Agent Ren Bryce Thriller Series Books 1-3: Blood Runs Cold, Time of Death, Blood Loss

‘Yes. I had my underwear on when I left.’

‘I meant it’s not true I need to keep track … seriously.’

‘Really?’

‘Really, actually.’

‘Well, that’s, I guess, good to know.’

‘Just in case you were wondering.’

I was. ‘I wasn’t, don’t worry.’

‘OK.’

‘OK,’ said Ren, ‘I’d better get to bed.’

‘I hope it’s more comfortable than last night’s.’

‘Yeah, me too.’ Even though there was comfort to be found … in Billy Waites’ arms.

Ren lay staring. She had drawn the heavy drapes across the bedroom window, blocking the snowy view on to the street. Her heart beat too quickly, her breathing was off. Rushes of heat and nausea swept over her. The clock read one a. m., then two, then three. And as it finally flashed four, every negative sensation sharpened and spiraled and became connected and expanded and hammered at her.

She sat up. She took a drink from the bottle of water on the night stand. There was a lavender candle beside it. Do these really work? She lit it anyway. But the flame was so small, it was swallowedinto the dark.

Chapter 35 (#u8bb60e53-87b4-54e1-a600-62c12d8c99b9)

Ren woke the next morning at seven and texted Gary.

Cn we meet 2day?

Y. Whn?

7.30?

OK.

Ren liked to have an hour to get ready in the morning. Not any more. She left the inn with minimum makeup and wet hair. By seven twenty-five she was in the conference room with a giant coffee and a toasted sesame bagel.

‘Hey,’ said Gary, walking in. He took the seat beside her. ‘What’s this all about?’

Ren looked at him and wondered how things would change if her answer was, I slept with Billy Waites. She looked at him and said instead, ‘The investigation. I’m getting a little anxious …’

‘OK. Talk to me.’

‘Well, I have nothing.’

‘I can tell you that’s not true, for a start. Everything that could be followed up on, has been. And what we have done is to rule out a hell of a lot already.’

‘I’m fine with the ruling out if I’ve got lots of ruling in going on too,’ said Ren. ‘I’m like, “What the fuck happened to you, Jean?”’

‘Ren – you’ll answer that yourself. If you start thinking that you won’t, it’ll be reflected in your work. Begin every day like it’s the first day of the investigation.’

‘That’s good advice. Thanks.’

‘So, give me updates.’

‘It seems to be just me getting hunches about people. This guy who drinks at the Brockton Filly – creepy. Caroline Quaintance – lying, even though the animal shelter people had only glowing reports on her; her bosses the same.’

I won’t mention Misty.

‘Ren, your hunches are usually very good,’ said Gary.

I hope so. ‘I feel bad because, in a fucked-up way, I wish Jean Transom had had more going on in her life to give us a wider scope. She lived in a tiny little world and I still can’t seem to navigate my way around it.’

‘Ren, it’s not all about you,’ said Gary. His voice was kind. ‘You’re having a day of doubt. So put that aside and turn this all outwards, OK?’

‘Ugh. You’re right.’

‘Go, do it. OK?’

‘Thanks, Gary.’

She went to the kitchen to make coffee and eat cookies she didn’t like or want. She was alone. She sat at the table and closed her eyes. I need to separate the part of Billy Waites that is under my skin from the part of Billy Waites that should be under investigation. I need to take a little step back right now – I am too close. And personal.

She grabbed her coffee, went back to her desk and opened the Mark Wilson file again. Wilson had stayed in the hostel part of The Cheapshot Inn the month before he died. Why does The Cheapshot Inn sound familiar? She remembered. The Welcome Center.

The Welcome Center had barely opened for the day, but the manager let Ren in. She went quickly to the display she was looking for: the photo montage of Ridge Street through the decades. In one of the photos, a sign swung from the branch of a stooping oak, most of its letters hidden by the leaves: The Cheapshot Inn. And in smaller print, Est. 1962. Except that it was no longer an inn. Ren knew what someone would find now if they walked through the door – the dark, narrow hallway that led to Dr Charlie Barger.

The manager came over to her. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘Yes, there is, as a matter of fact,’ said Ren.

She pointed to the photo. ‘I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit about The Cheapshot Inn.’

‘Charlie Barger’s place? Well, it’s closed now. He closed it last December.’

Who closes an inn in Breckenridge during peak season?

‘And it’s been an inn since 1962?’ said Ren.

He nodded. ‘His father set it up – Emil Barger. He was part of a small group that ended up owning a big part of Breckenridge, but I guess instead of steamrollering his way in, he kind of rode in on a white horse.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, this would have been in the sixties, when the town was going through a slump. The economy needed these guys – and they knew it. The difference with Barger was that he gave back. He lobbied for affordable housing, he paid his workers well, he took care of people …’

‘How did he end up owning part of Breckenridge?’ said Ren.