The roads blurred past them as Jenna drove.The Twilight Inn was nothing more than a roadside motel, with room doors that opened directly to the parking lot.The kind of place where you could come and go at any hour without passing through a lobby or engaging with staff.
“Call Hugh Clancy,” Jenna said.“Let him know we're following a lead.We’ll need him to notify us immediately if anything comes up there.”
Jake pulled out his phone and dialed the receptionist desk at the Trentville Police Station, putting it on speaker as it rang.
“Trentville Sheriff's Office, Deputy Clancy speaking.”Hugh's voice filled the car.
“Hugh, it's Jake.I'm with Sheriff Graves.We're following a lead on the Hartley and Kingsley murders.”
“Oh?”Interest sharpened his tone.“What've you got?”
“We believe our suspect may be staying at the Twilight Inn.We're headed there now to check.”
Jenna cut in.“Hugh, I need you to be our early warning system.Anything—and I mean anything—that comes in that could suggest there’s a problem anywhere, that someone's in trouble, I want to know immediately.Even if it seems minor.”
“You got it, Sheriff.I'll keep the radio channel clear and my phone at hand.”
“Good,” Jenna said.“We're about twenty minutes out from Trentville.Keep the line open.”
“Will do.Be careful out there.”
The call ended, and silence settled between them.
“Do we have a photo of Vivian Crane?”Jenna asked, breaking the quiet.
Jake was already tapping at his phone.“Looking for one now.Her website should have something, or maybe social media...”
Jenna guided the car around a sharp curve, the wheels grabbing at the asphalt.The road to Trentville cut through autumn-touched hillsides.Normally, she would have appreciated the scenery—the rolling land painted in amber and russet.Today, it was just terrain to be covered, distance between her and a killer.
“Got her,” Jake announced, holding up his phone.
Jenna glanced over, capturing the image in a fraction of a second before returning her eyes to the road: a woman with bright honey-blonde hair cut stylishly short.Her smile was warm although her gaze remained cool.Jenna guessed that the photo was taken a good many years ago, when Vivian Crane was still productive and popular.
“That's our best photo,” Jake said, scrolling through more images.“From her author profile.”
“She looks so...normal,” Jenna murmured.“Like someone you'd trust with your children.”
“That's the scariest kind,” Jake replied, his voice grim.
Jenna pressed down on the accelerator.The Twilight Inn was just outside Trentville, a relic from the days before interstate highways diverted traffic away from smaller routes.She'd passed it countless times, barely giving it a second glance—a faded building with a neon sign, surviving on low rates and minimal expectations.She knew the manager, but had seldom needed to check with him about anything involving motel guests.
If Vivian Crane was there, if their hunch was right, they might end this today.Before anyone else died.Before another fairy tale was turned into a nightmare.
“She won't be expecting us,” Jenna said.“If we're right, and she's there, we'll have the advantage of surprise.”
“And if she's not there?”
“Then we'll find what she left behind.People like her—they leave traces.Notes, plans, something.And we'll use whatever we can to track her down.”
They drove on, eating up the miles toward Trentville, toward the Twilight Inn, toward the woman who turned fairy tales into murder.The afternoon sun slanted through the windshield by the time the Twilight Inn materialized before them.
Jenna pulled the car into the cracked asphalt lot, gravel crunching beneath the tires as they came to a stop.The motel stretched before them in a long, single-story line of doors, each one a possible hiding place for a killer.She exchanged a look with Jake, then they both stepped out into the cool October air.
The motel hadn't changed in years—same peeling paint, same rusted railings, same faint smell of cheap cleaning products and cigarettes that seemed permanently embedded in the concrete walkway.A relic from another era, surviving on thin margins and thinner hopes.
“Office is still the same,” Jenna said, looking toward the small building at the end of the row with its glowing “Vacancy” sign.“Kent should be working today.”
They crossed the parking lot, boots scuffing against loose stones.A semi-truck rumbled past on the nearby highway, its horn a distant wail.The door to the office jingled as they entered, announcing their presence to the lone figure behind the counter.