Page 24 of The Wedding Party

“Yes. Room 407, but Carrie isn’t there,” she repeats. “No one knows where she is right now. I’m afraid she’s dead, too. I’m afraid. God, Andi. How can this be happening?”

407, I think, and I’m in room 217, which means I have two floors to travel. “Stay here until I know the scene is secure,” I instruct.

She rejects that idea. “I’m a nurse and probably the only member of the medical profession here that hasn’t been drinking. What if you need me to help Carrie?”

She’s right. Everyone else was likely up partying until a few hours ago. “Fine,” I say tightly, and I need more information. “Stay close and behind me.” I shove my phone in my waistband.

I’m already moving, grabbing a small hip purse where I keep crime scene supplies from my bag—yes, I brought it on vacation—before exiting my room with Lana keeping pace. My mind is racing, checking off a list of priorities, with my one main concern confirming Oliver isn’t in need of life support and then securing the hotel as well as the safety of the guests.

“How did you end up in their room?” I ask as we rush up the stairs.

“I was returning to mine when the maid backed out of the room, mumbling under her breath and shaking all over.”

“From where?”

She blinks. “What?”

“Where were you coming from?”

“At that moment, hunting down coffee I did not find.”

“Why was the maid in the room this early?”

“I have no idea,” she says. “I finally calmed her down enough to realize Oliver was hurt. That’s when I panicked, told her to call 911, and I went into the room to offer aid. I didn’t want to touch anything, but I did touch him, Andi. I checked his vitals. I’m scared right now.”

“You had to offer aid,” I say. “As long as your prints confirm that was your intent, you’re fine.”

She hugs herself. “I was in her room before I came and got you in your room,” she reiterates. “I went into her room, Andi.” Her arms drop and she swipes at the air. “I went into Carrie’s room.”

Panic and shock have her talking in circles, which is not uncommon during a personal crisis. “You’re fine,” I say, unable to do more to comfort her, not when I’m scanning for danger.

Once we reach the fourth floor, I hold up a hand to stay Lana’s position until I clear our path. She nods and I ease around the corner to find clusters of people, some familiar faces included, gathered in the hallway.

I holster my weapon so as to not create panic, motion for Lana to follow, and step into the crowd’s view. “FBI!” I call out, holding up my badge. “Everyone, go back to your rooms now and do not leave until you’re interviewed.” There are people who move away and others who linger. “Now!” I demand again. “If you stay, I’ll assume you need to be considered a suspect.”

That scatters the crowd.

A fiftysomething man in a suit and tie approaches me. “Special Agent Andrea Castle, I’m Neal Smith, the hotel manager. What can I do?”

“Make sure the locals get here quickly. Secure the hotel, and that means your staff as well. I assume you have security?”

“I do,” he confirms. “I have them at the front door.”

“Perfect. Lock down completely for everyone’s safety.”

I leave him where he stands, and with my weapon back in hand, I enter the room. Oliver is on the bed, on his back, naked to the waist, stab wounds in his chest in excess. It’s obvious that he’s not only dead, but based on the condition of the body, that he’s been dead for a couple of hours. His missing shirt and unzipped pants seem to indicate he was either in the middle of a sexual act when he was killed or simply undressing.

It would be easy to assume Carrie was present during either of those actions.

I clear the bathroom, the closet, and under the bed before harnessing my weapon and reaching inside my bag to pull out one latex glove. I pull it onto my right hand and check for a pulse that I know I won’t find, and I don’t. The EMS crew bursts into the room, and I identify myself with my badge. “Deceased,” I say. “We’re going to need the ME.”

Two techs move in to confirm my analysis, and it’s time for me to find Carrie. I scoffed at my obsession with something being wrong here this weekend. I should have listened to my instincts. Now the future groom is dead and the bride who will never be is missing.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I step out of the room and toss my gloves in the trash can now set up by the door, to find a tall, thin young buck of a police officer about to enter. “Special Agent Castle,” I say, quickly introducing myself. “I’m staying in the hotel. The occupant is deceased. EMS is confirming and calling in the ME.”

“Officer Michaels,” he introduces himself, and I swear there is fuzz on his lip—that’s how new he is to this job. “And the ME is out of Fort Collins,” he adds, “which is more than an hour away.”