Four Lights Motel

Chapter 2

    I woke early, double checking that I had everything I needed for the interview; my Moleskin notebook, two pens (a spare one would always come in handy) and my trusty tape recorder. I also decided to take my yellow folder filled with newspaper clippings of all the deaths which I have been following since the first victim, just for reference sake. You never know, some of the locals may be familiar with the victims.

    I threw on my dad's old blazer, wrapped my red scarf tightly around my neck, grabbed my bag and stepped out into the morning air. The storm had subsided, leaving behind a few inches of snow that crunched delightfully underneath my feet. The air was incredibly cold and crisp, making my lungs burn with the first few breaths. First thing I noticed was the tall spire of the church visible behind the motel. The trip to Brightbell itself wouldn't take long.

    But scrubbing the windows of my beloved 1967 Buick Riviera would. The storm had dumped at least two inches of snow onto the window, hiding a nice sheet of ice underneath.

Good thing I left early.

I turned on the engine and waited a few moments to enjoy my occasional Marlborough, watching as the swirls of thin smoke merged together with clouds of my breath before dissipating into the air.

Overall, I enjoyed the moment of peace, allowing myself a few brief minutes stress-free; my mind clear of what would happen if this story were to fail, if Dean Thurston was to shut it down, reject it with one of his subtle sneers and his condescending pat on the back. No matter what that man did, it all seemed like he was always laughing at you, as if he was let in on a great secret to success and he wasn't going to share it with anyone else.

    Sara caught my eye, exiting the main office with an unzipped moss green bomber jacket, her long hair flying in the wind, catching in her mouth which she tried to awkwardly spit out as her hands were full with a tray of what looked like a steaming mug of something and a breakfast of some sort.

I watched her across the parking lot, my eyes fixated on the natural beauty of the girl wondering what her story might be. She was far too young to own the motel, perhaps around 20 or so, but besides an occasional cleaning lady, I did not see anyone else roam around.
Perhaps the owners were off or something.

She clumsily made her way down the row of rooms until she reached one at the very end and I watched her tap on the door with her boot.
A young man opened the door, perhaps the owner of the truck that was hidden under a mound of snow, his face breaking into a grin as he took the tray from her hands.

They chatted a while, Sara playing with the strands of her hair, occasionally letting out a musical laugh before gently touching the guy's arm.

Classic flirting.

I couldn't help but feel a little resentment towards the guy, but he looked a few years younger than me. Pretty handsome, dirty blond hair intentionally messy, lean guy.
I couldn't really blame the girl.

The guy eventually shut the door and Sara rushed back to the other end to the main office. She saw me and grinned, waving to me. I waved back, returning her smile.

My cell beeped in my pocket.

My alarm. Half hour left till first interview. I quickly broke out of my dazed state and vigorously began to clear my car of the snow and ice. It took about five minutes before I knew I could see clearly and within another five I was on my way down the road to Brightbell.

    From what I read, the descriptions were accurate. Each building had the touch of history carved into its walls, the Victorian architecture elegantly blending with modern touches to create a very scenic yet quiet sort of town.