“And how did you escape this inferno?”

“The bird always liked Morlock better than me,” I said.

“You know, the more you talk, the less secure I feel.”

“I can promise not to try to kill you,” I offered.

“Thank you.”

Hearing about my past misfortunes amused—but frightened—Collin to no end. It was sort of like telling a small child a ghost story. He wanted to be scared, even though he knew he was better off not knowing about my past. But I loved seeing that easy smile on his face, so I just kept sharing. Three hours and several spectacular firing stories later, we arrived at the Country Inn, the little roadside “boutique hotel” where Collin had booked us rooms.

“This does not look like the photos on the travel Web site,” he said.

I looked up the hotel on my phone, finding the site that displayed pictures of the Country Inn … from at least thirty years before. It was no longer “clean, comfortable, and convenient” as advertised. It was convenient because the highway practically ran through the parking lot. That was all the place had going for it. I think the owner called it a boutique hotel because there was a sex-toy shop right next door. The building had that same desperate, beaten look as our motel from the night before. The same rust stains. The same “Truckers Welcome” sign.

“We could keep going,” I suggested.

“No, I need a break from the car. And you need your rest. I can tell you’re getting tired. Frankly, with your background, I worry about your reflexes under normal, nonfatigued circumstances.”

“Nice. Your turn talking tomorrow night, got it? There have to be some embarrassing incidents from your colonial days. A pantaloons malfunction, something.”

“You’ve been very generous with your history,” he conceded.

“That’s not an answer,” I retorted. “Are you coming in with me?”

“After the diner, I think I’ll stay out in the car,” he said.

I walked into the motel office and did a mental “Run-down Motel Requirement” checklist. Rattling space heater? Check. Dust-covered plastic houseplant? Check. Credit-card acceptance signs showing logos abandoned by the companies in the 1970s? Check.

The clerk was a middle-aged blond man in a pressed blue polo shirt and wire-rim glasses. I couldn’t figure out how he’d managed to end up behind that desk. And I don’t think he had figured it out, either. Maybe this was his second job, the one that paid for the questionable Internet online orders he didn’t want his wife to find out about?

The clerk was on the phone, apparently on hold, all the while ignoring the drunk swaying in front of the check-in desk.

“I just need a room, damn it,” the drunk slurred, sweat rolling from the thinning hair on the back of his head, dripping down his neck, and soaking into the cheap pea-green suit he was wearing. He smelled like a brewery. I was sincerely glad that he was facing away and I was out of his line-of-breath. “Got a cute little thing waitin’ outside, and I don’t want to lose her.”

Nice. This guy had clearly met his soul mate on a nearby street corner. I checked the desk for an “Hourly rates” sign and was relieved that I didn’t see one.

“Look, man, I’m sorry, the credit-card company has me on hold.”

“Just run the card again,” the drunk demanded.

The clerk cradled the receiver on his shoulder and glanced at me. “Yeah, can I help you?”

“I need two rooms, please,” I said, putting my license and credit card on the counter. I silently prayed that there was enough room on the balance to allow the charge. And that the clerk didn’t steal my identity to buy equipment for his gaming system.

He gave me an apologetic little shrug, checking my ID and placing my card next to his computer keyboard. “It will be just a minute.”

“Look, I got a little hottie out in the car, I need a room,” the drunk slurred. His bleary brown eyes settled on me and gave me a moist, crooked smile. “Hey there, cutie. You lookin’ to party? You could join us.”

“No, thanks.”

“Oh, come on, honey,” the drunk whined, leering at me. “I’d show you a real good time.”

He lurched toward me, giving me what I’m sure was supposed to be his best smile. I leaned in closer and in my most menacing voice whispered, “If you so much as breathe on me again, I will crush you like a bug, little man.”

The drunk pouted, stumbling back a few steps.

“I’m sorry, what is the problem?” the clerk asked the person on the other end of the line. He rolled his eyes and picked up a pair of wicked-looking scissors the size of hedge clippers. “All right, I’ll do that.”

The clerk hung up the phone and sighed.

“Mr. Reynolds, I have bad news for you. The card company has requested that I destroy your card.” The clerk picked up the card nearest to his hand and snipped it with a decisive snick! He ruthlessly sliced through the card, raining shards of plastic on the desk like red metallic snowflakes.

“Hey!” the drunk shouted. “What’d you do that for?”

I tried to look away, eager just to finish my transaction and get out of the office. Because as amusing as it was to see Drunky Drunkerson’s credit card snipped, I just wanted to get some sleep.

“Oh, wait,” the drunk mumbled. “Never mind.”

I glanced over and saw an unfamiliar Visa card on the counter. The bits of plastic on the counter, however, were a familiar color.

“Can I have my card back now?” the drunk asked, just as I demanded, “Where’s my card?”

“Oh, shit,” the clerk said, looking stricken.

“You destroyed my card!” I cried.

“I-I must have switched them.”

“No!” I yelled as the drunk with the useless, but intact, card ambled away. “No, no, no, no!”

