A Stranger Lies There by Stephen Santogrossi

in case Turret peeked out.
    No response.
    Another three knocks, this time louder. “Manager.”
    Still nothing.
    Looking around again, I saw that number 2 remained dark and undisturbed. No swaying curtains from curious neighbors. The empty street and quiet parking lot seemed to urge me on.
    Five firm knocks got nothing but silence from room 12. Surprising, given the light behind the curtains. Thought I’d see about number 2 with the truck in front. I turned to go that way, then, on a whim, tried the door in front of me instead.
    Unlocked. An even bigger surprise. I hesitated. Looked around once more and found myself alone, still. I almost wanted someone to notice me and demand what the hell I was doing.
    Okay, think. Light’s on inside but the door’s unlocked. No car out front and no response to my knock. Seemed a little off. The room was either empty, or the occupant was asleep or taking a shower or something and hadn’t heard the door. But why was the door unlocked if the person had left? Who sleeps with the lights on? And a knock should have wakened him if he was sleeping. Unless … unless there was something wrong.
    I wasn’t thinking of Turret now, I was thinking of the kid on my front lawn. Decided I should just go in, make sure no one needed help. If I heard the shower, I’d be out of there.
    I pushed the door open. Nobody greeted me with an angry question. I didn’t hear running water.
    â€œHello? Anybody here?” If someone was, they weren’t answering. Or couldn’t.
    My shadow extended into the dimly lit room from the bright porchlight, and I was inside before I knew it. I shut the door behind me. Snapped the deadbolt home and paused a moment to let my eyes adjust to the light. The bedroom was empty. I crossed to the bathroom quickly to check there, with the same result.
    No one here. A musty smell of old carpet and unlaundered linen, as if the window hadn’t been opened in a long time. And smoke. Place like this probably let you smoke all you want. I went back to the door, thinking I should leave. Turned around instead, gave the room a closer look. It was larger than it seemed from outside, about fifteen by twenty feet. A double bed on the left, against the wall and parallel to the front window. Two small night tables with lamps flanked the headboard. Across the room on the right, a small closet with a flimsy, louvered wooden door that folded shut in two sections, next to an ancient TV on a stand. Against the back wall and directly facing me, a table and mirror that reflected where I stood unmoving at the door. The mirror was too short to catch the uneasiness on my face. A chair stood on one side of the table.
    A wall extended along the far side of the bed, separating the bathroom alcove from the rest of the room. The light came from a ceiling fixture with one of its bulbs burned out. It was covered by a translucent glass shade which held the corpses of various flying insects, dark spots against the frosted glass.
    The place had the air of someone having left in a hurry, and I got the impression they weren’t coming back. No clothes, suitcases or toilet articles were visible anywhere in the room, which was untidy and disordered. Something didn’t sit right.
    I took the matchbook out of my shirt pocket. Considered it. Looked over at the two night tables, each with an ashtray next to the lamp. Only one of them held a book of Blue Bird matches.
    Those were pretty long odds. The one in my hand came from this room, I was sure of it. A quick look around wouldn’t hurt anybody. I put on my gloves and started on the night tables first. Both were cheap wood veneer, with one drawer at the top and an open space beneath it for linens. I went to the one closest to me first and opened the drawer.
    A phone book inside and nothing else.
    About to close the drawer, I thought better of it and pulled out the directory. Flipped through it to see if there was