Maybe

31

Donovan Creed.

TWO HOURS OUT of Vegas, my cell phone vibrates.

“What’s happened?”

Callie says, “Maybe just left the room.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. How did she look?”

“Cool as a cucumber.”

“Good. You want to try to get in?”

“Yes. If I hurry, he’ll probably think Maybe left something behind.”

“Let me know when you’re in.”

“Will do.”

We hang up. Five minutes later, Callie calls.

“What’s up?”

“No answer.”

“You knocked loudly?”

“Yes. And called the room. You think she killed him?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I think he saw you.”

“I don’t think so,” Callie says.

“Perhaps Maybe came back, saw you knocking, and called him.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Keep an eye on the door till I get there. If he starts to come out, run over, push him back inside, and give me a call.”

“I could act like I lost my key, get the maintenance guy to let me in.”

“I don’t like it. Too many problems. The door might be latched. The maintenance guy might see something. Sam might scream for help.”

“Fine. I’ll sit tight.”

“See you soon.”

“By soon, you mean, what? Ten minutes?”

“Ninety.”

“Shit.”

“Maybe he’ll come out soon.”

“Hard to come out if he’s dead,” she says.

“He’s not dead. Trust me.”

“But he will be soon after you arrive?”

“Not too soon.”

“Goody,” she says.