A Stranger Lies There by Stephen Santogrossi Page A

anything, a note or a marker, tucked between its pages. I didn’t find anything and tossed it on the bed. Then I recalled something I’d said to that reporter on the phone earlier tonight. I picked the book up again, going to the R’s in the residential section. It was hard to turn the pages with the gloves on.
    â€œCome on,” I whispered impatiently. Finally I got to the page I wanted.
    And couldn’t believe my eyes.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    The “x” was marked in black pen-ink, and it was right next to our name. Which should have been unlisted, but that was the least of my problems. Now I knew that whoever had stayed in this room was looking for me or Deirdre. Maybe both of us.
    Was it the boy who’d died on my lawn? Or Glenn Turret? Whoever it was, hopefully his name would be listed in the motel register, although in a place like this, which probably preferred cash, that wasn’t a sure thing. I’d have to find a way to ask as soon as I finished in here.
    I put the phone book down and went to the opposite side of the bed. The other night table accommodated the phone, and I briefly wondered why the phone book was in the other drawer, then decided it didn’t matter. Without thinking, I almost picked up the receiver to check for a dial tone, not sure why that would help me, but I thought better of it, worried that it would somehow alert the office to my presence. Instead, I pulled open the drawer and found a small Bible in a plastic cover sitting inside. Hoping for lightning to strike twice, I went through it in search of any telltale scraps of paper, but found nothing.
    I crossed the room to the closet and slid the door open. Nothing inside but an empty shelf and a few bare hangers on the rack, and a luggage holder folded in the corner.
    I turned and took a few steps past the mirrored table and the chair. The bathroom was small, with the sink, toilet and bathtub all crammed in together. First I checked behind the door for anything hanging there. Nothing, just an empty hook. The shower curtain was old and brittle, open and bunched at the end of the tub. A smudge of dirt near the drain, but the tub looked completely dry. I took off a glove and checked the shower curtain, lightly sliding my fingertips over the plastic. I felt a few drops of water in the deeper creases near the bottom.
    Someone had showered here a while ago, but not too long. Two days at the most, I guessed.
    It was time to bring in the police. They’d print the room, get a name or description from the desk clerk and quickly identify the person who’d stayed here. If it was the victim, whose prints they obviously already possessed, this would be a huge break. Knowing the victim’s identity would bring them that much closer to the killer.
    Unless I had the wrong room entirely. It didn’t seem that way, especially with our name marked off in the directory, and I didn’t feel like knocking on any more doors anyway. Just make the phone call and let the cops do their jobs.
    In the back of my mind, I knew I wouldn’t admit I’d come out here. I’d simply tell them what I’d found in the street and they would take it from there. Glad I’d been careful wearing the gloves, I put back on the one I just removed, feeling confident I hadn’t left a print on the damp shower curtain. Even if I had, it was probably in an obscure enough place to remain undetected.
    I started toward the door, intending to call the police from home. On the way out, I noticed one of the pillows from the unmade bed sitting on the chair. I grabbed it as I walked past, expecting to find nothing underneath.
    A small, leather-bound notebook sat in the middle of the seat cushion.
    It looked like a diary. Whomever it belonged to had vacated the room in a hurry, had probably flung the pillow into the chair haphazardly without noticing what was there, perhaps in the act of gathering up clothing to pack. Now the small book stared