One Day Earlier
Even through the snow and darkness, I can see how attractive she is.
She has blond hair, the same as Christina Marsh did. She’s clutching her luggage as she shuffles through the freezing rain from her car to the motel door. I watch from my perch at the bedroom window, willing her to turn around. But she doesn’t turn around. She pushes the door open and goes inside.
She probably doesn’t know the motel’s sordid history. We have quite the reputation. The Murder Motel, they called us.
It’s been two years since Christina Marsh was found murdered in room 201. For a couple of weeks, I was certain Nick was going to be taken away in handcuffs, but ultimately, they never arrested him. It’s a good thing, because we were broke enough as it was, and we never could have afforded a decent lawyer. But the consensus on the Internet was that he murdered her.
Even my family thought he was a killer. My mother called me up a week after it all went down. “Come home, Rosalie. You can’t stay with that man.”
She always called me Rosalie. Everyone called me Rosalie. Nick is the only one who ever called me Rosie.
“I’m not leaving my husband,” I told her.
“He cheated on you and then killed that girl. Watch— you’ll be next.”
“Mom!”
But I wasn’t surprised. My mother was never supportive of anything I did, including marrying Nick. It didn’t matter
that I loved him. She thought I could do better. Not that I could do better these days. If I weren’t with Nick, I would be alone for the rest of my life.
Nick has been doing what he can to make money. He took some online web design courses, and now he is doing freelance work so we don’t go broke. He’s been talking about trying to sell the motel, but after Christina was killed there, he can’t pay somebody to take it off his hands.
He usually does his freelance computer work at the front desk in the motel. Never here. He doesn’t want to be around me anymore, and it’s hard to blame him. After what happened with Christina, our relationship got even worse, if that were possible. We barely speak two words to each other anymore. We haven’t made love once since her death.
Sometimes I’m not sure we ever will again.
I see movement in the motel on the second floor. Then the lights flicker on in room 203. Nick has chosen a room for the guest.
And now I get out my binoculars.
Nick still doesn’t know about the binoculars, and that I’ve been using them to spy on his guests—he’d be furious. I have tried to use restraint about it. I don’t spy on him all the time. For the most part, the binoculars stay shut in a drawer. But sometimes I get them out in an emergency.
An attractive woman showing up at the motel counts as an emergency. Hey, it’s not my fault that my husband has proven himself not to be trustworthy.
Sometimes when I’m staring across into the hotel with my binoculars, I feel ill about what my life has become. That night two years ago, Nick stopped me before I took all those pills in my medicine cabinet. But the truth is, I still think about it a lot. Except now it’s too late. I can’t stand on my own anymore, even when holding onto the sink, and the pills are too high for me to reach. So I keep on living, by default.
I raise the binoculars to my eyes and look into room
203. Close up, she is decidedly very pretty. Maybe in her late twenties. Blond hair. A little bony compared with Christina, but still very attractive. I watch as she paces across the room. She looks anxious.
I wonder if she’s in any trouble. After all, she pulled into a seedy motel in the middle of the snowstorm.
Or maybe she’s here to make trouble.
She pauses for a moment. She walks over to the door to her room and flings it open. Nick is standing there, holding a plate of food out to her.
Gosh, isn’t he nice? The kind, handsome owner of the motel thoughtfully brought her some dinner. I bet he didn’t even charge her, as if we could spare the money. I can just imagine her swooning over that one.
I watch them chatting for a moment, wishing I could hear what they’re saying. But more than that, I wish I could trust him.
But I can’t.
