Through the Dark // S.S. [Book One]

Chapter 30

We exit the bus and stand around Coach. I glance up at the building. CLGM GAqRI. Nope, nevermind. Not even gonna try to read it.

"Listen up." Coach says. "The meet's been pushed till tomorrow. This is the closest motel with the most vacancies and least amount of good judgment when it comes to accepting a bunch of degenerates like yourselves. You'll be pairing up. Choose wisely. And I'll have no sexual perversions perpetrated by you little deviants. Got that? Keep your dirty little hands to your dirty little selves!"

Lydia stares at the hotel blankly. "Lydia?" Allison asks.

She shakes her head. "I don't like this place."

I let out a soft chuckle. "Yeah, I'm guessing the people who own this place don't like it either. It's only for a night."

Lydia turns to me. "A lot can happen in one night."

Stiles and Scott head to their room and Lydia, Allison, and I head to ours.

We enter the room and I instantly grimace at the smell of nicotine. "Can't do this. I'm gonna get new towels. Lyds, come with?"

Together, we head to the front office, leaving Allison alone in the room to shower. I walk up to the front desk. "Excuse me? The card on the dresser in our room says it's supposed to be non-smoking, but for some reason all our towels smell of nicotine."

The receptionist turns around, revealing a gray-haired woman with a floral dress and a red cardigan. I notice that she has a voice box to help her talk.

The receptionist smiles at me. "Sorry about that, sweetheart."

Lydia points to a set of numbers. "What's that? That number?"

The receptionist glances to what Lydia is pointing at. "It's a kind of inside thing for the motel. My husband insists on keeping it up."

I raise an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I understand what you're getting at."

She chuckles. "It's a little morbid, to be honest. You sure you two want to know?"

Lydia nods. "Tell us."

The receptionist stares up at us. "We're not gonna make the top of anyone's list when it comes to customer satisfaction."

"Obviously."

"But we are number one in California when it comes to one disturbing little detail. Since opening, more than any other motel in California, we have the most guest suicides."

"198?" Lydia questions.

The receptionist nods. "And counting."

We head back to our room with new towels and I say to Allison, "So, apparently, there have been 198 suicides here."

"198?" Allison repeats.

Lydia agrees. "Yes, and we're talking 40 years. On average that's...4.95 a year, which is...actually expected. But who commemorates that with a framed number? Who does that? Who?"

"All suicides?" Allison asks.

Lydia nods. "Yes. Hanging, throat-cutting, pill-popping, both-barrels-of-a-shotgun-in-the-mouth suicides. I don't know about you, but me, I..."

Lydia stops abruptly and turns to us after a moment. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" I question.

"Lydia?" Allison says.

Lydia covers her mouth. "Oh, my God, oh, my God." She's silent for another moment. "Oh, my God." She climbs on the bed to get closer to the air vent.