“Some nights, I hear it on the hour.”
Mike considered telling the woman that a by-the-hour motel wasn’t the best place to raise a young child, but he supposed she already knew that. It wasn’t his place to pass judgment, and, most likely, there wasn’t anything she could do about her circumstances. “Did you get a look at the person? See a car, maybe? Can you tell me anything in particular? Did the person have a tattoo? Or walk with a limp? Anything?”
The woman shrugged. “Black coat, black hat, black boots, and between the bitch of a snowstorm and the fact Sam still hasn’t fixed the motion lights, that’s all I got. Person might as well have been a shadow.”
A sound, like a roll-up shade, caught their attention.
Sam appeared in the office doorway, sipping from the old coffee mug.
His presence shut the woman right up. She crushed out half a cigarette after smoking the first one to the filter. “I have to go.”
Mike couldn’t stand to lose a lead, no matter how vague. “Can you tell me anything else about the voices you heard, or maybe how tall the person you saw leaving was? Anything at all?”
“Been about all the help I can be,” the woman said.
“How about height and weight?”
The woman lowered her voice. “I’m no good at sizing people up, but I’d guess they were no taller than five foot five, five foot six, maybe, and they were skinny.”
“Like a woman?” Misty moved quickly to the head of the suspect line.
“Maybe, I don’t know. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.” The woman glanced at Samuel and hurried inside.
CHAPTER 14
The fractured light of the stained glass lamp cast shadows across Ana’s living room where she sat, crying, holding Dr. Alan Sanders’s business card in one hand and a bottle of Xanax in the other. Making the funeral arrangements thrust her so deep into mourning that she considered chasing all thirty pills with the bottle of vodka on the coffee table in front of her. Sydney’s death was finally real, and the loneliness, the sadness that came with it, would either strengthen Ana, or break her. The choice was hers. She threw the sedatives as hard as she could against the wall, the voice of her conscience sounding an awful lot like Sydney’s, and dialed Dr. Sanders’s office.
The phone rang, and when the switchboard operator answered, Ana sniffled.
“Dr. Alan Sanders’s office, how many I help you?” Heavy static crackled on the line.
“I’d like to speak with Dr. Sanders, please.”
“I’m sorry, we have a bad connection. Is this a medical emergency?”
“No, but—”
“This number is for medical emergencies only. The office reopens at nine a.m. You can try back then, or I can relay a message.”
“It’s important he gets back to me. My name is Ana Ashmore. My sister is a patient of his. Her name is Sydney Dowling.” She wasn’t yet ready to speak in the past tense.
The static became louder. “I’m sorry,” the operator said. “Can you repeat that name for me?”
“Dowling. D-O-W-L-I-N-G.” Ana overenunciated as she shouted Sydney’s name. “Have him call me at 518-222-1515.” The crackling disappeared. “Hello?” Ana pulled the phone away from her ear. Tears blurred the small screen. “Hello?”
The line went dead.
“Dammit.”
Ana slammed the phone down and picked up the vodka. She rolled the chilled bottle between her hands, her body heat melting a band around the middle, and took a long swig. The fiery liquid burned down her throat, and worse than the taste, was the smell. It reminded her of the vomit on Sydney’s lips as she performed CPR, too late to save her. Ana poured the rest of the bottle down the kitchen-sink drain, and turned to see Ethan standing outside the front door. She smoothed her hair behind her ears and dried her eyes before answering it. Mascara didn’t so easily wipe off, and she was sure she looked a mess.
“What’re you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood. I thought you
Mike considered telling the woman that a by-the-hour motel wasn’t the best place to raise a young child, but he supposed she already knew that. It wasn’t his place to pass judgment, and, most likely, there wasn’t anything she could do about her circumstances. “Did you get a look at the person? See a car, maybe? Can you tell me anything in particular? Did the person have a tattoo? Or walk with a limp? Anything?”
The woman shrugged. “Black coat, black hat, black boots, and between the bitch of a snowstorm and the fact Sam still hasn’t fixed the motion lights, that’s all I got. Person might as well have been a shadow.”
A sound, like a roll-up shade, caught their attention.
Sam appeared in the office doorway, sipping from the old coffee mug.
His presence shut the woman right up. She crushed out half a cigarette after smoking the first one to the filter. “I have to go.”
Mike couldn’t stand to lose a lead, no matter how vague. “Can you tell me anything else about the voices you heard, or maybe how tall the person you saw leaving was? Anything at all?”
“Been about all the help I can be,” the woman said.
“How about height and weight?”
The woman lowered her voice. “I’m no good at sizing people up, but I’d guess they were no taller than five foot five, five foot six, maybe, and they were skinny.”
“Like a woman?” Misty moved quickly to the head of the suspect line.
“Maybe, I don’t know. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.” The woman glanced at Samuel and hurried inside.
CHAPTER 14
The fractured light of the stained glass lamp cast shadows across Ana’s living room where she sat, crying, holding Dr. Alan Sanders’s business card in one hand and a bottle of Xanax in the other. Making the funeral arrangements thrust her so deep into mourning that she considered chasing all thirty pills with the bottle of vodka on the coffee table in front of her. Sydney’s death was finally real, and the loneliness, the sadness that came with it, would either strengthen Ana, or break her. The choice was hers. She threw the sedatives as hard as she could against the wall, the voice of her conscience sounding an awful lot like Sydney’s, and dialed Dr. Sanders’s office.
The phone rang, and when the switchboard operator answered, Ana sniffled.
“Dr. Alan Sanders’s office, how many I help you?” Heavy static crackled on the line.
“I’d like to speak with Dr. Sanders, please.”
“I’m sorry, we have a bad connection. Is this a medical emergency?”
“No, but—”
“This number is for medical emergencies only. The office reopens at nine a.m. You can try back then, or I can relay a message.”
“It’s important he gets back to me. My name is Ana Ashmore. My sister is a patient of his. Her name is Sydney Dowling.” She wasn’t yet ready to speak in the past tense.
The static became louder. “I’m sorry,” the operator said. “Can you repeat that name for me?”
“Dowling. D-O-W-L-I-N-G.” Ana overenunciated as she shouted Sydney’s name. “Have him call me at 518-222-1515.” The crackling disappeared. “Hello?” Ana pulled the phone away from her ear. Tears blurred the small screen. “Hello?”
The line went dead.
“Dammit.”
Ana slammed the phone down and picked up the vodka. She rolled the chilled bottle between her hands, her body heat melting a band around the middle, and took a long swig. The fiery liquid burned down her throat, and worse than the taste, was the smell. It reminded her of the vomit on Sydney’s lips as she performed CPR, too late to save her. Ana poured the rest of the bottle down the kitchen-sink drain, and turned to see Ethan standing outside the front door. She smoothed her hair behind her ears and dried her eyes before answering it. Mascara didn’t so easily wipe off, and she was sure she looked a mess.
“What’re you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood. I thought you
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