Page 82 of Seale the Deal

I stand, and she follows. We settle on opposite ends of the couch. The entire time, I find myself sneaking glances at her, wondering what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling. By the time the credits roll, I can’t remember how the investigation led them to the killer, because all I could think about is how much I can’t wait for Friday.

Chapter 15

Wrenley

DAYS LEFT ON VISA: 59

Remi flops onto the perfectly made hotel bed with a dramatic sigh.

Bed. Land. No movement, she mumbles into the pillow.

I set my suitcase down in the corner by the far bed. Not a fan of road trips?

I prefer when I drive, Remi says.

I shake my head.

Ruger isn’t a bad driver by any means, but I learned that Remi is definitely a back-seat one. The entire drive was a running commentary that went something like:

Remi: Curve.

Ruger: I can see it.

Remi: There’s a truck!

Ruger: In the other lane.

Remi: You’re going to kill us.

Ruger: I’m one with the road.

Remi: What does that even mean?

And so on and so on.

I nod. I think for the sake of all our sanity, you should drive back to Alpine Harbor.

Remi snorts. If you think Ruger is letting me touch his truck, you’re mistaken. She lets out another long groan.

I walk to the window. We’d left Alpine Harbor around four, and now it’s almost nine at night. The sun set hours ago, which I found a little disappointing. I love the way Anchorage is cradled by mountains. It reminds me of Vancouver in some ways. Neon signs glow against low-rise buildings, and streetlights cast pools of yellow light over the grid of downtown roads, and even though it’s nothing like Vancouver in scale, there’s a familiar energy to it.

I sigh, hoist my suitcase onto the luggage rack, and unzip it. Pulling out my toiletry bag and pyjamas, I look over my shoulder at Remi. Do you want the bathroom first?

She lifts her arm slowly and gives me a thumbs-down without lifting her face from the pillow.

I chuckle. Okay. I’ll be right back.

The moment I step into the bathroom, I nearly drop everything. Ruger obviously didn’t skimp. The space is stunning—sleek tile, a rainfall shower, and a free-standing tub that looks like it belongs in a spa.

I eye the tub longingly, but I’m too afraid I’d fall asleep and drown.

Instead, I brush my teeth, splash some water on my face, and change into my PJs—a white tank top and an old pair of Under Armour shorts that I’ve had since high school and had to be retired from public view years ago. I smile as I run my fingers over the old stitching I’d done.

When I walk back into the room, Remi’s standing at her suitcase, digging through it.

You good? I ask as I drop my clothes and toiletry bag.

Yeah, just looking for my shampoo, she says. I smell like my brother’s truck.