She stuffed her hand in her pocket and clutched her fingers around the chilly steel beside her wad of cash and the EpiPen—not that she even knew what allergies to avoid.
If she passed the key over, she would be officially homeless. So what if her only bed waited in a rustic motel so old it didn’t even have key cards?
She stifled a hysterical laugh. She knew about key cards, yet didn’t know her own name. “When’s checkout time again?”
“Noon.”
The ancient Field and Stream wall clock seemed to mock her, ticking away those last twenty-one minutes. She sifted through her muddled concentration for her next question.
His cool eyes settled on her dress. “Uh, but you can stay longer if you need to. I’ve got a busload of senior citizens due in, but not until this evening, if they can make it through the storm.”
At least she could stay a few more hours without using her precious store of cash. “Do you mind printing out a copy of my receipt?”
“A copy?”
“For tax purposes.”
“Tax purposes?” His eyes slid down her slinky red dress then up again without censure, but with obvious disbelief. “Sure. I gave one to your, uh, husband, but it’s no trouble to shoot out another.”
Husband. The word surged through her with an odd mixture of hope and the metallic taste of fear. Where was he? “Thanks. He lost his copy. I’m supposed to pick up another one, you know, taxes and all that.”
“For your husband.” Those brooding eyes shifted from her to the empty parking lot before returning.
“He should be back soon.” She resisted the urge to fidget like a first-day kindergartner. “Could I see the owner?” Preferably, a much older, grandfatherly kind of guy without piercing eyes that saw too much.
“That would be me.”
“Oh. Clyde?”
“Clyde was my father. He’s dead. The place belongs to me and my sister now.”
He didn’t seem to be grieving when he mentioned his dad, so she didn’t bother with condolences. “And you are?”
“Jacob Stone.”
Her nerves began to unravel like a rolling ball of yarn she couldn’t quite catch. “May I please have my receipt, Mr. Stone?”
“Just Jacob, ma’am.” The man tucked his thumbs in his back pockets, looming over her, compelling, silent and dangerous. With a curt nod, he stepped away. “All right, then, one copy on its way.”
Her shoulders slumped with a slow exhale. “Just Jacob,” clerk, manager and owner of Clyde’s Travel Lodge, circled behind the counter. He tapped through a few keys and set the printer into motion. The clicking sounded unnaturally harsh, echoing the only noise in the sparse room.
She fingered her necklace like a security blanket, tracing the D and looking around for something familiar. She must have seen this place the night before.
A brown artificial leather sofa nestled beneath the picture window overlooking the parking lot. The style was up-to-date, but the cracks in the Naugahyde upholstery showed the toll of weather blasts. Three vending machines lined the paneled wall to the side with a brick fireplace directly across. A cheaply framed landscape poster labeled Mount Rainier hung over the mantel. The television and an office chair behind the registration counter rounded out the sparse decor.
Just Jacob ripped the paper free from the printer. It was all she could do not to jump out of her skin.
“Here you go.”
“Thank you.” She forced herself to take it from him slowly, casually. Their hands paused, side by side. Hers seemed so small and vulnerable beside his larger, roughened one. The paper rattled in her trembling grasp as she took it from him.
Mr. and Mrs. J. Smith. Her right hand clenched over her bare ring finger. Damn. The guy she must have trysted with hadn’t even been original. Tears burned her eyes, then turned icy on her still-chilled skin.
She spun away, paper crumpled in her grip. Not even sure where she was going, only knowing she had to run, she charged out the door. The snowstorm swirled a thick white bubble around the parking lot. She couldn’t see a thing past the line of tiny motel units.
Total isolation.
Her head hurt. Her whole body hurt. God, her brain was so fogged she couldn’t think, much less make decisions while she waited to call the police. She sagged against the railing, mindless of the damp cold seeping through her clothes as she stared out at nothing. A nothingness vast as the void in her mind.