With the curtains drawn, the room was dim and undefined, just like her thoughts. She had dreamed about Logan, that much she was sure of. The old Logan, skinny and funny and smart. Where was he? Why had he disappeared? Was he all right, or had Cindy’s death pushed him back into the place where the voices whispered in his ear? The bedside table held a directory of hotel services, a TV Guide, postcards of glamorous-looking people playing slot machines (although from what Claire had seen, the instant the photos were finished the models had been replaced by elderly matrons in polyester), and the Minor phonebook. Claire had forgotten that an entire phone book - both yellow and white pages - could be less than an inch thick. There were three entries under West - but none of them were Logan or started with an L. There was an E. West, though, who lived on Ash Creek Road. Claire couldn’t remember Logan’s mom’s name, but she did remember the name of her old street. When she was little, the older kids had called it “Ass Creek”
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