Chapter 5

As she approached the door to the motel office, she could hear the low murmur of voices from within. Upon entering, she saw Dale stationed behind the worn wooden counter, a cigarette lazily hanging from his lips, its smoke curling upwards in lazy spirals. Opposite him, a man clad in a crisp sheriff’s uniform leaned casually against the counter, holding a styrofoam cup of steaming coffee while diligently jotting notes into an open notepad lying on the counter between them. The sight of the policeman made Lila’s blood turn to ice. She was so distracted by her encounter with Joe and intent on getting towels for a shower, she failed to notice the patrol car parked in the gravel lot in front of the office.

Both men looked up as the tinkling sound of the bell announced her entrance. The sheriff was a middle-aged man with a barrel chest that had softened around the middle over the years, his gun belt sitting low on his hips under his growing belly. His short, black hair was carefully dyed to hide the gray at the temples. His uniform was immaculate, his badge gleamed brightly and his boots shined with fresh polish. When his eyes met Lila’s, she saw a calculating intelligence behind them that made her feel like a thousand tiny insects were scurrying along her flesh. His intense scrutiny persisted, making the hairs on her arms stand up on end, and she wondered if she looked as guilty as she felt.

“Ma’am,” the sheriff acknowledged with a courteous nod, setting down his pen beside the notepad. He straightened from the counter, casually resting his hand on the butt of his holstered gun, a subtle gesture of intimidation. “I’m Sheriff Whitaker. And who might you be?” he inquired, his voice resonating with the authority of his position, layered with an undertone that suggested something more ominous.

“Lila,” she replied, her voice barely audible, betraying a vulnerability she hadn’t intended to reveal. The sheriff’s eyes traveled slowly down her body, lingering where the sundress clung to her curves.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Lila. You staying here at the motel?” he asked, his voice smooth and inviting. He lifted his cup to his lips and took a measured sip, savoring the taste, before setting the cup on the counter, his piercing gaze never leaving hers.

“Yes,” Lila managed, her voice just above a whisper. Her heart was hammering against her ribs so hard she was certain they could hear it. “Um, in Room 12.”

Dale shifted uncomfortably behind the counter, stubbing out his cigarette in an already overflowing tray, his eyes flicking between Lila and the sheriff. “Uh, Sheriff’s here asking about...” he began, but Sheriff Whitaker’s head snapped around sharply, his glare like daggers, silencing Dale immediately.

Turning back to Lila with a smile that lacked any kind of warmth, the sheriff asked, “So what brings you to my town, Lila?” His tone was casual, but the undercurrent of suspicion was palpable.

Lila tried to remain calm, swallowing the knot of fear that felt like a stone lodged in her throat. “My car broke down yesterday,” she explained, her voice steady despite the butterflies doing a wild dance in her stomach. “I’m just waiting for it to be fixed,” a small reassuring smile appeared on her lips.

Sheriff Whitaker’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Is that right? And who’s fixing it for you?”

“Travis,” she replied, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “He said it should be ready by this evening.”

“Travis Holcomb,” the sheriff nodded, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Decent mechanic. Not real good at keeping his pecker in his pants.” He chuckled, sharing a look with Dale who laughed along nervously, awkwardly averting his gaze. “Where did you say again, your car broke down?” he asked picking up his cup and taking another sip of the hot liquid.

“Um, about twenty miles outside of town,” she responded, her voice slightly wavering. The sheriff continued to drink his coffee, staring at her in silence, patiently waiting for her to elaborate. “Next ... next to a billboard for an adult shop,” she added, tiny fractures appearing in her facade of composure.

The sheriff set down his cup on the counter and picked up his notepad and pen, scribbling down a couple of notes. The silence in the room was oppressive, broken only by the scratching of the sheriff’s pen against paper and the faint, intermittent ticking of the glass decanter on the coffee maker’s warming plate. “Say, you didn’t happen to see a old, battered red pickup on the road yesterday, did you?” he inquired with an air of nonchalance, his eyes remaining fixed on the notepad as he continued to write.