Page 44 of Watch Me Burn

We didn’t stumble into the Seaside Inn in trench coats and oversized glasses, but I would say we fit the cultural norms of intimidating. I wore black shades and a crisp black turtleneck with low-cut boots—someone could mistake me as the female Steve Jobs, which was great, because convincing them of our story would rely on us looking extra transplant-like. Ethan wore a dress shirt with pants we’d thrifted and exhaustively ironed at the back of our RV. He looked damn hot in it, and I would take the thing off with delight as soon as we got what we came here for.

The hotel lobby of the Seaside Inn exuded a welcoming charm. The off-white tiled flooring reflected the golden rays of the sun that streamed in through the large windows draped with blue curtains. Palm planters dotted the corners, adding a touch of the tropical ambience synonymous with Florida. A modest reception desk stood on one side, constructed of light-colored wood with a few brochures showcasing local attractions.

We strode up to the reception desk confidently, not even taking the first step to introduce ourselves.

“Hi, how may I help you?” the receptionist said worriedly once she noticed us. I could tell she changed her normal dialogue from its usual selling tone. We were here on serious business—not booking a room.

“My name is James, this is Lauren,” Ethan said in a deep, authoritative voice. “We’re private investigators from James & Lauren. We’re here to inspect your records for a case that’s been privately commissioned by one of our clients.”

God, his low voice sounded sexy on him.

The receptionist seemed like she was at a loss for words at our confrontation. “Uh . . . I’m sorry, but I’ll have to speak to my manager in the back.”

I resisted the urge to look to Ethan for reassurance—the more higher-ups we got involved, the more likely we were to be screwed. Why couldn’t we just stroll in here, look at a few logs, and get some guidance so the receptionist could free herself from the hassle?

Unfortunately, she exited the hotel’s backroom with a stern-faced manager.

“Hi, I’m David Flinch.” The manager reached across the reception counter to shake Ethan’s hand, then mine.

“Nice to meet you, David,” Ethan said. “My partner and I have come here to look into the records on a particular individual who was victimized in a homicide not too long after mysteriously booking a reservation here. We’d like to get a better understanding if he was alone or who he might’ve interacted with during his stay.”

The manager pursed his lips, glancing at the receptionist. “Did you say the guest stayed years ago?”

I nodded. “Fifteen, to be precise.”

David shook his head. “We don’t keep records up here for that long. But even if we kept them somewhere else for longer, I couldn’t just hand over private guest information to you like that.”

Ethan placed his hand on the counter, reeling menacingly. “I understand your position, David, and I truly wish I could care about it as well, but I kind of don’t.”

Davis loosened the collar around his neck. It was striking how Ethan could be so dually soft and threatening. Chills crawled up my spine, but a spicy interest consumed me, too.

“A family was torn apart by this murder,” Ethan continued, his tone growing even colder. “The victim’s wife is gearing up for a lawsuit against a major insurance company. It could drag on for years. Anyone who gets tangled up in it will face a grueling time in court. Seems like a lot of hassle over nothing, doesn’t it, David? Why not be one of the good guys? Just give us what we need, and no one has to know how we got it.”

“What . . . kind of lawsuit are we talking about?” David stammered, visibly sweating.

“Damages worth tens of millions,” I said with an assured calmness, betraying nothing of the racing pulse beneath. “And you know how those guys at the insurance companies can be when it comes to large sums. They’ll scour every detail to avoid paying a dime. And in this case, the victim’s Florida trip to your hotel is the last piece missing in this puzzle. So you can either help us now or wait for them to come digging with their warrants, swarms of lawyers, and police backup . . . drama guaranteed.”

Just as I said those words, a woman walking by glanced at us with a curious expression, then continued her way down the lobby.

The hotel manager paused, staring at the floor for a moment before bending down to whisper into his employee’s ear. Turning to face us, he flashed an enthusiastic grin. “At Seaside Inn, there’s nothing we love more than happy guests.” He motioned toward the backroom from which he’d emerged, beckoning for us to follow. “Let’s look into our cloud records. I’m not sure how much we’ll find from that far back. A few years, maybe . . . but fifteen is a more than a stretch.”

I snuck a proud smile at Ethan. He might’ve spent fifteen years outside of normal society, but he nailed the art of convincing people like a born natural. His tactic was brilliant, and while I didn’t doubt David had a lot of guests in the past, the sad state of its parking lot and maintenance told me all I needed to know about its recent profits.

Ethan trailed me as I followed the manager to the backroom. It was a lot like a mini factory warehouse mingled with staff room amenities; ceiling-high shelves lined the walls with brown cardboard boxes.

I was starting to feel a lot more confident about finding records on my dad’s booking that happened over a decade ago.

David stopped in front of a long white table cluttered with notebook papers and a box of old donuts. A spectacled woman sat at the edge of the table, eyes glued to a boxy computer that looked as if it was bought in 1998.

“Stephanie, we need to go through some old reservations and surveillance footage,” David said. The woman looked up, then glanced in our direction.

She pushed up her glasses. “How far back are we going?”

I hesitated to give an answer, eventually admitting, “Fifteen years.” The woman’s eyes widened, but she began to type fast on her computer.

“We keep track of where our records are stored through a digital system,” David explained.

Stephanie snarked, “It’d also help to have a specific date. Otherwise, it will take weeks.”

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