“Now, look, I’m sorry, but don’t overreact.”

“Overreact?” I yelled, grabbing the stapler from the ledge of his desk. “This isn’t overreacting! Stapling your collar to the desk, that would be overreacting.”

“Put down my stapler. I don’t want to have to call the cops.”

“Call them. It will be justifiable homicide!” I snapped.

“OK, let’s just calm down. What has you so upset?”

I took a deep, shuddering breath through my nose and focused on not murdering someone who was probably a very nice person when he wasn’t destroying my only financial lifeline. “I’m upset because you just murdered my only credit card, my only form of legal tender. It will take me at least a week to get a replacement card. I am on the road for work, stuck five hundred miles from home, without a credit card. And I still need a place to sleep for the night.”

“Well, I can give you one room,” he said. “It’s the least I can do.”

“One?” I growled.

He winced, stepping back away from the desk. “Look, honey, I’ve got a boss, just like you. I can hide one room on the night audit, but two? That’s pushing it.”

I glared at him, but no amount of stink-eye would persuade him. “Fine, fine, just let me have whatever you’ve got.”

I snatched the flimsy plastic key card from his hand and swept out of the office. The clerk called after me to remember that I had to be out of the room by eleven, as if I was going to linger in the morning.

I gritted my teeth, clutching the key card until the edges bit into my palm. What the hell was I going to do? I had the fleet card for gas and maybe enough cash to keep me in food until we pulled into the Half-Moon Hollow town limits. We had enough blood to keep Collin fed for three nights. But that was it—that was the full extent of our resources, which scared the hell out of me. We wouldn’t be able to withstand any more “incidents” without help from Iris.

And if I called Iris for help, she’d probably hop on a plane to complete the drive with Collin herself. I’d be fired. I’d be lucky if I got a ride home. Actually, I’d be lucky if she didn’t tie me to the hood of the Batmobile like a deer for the drive home.

I needed more time. I hadn’t thought about Jason or the wedding or my future in Half-Moon Hollow all damn day. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. My brain had needed the time off from the constant whir of Jason-related worries over the past few months. But I was no closer to making a decision than when I’d departed the Hollow. I wasn’t ready to go back home yet. I needed to complete this job on time, not just because I needed the time away but also to prove to myself that I wasn’t a complete idiot.

“Is everything all right?” Collin asked as I approached the Batmobile. “You look rather distressed.”

“Sure,” I said, smiling thinly as I popped open the rear hatch. “It’s just … the hotel only had one room available.”

“Really?” he asked, scanning the parking lot, which was mostly empty.

“A lot of the rooms are being fumigated,” I told him, knowing that mentioning potential infestations was a calculated risk, given his penchant for cleanliness.

“Are you trying to take advantage of me?”

“I know, it sounds bad,” I admitted. “It’s our only option at this point.”

“Well, I don’t have to sleep,” he said. “I’ll make use of the bathing facilities and read while you sleep.”

“Oh, sure, that won’t make me uncomfortable at all.”

“I would feel better if you weren’t left unattended, anyway,” he admitted as he carefully lifted the silver case from the backseat. “Who knows what sort of trouble you would drum up out of boredom?”

“You’re still not going to tell me what’s in that case, are you?”

He frowned, an expression of honest regret, and said, “I would, but I can’t. I promised Ophelia I would keep it confidential. And because this trip is an effort to repay her for forgiving a small … indiscretion I committed years ago, I can’t afford to fail her.”

“Fine, but if I find out you’re hauling Marcellus Wallace’s soul around in that thing, I’m going to be pissed,” I griped as we carried our overnight bags into the room.

He didn’t laugh at my Pulp Fiction reference. But he was kind enough to ignore the graffiti on the walls and the questionable carpet stains. The room was truly depressing, with faded greenish carpet, water-stained wallpaper, and a bedspread the color of medical waste.

“Surely this isn’t the best room they had to offer,” he said.

I snorted, waving my arm at the splendor before us. “Oh, no, this is the honeymoon suite.”

Overhead, we heard the din of male voices, talking over one another, laughing in that way only the truly inebriated can master. It sounded as if there were twenty of them, shoved into the room above ours.

“This is not going to be a restful evening, is it?”

I shook my head. “No.”

While Collin was in the shower, I made a call to Iris. She did not have any suggestions for how to address our car’s recent “blossoming,” but her teenage sister, Gigi, found a lot of humor in the situation.

“Have you thought about spray-painting a bikini top over them?” Gigi asked.

“You are so not helping,” I grumbled. “Stupid speakerphone.”

“Gigi, stop teasing her,” Iris chided, yawning. “Miranda, honey, don’t do anything to it. I know it’s probably embarrassing to drive around with them, but trying paint remover or adding another layer of paint will just make the situation worse. And don’t try to duct-tape cardboard over it. The tape residue will just cause more problems. When you get back to town, we’ll take care of it. Until then, just stick to the back roads … and avoid church buses … and school buses basically, all forms of mass transit.”