The old widow Agatha Smith is a complete juxtaposition to the jovial Hank. Bitterness seeps from her every gesture and every word. I don't understand why, of all people in this town, only she appears to be renting out rooms.
But this is what Hank had told me—everybody stays with Agatha. She may not have an official hotel, but her house is basically one. It's wooden, but well-maintained and has a fresh coat of paint. The lawn is mowed, and a small garden behind a fence grows some vegetables. The locals probably help Agatha out, because the woman herself moves like she could shatter from a strong wind.
"The breakfast is at seven. You can cook other meals in my kitchen if you need to. I will not clean your room, but if you're a slob, you're evicted. No guests, no pets, and no smoking—Scrappy doesn't like either. And if you return after nine in the evening, enter only from the back door. Is everything clear, Miss Maya?"
"Yes, Missus Smith." I smile at the perpetually annoyed woman out of pure spite. "One more question—when have you last seen Rose Davis, who rented a room from you a month ago?"
Agatha lets out a choking noise. "And why should I tell you a thing? Who are you, police?"
I wish I could show her a badge and say just so. It's hard to tell if Agatha's indignation comes from a desire to hide a secret or from her general distaste of all life except for her pug and her garden. "I am Rose's friend, and I'm worried about her wellbeing, Missus Smith."
"Bah!" Agatha waves—claws—her wrinkly hand at me. "Anyone can come and tell they are friends with such-and-such. I will not tell anything about one of my tenants!"
She turns away and makes a step up the porch, but I immediately follow. "Listen, I can show you our photos together as proof."
"Photos?" Agatha pauses mid-step, but only to turn and scowl at me. "You won't trick me with your gadgets, hear it? I know all your ruses! You can paint a man on the moon, sure you can paint whoever you want!"
She stomps—as quickly as old bones let the woman—away, and this time, I let her. My hands are in my pockets, and they are clenched into fists. That stubborn woman! I glare at her pug, who lays in a sunny patch of grass near the porch, but then my gaze softens.
The pug is ugly and as old as its owner, but it's still adorable in its own way. And definitely not at fault that his owner is a stubborn, paranoid hag.
With the keys Agatha had given me, I go upstairs to my—Rose's—room. This was another reason I wanted to stay here, beyond the fact that there were no other options. Rose and I have loved the same mystery novels, and I think she could've left a hint of some sort in there.
The room Agatha rents out is bigger and nicer than I expected. That's one good thing. There's a window on the wall that shows the main street, a queen-sized bed, a cabinet and a reading table with a chair. A door leads to an adjoined bathroom with a shower. Everything is well-kept and well-cleaned, despite clearly being unused for a long while.
I leave my bag lying on the table and look around. A sense of urgency fills me, telling me to hurry with my search, and I follow. The sooner I find the answers, the more hope—as dim as it is—I have to see Rose again alive.
The cabinet is empty, of course, and there's nothing but a few dust bunnies under the bed. But I don't give up on just that. Rose wouldn't have hidden something where Agatha would find. She's smart.
The room is not so big. I spend half an hour peeking into every nook and cranny of it, but still find nothing. Then I spend half an hour more thinking about what places I've missed.
The note, written on a sheet of a paper torn from a notebook, is taped to the underside of the bathtub. To see it, I have to lie on the floor. When it's in my hands after all, I feel my eyes growing wet.
The sheet of paper is folded in two like a book. On the front of it in Rose's sharp handwriting written: "*To my best friend*".
I sit on the bed and weep in earnest as I open the note and read the first lines.
"*If you are reading this, Maya, then I failed. Twice—because I didn't overcome this, and because I forced you to come after me. This is a can of worms that swallowed me whole.
I'm sorry. This is my last investigation. But I can't have you end in the same ditch, so Maya—right now, take this journal, your things, and leave! Leave and never return to this place. Please!*"
"Rose..." I sniff, wiping a stray tear from the page. Ink on it blotches a little. "I let you down. I should've been more insistent, should've made you stay. This time I will go until the end. Whatever it takes, I will find you."
"*Assuming you ignored my advice just like I ignored yours... This is not the time and place to become courageous, Maya. No. Be scared, like I am. Terrified.
I hear sounds from the grass fields in the night. Clicks, like insects'. Too loud for crickets.
I haven't had a good night's sleep since arriving here.
Something terrible is happening here, and I'm afraid to put it to paper. I feel like it would bring it to life. This is a mystery that should stay buried.
It's too late for me to return, Maya, but you still can. Please! Go back. Tell Mom and Dad I love them. Pet Charmy for me.
Run!*"