The Stranger

the hotel. She was pleased to see a couple packing cases into their car and preparing to drive away. She hoped this was the natural end of their stay. That the murder upstairs had not encouraged them to check out early, to request their money back.
Abbie stepped through the front doors, into the lobby, and saw the beaming face of Bobby behind the receptionist’s desk.
She double-took and looked around. As if expecting rowdy, drunken patrons to appear behind her and deep fat fryers and colleagues with no personal hygiene to materialise behind Bobby. As though she was being dragged back in time to the previous night.
From some paperwork he was filling in, Bobby looked up to catch her expression.
“Hi there,” he said. “I hear your interesting evening didn’t end after you left Perfect Chicken? Don’t worry, no need for that look. I’m not following you. I work here.”
“You work here?”
“Yes.”
“And at Perfect Chicken?”
“That’s right.”
“How awful.”
Bobby shrugged. “I need the money.”
“How sad.”
He shrugged again.
She said, “You didn’t mention you worked here when you gave me the address and Glenda’s number.”
“I thought it would be a nice surprise.”
“That so?”
“It is so. And is it? A nice surprise.”
“It’s certainly a surprise.”
Bobby chuckled, then drummed his fingers on the desk. A nervous look entered his eyes, though the smile didn’t drop. Abbie was starting to wonder if it might not be fixed on.
He said, “If you’ve come for a refund—“
“I haven’t. I’ve come for a room. Another room. I saw a couple out there, looked as though they were leaving.”
“Early,” said Bobby. “Two days early. They felt uncomfortable about the number of murders happening in the vicinity of where they were expecting to sleep.”
“It was only one.”
‘Yes. I think that was one more than they were hoping.”
“I suppose that’s fair,” said Abbie. “Well, in that case, all the more reason to take my money. I suppose you gave them a refund?”
“I did.”
“Not good for business. Lucky I came along.”
Abbie moved to the desk, withdrew from her drawstring bag her wallet, and took out her credit card, placing it on the wooden surface. Bobby looked at the card. Then at Abbie. That nervous look was back again.
“I’m not sure—“
“I’ll pay double rates.”
“There are other hotels.”
Abbie still had her fingers on the card but didn’t remove it from the desk. She could stay somewhere else. She didn’t know why, but she felt it might be valuable staying in the hotel where Danny had died. It was at times like this Abbie wished she had ditched her hoody and spent some time learning how to use her cleavage and the suggestive touch of a finger to the back of her target’s hand to get her way.
But she never had. Luckily, what she lacked in flirtatiousness, she made up for with money.
“Triple rate,” she said. “One more night.”
Bobby looked down the hall, towards the only downstairs room: Glenda’s room. The conflict was apparent in his eyes. He knew he should push to turn Abbie away. Unfortunately for him, sexual desire is so often more powerful than rational thought. Even if Abbie was wearing her hoody and had yet to make physical contact.
“Double time,” he said, “and you and I go for a drink this evening.”
“In different places?”
“The same place. Together.”
“Sounds like a date.”
“How about that.”
Abbie sighed. That was the last thing she wanted. It was one thing being suggestive to get her way, but actually going on a date? No. That was different.
“Not a good idea,” she said.
“Why not?”
“When people find out what happened here, they’re going to think I had something to do with Danny’s death. Eddie already thinks I killed his brother.”
“And maybe you did,” said Bobby. “But don’t worry. I was going to suggest we meet somewhere public.”
Abbie shook her head. “I’ll be gone tomorrow or the day after. What do you gain from this?”
“You’re interesting. Different. Like no one I’ve ever met.”
“Bit early to be making that call.”
“I can tell.”
Either he had good instinct, intuition, or he thought she was hot and was just trying a line. Not that it mattered either way.
“If you’re only here a night, what have you to lose?”
More than he could imagine.
“Bobby. I hate to let you down—”
“Easy solution to that.”
“But I have to.”
Bobby sighed. Shook his head. He was handsome in his disappointment. And how was that a helpful thought? From beneath the desk, he drew a piece of paper and a pen.
She asked, “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to note down the numbers and addresses of a couple of nearby hotels. Good places. You won’t get the service you do here but…” shrug.
“You’re soliciting a date out of me,” said Abbie. “You’re either trying to make me a prostitute, or you’re blackmailing me. Neither is cool. Neither is an attractive quality.”
Bobby paused. Any bravado he had conjured flooded away. He cast his eyes to her, then shot them back to the desk. Placing the pen in a pot, he scrunched the paper and chucked it in a bin at his feet.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
He glanced again down the hall, towards Glenda’s room. Shook his head.
“Triple rate is too much. Pay double. That will help me convince Glenda it wasn’t an awful idea letting you back here.”
“Okay,” said Abbie. “Let’s do this.”
They did this. Bobby was quiet, reserved as he worked following her blackmail/prostitution comments. She felt bad for him. Found she wanted to make it better. Not a good idea. Never truly connect. That was rule number one. Fake connection and do so only with the ones who mattered. She had to keep that always in mind.
When she had paid, Bobby presented her with a new key.
“I’ll try not to offer my room to anyone else this time,” she said. It was a mistake. Humour was not good. It was inviting. She hadn’t been able to help herself. His smile had dimmed, and his face didn’t seem right without it.
“Probably wise,” he noted.
Abbie nodded. Hovered. Almost said something else then caught herself. She stepped away from the