“There,” Jill said, squinting through the white blur of their windshield. “I think that’s a motel up on the right.” “‘Motel’ is a strong word,” Vincent said as they inched closer, pulling into the near-deserted parking lot. Jill reached for the door handle, but Vincent gave her a skeptical look. “You do know that deserted motels like this are where people come to die, right?” She leaned over and patted his thigh. “You’ve got a gun, big guy.” The woman behind the reception desk had both the whitest skin and the blackest hair Jill had ever seen. Add to that a complete inability to smile, an obvious disdain for her job, and a disarming habit of maintaining eye contact for three beats too long, and Vincent had a pretty solid point about the whole death-in-motel theory. The place was seriously creepy. “Good thing Holly served us a big old meal so we won’t have to worry about dinner,” Jill said as they made their way to their side-by-side rooms. “Or not,”
