Page 9 of Veil of Silence

Her gaze moved to Room 214. “Yesterday morning, maybe?”

“Maybe?”

She shrugged and kept folding. “I don’t keep track of our guests.”

“Of course.” Austin glanced at his father’s door. A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung from the knob. “Have you spoken with him at all?”

“A little.” She shrugged again.

“Did you notice anything unusual about his behavior?”

She paused from folding and blew out a breath. “I wouldn’t call it unusual. He asked where he could make copies. He had an old cardboard box with him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That there’s a copy shop down the street.”

Austin kept his expression neutral. “What time was that?”

“I don’t know. Sometime before my lunch break.” She shoved a towel into the cart.

Austin rubbed the back of his neck.

His father had retired from the FBI five years ago, but retirement hadn’t changed him as much as everyone had thought it might. Give the man a question he couldn’t answer, and he’d disappear into the mystery until someone forced him to come up for air.

Austin now realized that his father’s work had always been both a coping mechanism and an obsession. But that didn’t take away the hurt it had caused.

Austin pushed the memory aside. “Did you see him leave after he came back with the box?”

The housekeeper shook her head. “No, sorry.”

Austin scanned the parking lot.

His father’s Camry wasn’t there.

He’d assumed Dad had gone for breakfast. Or coffee. Or to find one of the three newspapers he still insisted on reading in actual print.

Austin pulled out his phone and called his father again.

A ringtone sounded from behind the motel room door.

He froze.

When the ringing stopped, Austin called a second time.

Same thing.

His dad’s phone was inside that room.

Austin lowered his cell and looked at the woman. “Would you mind getting the manager for me?”

The housekeeper hesitated. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know yet.” He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “But I’d rather feel stupid in ten minutes than find out later I should’ve checked.”

A few minutes later, the housekeeper returned with a woman in her fifties wearing black pants and a motel polo. Her graying hair was twisted into a clip, and brown reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck.

“I’m Denise, the manager.” She looked from Austin to the door. “What’s going on?”