Loser || WlW

Sixteen

"I can't believe you convinced me to let you come." I rub the tension out of my forehead and lean forward, resting my head in my hands. "This could be dangerous."

Grace glances at me from the driver's seat of her car and smiles. "I can't believe you were trying to stand me up again."

I messaged Grace after I got that text from the anonymous creep and told her I couldn't make it to her party after all. She was upset with me at first and when I asked what I could do to make it up to her, she asked to tag along. I wanted to say no seeing as Mr. Anonymous specifically told me to come alone but I couldn't do it. Not after I ghosted her for so long.

As she pulls into the parking lot of the Motel 6 it becomes apparent I should have trusted my gut. She shouldn't have come with me. There's one flickering light attempting to illuminate the entire building and the only people who use these rooms are prostitutes.

"Who are you meeting here again?" she asks as she pulls into a spot closest to the rooms and eyes our surroundings.

Glancing at my phone one last time, I answer, "Um. Some guy who claimed to know who killed Claire Davis."

Grace raises her eyebrows. "You don't even know who it is?" She smirks, pulls the keys from the ignition, and shakes her head. "Even more reason for me to be here. Have you ever thought maybe if this guy knows who killed Claire, it's because he is the killer?"

"Well... Yeah." I shrug and slip the phone back into my pocket. "I kind of hope it is the killer so I can get some answers and clear my name."

Grace pushes my shoulder. "It never crossed your mind he'd just, I dunno," she shrugs, "kill you too?"

We both get out of the car as I answer. "I can't explain how shitty this whole thing has been. I'm willing to take it to a new level if it means this will all end."

Grace lets the subject drop as we climb the stairs to the second floor and make our way toward room seven.

The door is propped open with a running shoe, but it's dark inside.

My heart is pounding in my ears as I give the door a push.

It swings open with a creak.

My breath is stuck in my throat, waiting for someone to jump out and Chloroform me.

Grace slides her hand down the wall and flips the lights on.

The room is empty besides the spray paint on the wall that says, "Stop looking for answers you're not ready for". The chemical smell is heavy in the air. It must be fresh because the paint is still dripping down the flowered wallpaper.

We're both silent as we stand in the middle of the room, trying to interpret the message.

"Hey, what's this?" Grace grabs an envelope off the bed and begins to tear it open when my phone dings.

I told you to come alone.

My chest clenches. "He's watching us."

Grace's eyes shoot toward the bathroom. She flips the light on and rips the plastic shower curtain to the side. Nothing.

"He has to be outside."

We bolt out the door in time to catch a shiny black truck peeling out of the parking lot. It's lifted too high and the American flag with a single blue stripe is bolted into the bed. It flaps in the wind as the truck speeds down the street.

"That's Trevor's truck." I point.

Grace's eyebrows pull together. "The guy who threw the milkshake at you in the diner? That can't be him." She shakes her head. "I went to the party earlier to help set up and he was there."