Music floated from a Mexican restaurant across a small service road fifty yards beyond the motel. Traffic whooshed in a steady stream over on Highway 16.

We approached Phoenix Miller’s room in single file. Ollie positioned himself to one side of the door. Ryan took the other, gesturing me behind him with one hand.

I noted no yellow glow beneath the door or rimming the drapes, no flickering blue radiance from a TV.

Ollie knuckle-rapped to announce our presence.

No answer.

He knocked again.

Not a sound.

He pounded with the heel of one hand.

Nothing but mariachis and the whoosh of cars and trucks.

Ryan stepped forward and inserted the key.

THE ROOM WAS DARK AND STILL.

We all paused, listening for sounds of a human presence. My nose took in disinfectant and the Meadows & Rain Febreze I use at home.

Beside me, I felt Ryan palm the wall. A switch clicked, then sallow yellow light flowed from an overhead globe double-tasking as a crypt for dead insects.

Unit fourteen was approximately the size of my bathtub. The walls were peach, the thin brown carpet stained and cigarette-burned.

My eyes circled clockwise. To our left, a battered bureau held a clunker TV with a foil-wrapped antenna. Beyond the bureau, a metal rack housed a paltry collection of garments, some on hangers, some stacked in piles on shelving below.

The bed sat opposite the door, neatly made with a red-and-white floral spread that looked like a dorm-room special from Target. A square red throw was carefully positioned on each pillow.

Beside the bed, in the room’s far left corner, a red plastic lamp occupied a white plastic nightstand. Above the bed’s wall-bolted headboard hung a cheaply framed print of a bowl of red tulips.

Ahead and to the right was a closed door I assumed led to a bath. Beside the door, in the room’s far right corner, a built-in cabinet held a microwave oven, a hot plate, and a mini-fridge.

A white plastic kitchenette set occupied the space below the room’s only window, to the right of the entrance. Miniature cacti filled a small ceramic pot at the table’s center. A red cushion covered the seat of each chair.

I felt hollow inside. Though the furnishings were cheap and shabby, it was clear that a caring hand had tried its best. The bedspread and matching pillows. The lamp. The plastic furniture. The plants. The cushions. Though barely making enough to survive, Phoenix Miller had worked to brighten the depressing little space.

“Annaliese Ruben?” Ollie called out.

Nothing.

“Ms. Ruben?”

No response. No sounds of movement.

As at the main entrance, Ryan and I moved to one side of the closed door, Ollie to the other. Ollie reached out and turned the knob.

The bathroom was impossibly small, the fixtures crammed into a space little bigger than a locker. Fully open, the door blocked access to the tub.

Cosmetics and body lotions lined the back of the toilet. A pink nightshirt hung from a hook beside it. Red and white towels filled a bar on one wall, carefully draped and alternating by color. The plastic shower curtain was, of course, red. The tile was spotless, the mirror and sink immaculate.