There’s also…a stringy strip of pink fabric. I zero in on the fabric, something itching at the back of my brain. It’s got a tiny, intricate pattern sewn into the pink, something that—
Holy shit.
I wheel around to Beck, who’s still wearing a heather-gray zip-up camping-sweater-thing.
“Did your mom buy you that?” I ask.
Beck furrows her brow. “Yeah. Why—?”
Beck’s mom bought them the same sweater in different colors.
I bring the swatch up against Beck’s and sure enough, it’s the same fabric. I’d bet if we had the samples from what was found in the coyote den, it’d match that too. “This was Paisley’s,” I say.
Beck slaps her hand to her mouth, her whole body heaving as she stares at the fabric in my hand. “Can I have it?” For once, her voice is even softer than mine.
I hand the fabric off, another thought occurring.
This man keeps a lot of trinkets. It’s not that I think he’s killed all those women in the photos, but he likes documenting stuff. I saw hisphotos, but I didn’t look at his call log. If he were smart, he would’ve deleted it. But he was also stupid enough to keep a piece of Paisley’s jacket. There’s a chance.
I grab Evan’s phone again and click to the call log, my heart slamming. Every click backward feels like running toward a light in a cave when you’re unsure whether it’s an illusion or not.
Calls go back to the beginning of this year.
Calls go back to December of last year.
November.
Mid-October.
And finally, the day everything went down.
There’s one call at one a.m. the night Paisley, Harlow, Opal, and Vanessa were killed.
The number isn’t saved, but it’s familiar.
I pull out the motel stationery.
I massage my throat, where it feels like my heart will never dislodge for as long as I live.
It matches.
“Beck…” I say.
It’s so sick. From the very first invitation, he wanted me to come to his special place.
My lips quiver. Paisley always hated the woods.
“I think Evan went to the motel the night he killed everyone,” I say. “Maybe it’ll explain what he did to Paisley.”
Thirty-Four
We arrive at the motel an eerily similar time to when we first got to Kingston, back when we thought the texter—thoughtEvan—was going to help us. Soft morning sun blankets the motel, making the purple doors pop. The parking lot is still empty, the vacancies sign still on, but we’ve encountered much scarier places here since. This is just six rooms we could possibly search through, with only one local to contend with in the office. We tried contacting Natalie on the walkie-talkie, but no reply yet. But she should’ve been able to hear we were heading here. We have backup.
Maybe it’s just naivety, but I think we’re ready to face this place.
Paisley’s last moments might’ve been at this motel.
Paisley’s body could be somewhereatthis motel, for all I know.
