“Oh, please, Ma—”

“Calm down.” She looped her arm through RJ’s. “I haven’t yet found a reason to use it.”

RJ rolled her eyes but headed to the elevator banks.

They exited into a lobby with tall bookshelves cordoning off sofas and reading areas. RJ approached the copper-topped reception desk, smiling at the woman in the dark suit.

“I have a room here in my name,” she said and decided that sounded awkward, so, “Ruby Jane Marshall?”

She reached into her purse and pulled out ID and a credit card.

The woman reached for the ID. “The room is paid for, with an incidentals card on file.” She handed over a couple card keys. “King suite. Fifth floor.”

“How far is Pike Place Market from here?”

“C’mon, Ma.”

She found the elevator bank and took them up to the fifth floor.

“I clearly need to get out more often. I hope you can see the ocean from your room.”

They exited, and she followed the numbers down to her room.

Paused outside the door. Looked at her mother, her breath caught.

“Having cold feet?”

“I just…what if I’ve been dreaming up any feelings he has for me?”

Her mother put her hands on her shoulders. Turned her. “Listen. Remember what I said about moving forward? You just have to open the door. Take a step inside. That’s all. And, I’ve got your back.”

This time RJ didn’t roll her eyes. “Thanks, Ma.”

Her mother kissed her forehead. “That’s what moms are for.”

She opened the door.

The smell hit her like the soaking of a wave, rancid, fresh, but not so pungent that she knew to turn, run.

No, she waited until she got into the parlor of the guest room before her steps told her to slow.

“Honey, something doesn’t feel—”

“York?” Please, let it not be—

No answer. And yes, she should have stopped right then, listened to the waver of her mother’s voice, the press of her hand on RJ’s arm, but no, it was that not so latent curiosity gene, her draw toward danger—probably also inherited from her mother—that urged her forward.