An Unwanted Guest

‘I don’t know. Had you ever met Dana Hart or Candice White before?’

Lauren answers firmly, ‘No, of course not.’ When Sorensen says nothing, Lauren leans forward earnestly. ‘You have no idea what it was like, being trapped here with all this going on. Last night, when everyone ran off into the dark – David running after Matthew, the rest of us running outside after Riley …’ She shakes her head, as if in disbelief that it ever happened. ‘It was so dark, you couldn’t tell where anybody was. But then I heard Gwen – she must have been nearby, I could hear her breathing, sliding on the ice. She sounded like she was panicking, as if she thought someone was after her.’ Lauren pauses, as if reliving the memory of those awful moments when everything was falling apart. She whispers, ‘I heard her calling my name. But I didn’t answer. I thought maybe, if the killer was there, he would follow her, instead of me. So I kept very quiet.’ A sob escapes from her throat. And then she is crying in earnest.

Sorensen gives her time to recover. She’s patient. She offers the box of tissues. Officer Lachlan waits, his pen poised above his notebook.

Finally, Lauren says, ‘I’m not proud of that.’ She looks up at her. ‘But I certainly didn’t kill anybody.’ She reaches for a drink of water.

Sorensen notes that Lauren’s hand is shaking as she brings the glass to her lips. ‘Take your time,’ she says.

Lauren continues. ‘I’ve been trying to think of signs that I might have missed, signs that Ian might be insane, but honestly – there weren’t any.’ She stares across the table at Sorensen with dark, disbelieving eyes. ‘He seemed completely normal to me. He charmed everyone. He was so … likeable. People warmed to him, just like I did. It’s so unnerving, to think that you might be so wrong about someone, so … taken in. I certainly never saw any cruelty in him. I thought – I thought that he was someone I could become serious about.’

‘True psychopaths can be very convincing,’ Sorensen says.

Lauren looks back at her, her face bleak. ‘I don’t think you have any idea how frightening it was, sitting in that room all night knowing there was a murderer somewhere nearby, waiting to see what was going to happen next.’

‘I can’t imagine,’ Sorensen says.

As Lauren is leaving, Officer Perez taps at the dining-room door. Sorensen turns and asks, ‘What is it?’

Perez enters the room and speaks to her in a low voice. ‘I’ve just remembered something. It might be important.’ She nods. ‘You wanted to know if I or Wilcox had ever heard of the author Candice White. I thought the name sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it. I thought maybe it was someone my wife read. She reads a lot of books.’

Sorensen nods her head again impatiently. ‘Yes?’

‘But actually I’ve read one of her books. She wrote a true crime book a few years ago that I quite enjoyed. That’s pretty much all I read.’

‘Is that so?’ Sorensen says. ‘What was it called?’

‘I don’t remember exactly, but it was about that school principal who murdered one of his students.’

Perez leaves the dining room and Sorensen glances at Lachlan, who is pursing his lips at this new information.

She rubs her hands together and walks to the dining-room windows to look out at the forest. She thinks about what might be hiding in that dark wood – bears, wolves – things that kill. She thinks about the human killer she has in this very hotel.

She hears someone enter the dining room. She turns away from the window and sees James carrying a tray with coffee and sandwiches. The sight of James doing what Bradley would normally do almost breaks her heart. It must be lunchtime already. She wants to say thank you, but doesn’t trust her voice. He places the tray on the side buffet table, nods, and leaves the room.

She walks over and pours a cup of steaming coffee. Then she takes a sandwich and her cup, goes back to the window, and looks out thoughtfully at the forest.

David has returned to the dining room, summoned again by Sergeant Sorensen. He wonders wearily what she wants with him. He’s told her everything he knows. What he wants right now is sleep.

‘Mr Paley,’ Sorensen says after a long pause.

Her voice has changed. It’s not quite as friendly as before and his body tightens automatically, as if expecting a blow.

‘I know who you are.’

The blow is delivered, exactly the one he was expecting. ‘I’ve told you who I am,’ he answers coldly.

She nods. ‘You gave me your name, yes. You didn’t tell me everything, did you?’

‘Why would I, when it’s not relevant?’

‘Perhaps it is relevant,’ she says.

‘I don’t see how.’

‘Candice White was writing a book.’

‘Yes,’ David admits. ‘That’s what she said.’

‘Do you know what it was about?’

‘I have no idea,’ he says, feeling uneasy. ‘She didn’t say.’ He adds, ‘None of us had ever heard of her.’ He feels his heart sink. Here it comes, he thinks.

‘You are still under suspicion for the murder of your wife, are you not?’

‘No.’

‘That’s not exactly true, is it?’ she prods.

He looks at her angrily. ‘I don’t know what you expect me to say. I was arrested and the charges were dropped, as I’m sure you know. There was insufficient evidence to proceed. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of it. I don’t consider myself under investigation any longer.’

‘Oh, but you are, of course. These investigations don’t just stop, do they? Just because they don’t have enough to nail you now, doesn’t mean they won’t have enough to nail you down the road.’ She pauses. ‘A good police officer never gives up. You must know that. They just go about it more quietly.’

‘What’s your point?’ he asks angrily.

‘I’m just wondering if you might have been in mortal fear of someone writing a book about you – and what Candice might have had to say about the murder of your wife.’

‘That’s ridiculous. I told you – I’d never heard of her. She wasn’t writing a book about me.’ His head feels light, and his heart is beating far too quickly. He knows he didn’t murder Candice. Or anyone else. She’s barking up the wrong tree.

‘I hope not.’ She adds, ‘But it’s been brought to my attention that Candice White is known for writing true crime books.’

David feels himself go pale.

‘In any case, it’s just a matter of time until we get into her laptop, and then we will see,’ she says. ‘That’s all for now. You may go.’

Chapter Thirty-four

Sunday, 1:45 PM

SERGEANT SORENSEN SITS back heavily. She doesn’t know how much longer it will be until the crime team gets here. She looks impatiently at her watch. After spending hours in chilly rooms, drinking endless hot coffee, she’s starting to appreciate what it must have been like to be trapped in this godforsaken hotel for the weekend with no power. She can’t even imagine the rest of it.

But the evidence is there. At least three people have been murdered. Another has probably died from exposure, having fled the hotel in terror. And a fifth has died under suspicious circumstances. The survivors are clearly traumatized.

She calls in Ian Beeton, the one they’re afraid of, the one some of them seem to think might be the killer. Ian appears pale and apprehensive as he enters the dining room. He regards her warily. She wonders what he thinks is worse – being accused by the others in the middle of the night when their fear and paranoia were at their greatest, or being questioned by the police in the cold light of day.

He must be under the most terrific strain, she thinks. She says, ‘Please have a seat.’

He sits down and looks at her as if he’s expecting to be arrested. She wonders if he will be the first one to refuse to talk to her after she cautions him.