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So I was on my own.
I had to figure out who the woman was.
And why the fuck she was after that other guy.
Then, of course, why she felt the need to poison me.
As a warning?
Don’t fuck with me and my plans.
It felt possible.
But when then fuck did Shady Valley get a, what, female assassin? How had no one heard of her?
Except, of course, Nyx.
And whoever that dude at the bar pissed off.
So he was probably going to be my first trip as soon as the wooziness wore off and I felt like I got my full strength back.
I was brought into the clubhouse and propped up in the living room so everyone could keep an eye on me, despite Dr. Price saying he was reasonably sure that I wasn’t going to take a turn for the worse.
Despite feeling decent enough to take care of myself, I went ahead and let them fuss over me, bringing me drinks and food, checking my rash to make sure it hadn’t spread, keeping an eye to make sure the hallucinations didn’t come back.
I had to admit, it felt nice to be fussed over.
That wasn’t something I ever really got to experience before.
But after four days, when there wasn’t a trace of symptoms left, it was time to get up, to get moving, to get investigating.
Not wanting to raise any red flags, I did as much research as I could from my room, looking into local townsfolk, trying to find an image of a woman with too-shiny hair, or the guy from the bar.
Eventually, I did find him.
Kyle Carston.
Ex-con.
Recently released.
On charges of domestic violence.
A real fucking prince.
And, hey, reason enough to want him dead, I guess.
It was a place to start, since I had nothing to go on with the woman.
On the sixth day, the one right before the crew and I were heading out of town, I made my way across town.
Not toward the ‘burbs or the apartments, where most of the town lived.
Nope, apparently this fuck was living in the town motel for the time being.
Shady Valley Motel was located on the other side of town, not too far from the prison he’d been released from. It was directly across the narrow street from the local gas station and convenience store.
I couldn’t pin down a date for when it was built, but judging by the style of it, I would put it back in the fifties or sixties. According to the sign out front it “maintains its original charm” which was just a nice way to say it hadn’t had a single fucking upgrade in a couple decades.
It was a long, low brick building that someone somewhere along the line got the brilliant idea to paint a subdued canary yellow color.
Weeds grew steadily and stubbornly out of the cracks of the pavement in the lot that stretched the whole front of the building, and any grass that may have been in the beds lining the sides of the parking lot had burnt up in the unrelenting heat.
Parking my bike down near the office, I climbed off and made my way toward the front door, hearing a bell as I opened it and moved inside.
The office had seen better days.
One whole wall was lined with filing cabinets so old that they were dented and rusting in places. All of them were packed with newspapers, magazines, various paperwork, and local adverts.
The desk itself was an ancient faux wood vinyl that reminded me of old cop dramas.
On it were more stacks of papers, books, a radio, mugs of coffee, and an all-in-one computer that probably cost more than the rest of the place was worth combined.
“Rooms are fifty-eight a night, same price weekdays and weekends,” a voice called from somewhere in the back, likely expecting yet another new release from the prison, but stopping short when he saw me instead. “Oh, fuck,” he said, shaking his head.
“Nice to see you too, Jack,” I greeted him, nodding.
Jack and the club went back a ways. Because when we’d scouted the abandoned warehouse that was going to become our clubhouse, it hadn’t been hooked up to water or gas or electric, and was all but unlivable until some elbow grease and cash was thrown at it.
So we’d needed somewhere else to crash for a bit while we worked on it. The most economic choice in the area was the motel.
A fact none of us, or the owner, were happy about.
He’d been pleased at first. There’d been four of us then, each paying for our own rooms, keeping him flush in an area that got pretty much no tourist visits, so his motel didn’t usually get halfway full often.
I hadn’t been personally familiar with Jack when we’d first started staying, but it seemed as if Detroit knew him from way back, going to the same school or some shit like that.
