freak family. But if they stripped all those labels off, people might be shocked to find a normal girl beneath. Who doesn’t want to spend her days on the defensive. Who wants what everyone else wants.
To be loved.
EIGHT
KING’S COURTYARD WAS A SINGLE BUILDING OF connected rooms that arched in an L-shape around an outdoor pool. They advertised it as “water view,” but when you looked out your window all you mostly saw was your car staring back at you. There were two floors. Victoria Happel’s room was 108, first floor, tucked into the corner of the L, farthest from the office.
Yellow police tape stretched across the motel room door. I stood beside it, waiting for Mr. Stick-Up-His-Butt to finish up in the office.
Only yesterday, he’d been all interested in me — flirting and flashing his perfect smile. And now Gabriel acted as if I disgusted him. I crossed my arms and tapped my foot.
He finally came along with a lanky hunched-over man, who I assumed was the motel manager from the room keys he had bunched up in his hands. Gabriel had told me on the way over that his father had called ahead, giving the heads-up that a “trainee” was coming to take a couple more photos.
“I’d really like to know when I can rent the room again,” the manager said.
Gabriel took the key from him and began pulling a side of the yellow tape down. “It’s still a crime scene. We’ll let you know as soon as we can.”
“But, see, there are people who would be willing to pay a premium to stay in this room. Murder groupies, you know.”
“Sick,” I said.
Gabriel tossed the guy a stern look, and the manager nodded and walked off.
Gabriel entered the motel room first. I followed closely behind, a strange feeling churning in my stomach. I felt like I was watching myself act in a movie or remembering a dream. Once again, I was reminded of how much of a freak show my life was. Normal teenage girls were at home, hanging out with friends, watching TV, flirting on the phone with their boyfriends. I was in a murder room.
Gabriel closed the door behind me. The blinds were drawn, casting most of the room in shadow. Gabriel flicked on the light switch and said, “This was the victim’s room.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”
I looked around. It was your typical cheap motel room. One king-sized bed (“We’re one hundred percent king-sized at the King’s Courtyard!”), a nightstand with a reading lamp, telephone, and alarm clock, and a small TV on a dresser. The walls were dirty beige with one cheap painting of a sailboat hanging crookedly above the bed.
Gabriel sighed. “So what is it that you do?”
“Ever heard of retrocognitive psychometry?”
“Nope.”
“It’s the ability to perceive or see events that have takenplace in the past. I have that. I touch an object, focus my concentration, and sometimes I’m able to see visions of things that have occurred when someone else touched the same object.”
“Sometimes.”
“Yes. Just because it doesn’t work every time doesn’t mean it’s not real.”
“I didn’t say it’s not real.”
“I don’t have to be psychic to know how you feel right now. I just have to not be an idiot.”
I saw him almost smile, then remember he was supposed to hate me, and his face returned to a serious frown. “Point taken. I’ll sit here in the corner and watch silently.” He slumped into a chair.
“Fine. Is it okay for me to touch everything?”
“Yeah.”
I went to the bathroom first and worked my way through there, letting my fingers graze, holding the shower curtain, the hot and cold handles on the sink. Nothing interesting came. Just grainy pictures of people performing their mundane tasks. I moved out into the main room and sat on the end of the bed, letting my hands rest on the bedspread that was folded up on the edge of the bed. Immediately, it was as if I’d tuned into a porn channel with bad reception. Flashes of all kinds of sex came to me, but mostly
To be loved.
EIGHT
KING’S COURTYARD WAS A SINGLE BUILDING OF connected rooms that arched in an L-shape around an outdoor pool. They advertised it as “water view,” but when you looked out your window all you mostly saw was your car staring back at you. There were two floors. Victoria Happel’s room was 108, first floor, tucked into the corner of the L, farthest from the office.
Yellow police tape stretched across the motel room door. I stood beside it, waiting for Mr. Stick-Up-His-Butt to finish up in the office.
Only yesterday, he’d been all interested in me — flirting and flashing his perfect smile. And now Gabriel acted as if I disgusted him. I crossed my arms and tapped my foot.
He finally came along with a lanky hunched-over man, who I assumed was the motel manager from the room keys he had bunched up in his hands. Gabriel had told me on the way over that his father had called ahead, giving the heads-up that a “trainee” was coming to take a couple more photos.
“I’d really like to know when I can rent the room again,” the manager said.
Gabriel took the key from him and began pulling a side of the yellow tape down. “It’s still a crime scene. We’ll let you know as soon as we can.”
“But, see, there are people who would be willing to pay a premium to stay in this room. Murder groupies, you know.”
“Sick,” I said.
Gabriel tossed the guy a stern look, and the manager nodded and walked off.
Gabriel entered the motel room first. I followed closely behind, a strange feeling churning in my stomach. I felt like I was watching myself act in a movie or remembering a dream. Once again, I was reminded of how much of a freak show my life was. Normal teenage girls were at home, hanging out with friends, watching TV, flirting on the phone with their boyfriends. I was in a murder room.
Gabriel closed the door behind me. The blinds were drawn, casting most of the room in shadow. Gabriel flicked on the light switch and said, “This was the victim’s room.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”
I looked around. It was your typical cheap motel room. One king-sized bed (“We’re one hundred percent king-sized at the King’s Courtyard!”), a nightstand with a reading lamp, telephone, and alarm clock, and a small TV on a dresser. The walls were dirty beige with one cheap painting of a sailboat hanging crookedly above the bed.
Gabriel sighed. “So what is it that you do?”
“Ever heard of retrocognitive psychometry?”
“Nope.”
“It’s the ability to perceive or see events that have takenplace in the past. I have that. I touch an object, focus my concentration, and sometimes I’m able to see visions of things that have occurred when someone else touched the same object.”
“Sometimes.”
“Yes. Just because it doesn’t work every time doesn’t mean it’s not real.”
“I didn’t say it’s not real.”
“I don’t have to be psychic to know how you feel right now. I just have to not be an idiot.”
I saw him almost smile, then remember he was supposed to hate me, and his face returned to a serious frown. “Point taken. I’ll sit here in the corner and watch silently.” He slumped into a chair.
“Fine. Is it okay for me to touch everything?”
“Yeah.”
I went to the bathroom first and worked my way through there, letting my fingers graze, holding the shower curtain, the hot and cold handles on the sink. Nothing interesting came. Just grainy pictures of people performing their mundane tasks. I moved out into the main room and sat on the end of the bed, letting my hands rest on the bedspread that was folded up on the edge of the bed. Immediately, it was as if I’d tuned into a porn channel with bad reception. Flashes of all kinds of sex came to me, but mostly
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