Page 54 of Nowhere Good

He needed to get rid of it. Not throw it out, destroy it. Flush it.

With a burst of energy, he snatched the bag, clamping it tight in his fist, and rushed into the bathroom. Standing over the toilet, he held it above the water. He braced himself. Drop it. Let it go. Flush it. Never look back.

But his hand wouldn’t do what his brain was telling it to do.

Slowly, he pulled his hand away from above the water. He unfurled his palm.

The bag stared back at him.

SEVENTEEN

C’mon, answer. Claire shifted on her heels and knocked on the motel room’s door for the umpteenth time, but still, no sound, no movement on the other side.

God, what was she doing here? Winslow wasn’t answering her texts or calls, but since Fairview had its little population boom in recent years, they actually had a cab company now, and Claire had her driver make a detour after the bar. From there, it wasn’t hard to figure out which room Winslow was in, considering Gary Stillwell, the owner of the motel, was passed out cold and she could just… check the records.

Which was completely insane, Claire reminded herself. Bordering on stalker behavior, but hell, this might be her last chance to pick his brain before he was gone.

But the seconds ticked on, and still no answer. Her logical mind crept back in.

There were a million explanations for why the necklace was in her dad’s room. Maybe her mom hadn’t actually been wearing it that day. Maybe her dad had kept it as a keepsake. Maybe he actually did love her mom. Maybe he’d kept more of her things than Claire realized.

Or maybe he killed her and made it look like an accident and kept that necklace as a trophy.

Oh, boy.

You can’t be serious.

The thought made her head light, even as doubt worked through her stomach. Her dad had done a lot of terrible things, but murder? She wanted Winslow to draw his own conclusions first. A professional take. That’d give her something to latch onto, good or bad.

Claire knocked once more. Defeat weighed on her shoulders. He wasn’t here. Or he wasn’t answering.

She sulked away, stealing a peek inside the room as she passed. The curtain was parted a gap, and a beam of light from outside led to the end of the bed. An alarm bell went off in her mind. She’d been creepy enough already, but she leaned closer to the window till her vision adjusted.

Winslow was inside, slumped on the floor, his back rested on the other side of the bed. She could only make out the top of his head and half of his body, but his bare arm slumped on the carpet beside him.

And on the floor, next to his hand, was a shape she knew well. Small, long, wrapped in sterile plastic and paper.

A needle.

Claire’s brain didn’t have time to reconcile with reality—she just acted, because she’d seen this before, too many times. Brad. Brad, who she’d had to rescue from asphyxiating on his own vomit a dozen times, who was now dead because of this shit.

She skittered down the stairs and across the lot till she reached Gary’s office. He was still passed out with the fan blowing on him, so she grabbed his spare key for 204 off the rack behind the desk and ran to the room. She fumbled to unlock the door and burst right in, finding herself alone in the dark motel room with Winslow. She hurried over to him. His head was lulled into the crook of his neck, his eyes closed. Peaceful, but pale. A twenty-sixer of vodka was tucked into his side.

She struggled to make sense of it; the wicker garbage basket nearby, the needle beside him, the smell of vodka permeating the air. Winslow was wearing a black T-shirt, exposing his arms, and the inner part of his elbow was marred by track marks. His palm was open with a dime bag on it, a red stripe across the top.

Claire’s heart lurched. “Oh, sweetheart, why would you do this to yourself?”

Memories of her past with Brad blended with the present. She’d never understood how he could be so careless with something as precious as his own life.

But it was more confusing now, because this was no Brad Bailey.

She knelt down and gently tapped Winslow’s warm cheek. His skin had the slightest grit to it, but he’d shaved since she saw him last. “Hey, wake up.”

Winslow’s eyes sluggishly opened, a dreary blue. “Claire? What the—” He cut himself off with a violent retch and reached for the garbage bin, knocking over the near-empty bottle of vodka. Claire helped him grab the basket. Winslow keeled over and threw up right into it—nothing but liquid, the pure smell of booze. “Fuck,” he sputtered.

When Brad used to shoot up, he’d go through these fits of puking, but they’d border on blissful. She still remembered how sick she’d feel, seeing him throw his guts up, then float back with a smile.

This wasn’t like that. Winslow had the look of a man served well over his limit, like he’d rather die than deal with the way the room was spinning. The dime bag had been left on the carpet. There was still something in it—a lump of some kind. And the needle was still in its packaging, unopened, an orange cap covering the tip. There was no spoon, no lighter.