The motel room door closed behind us with a hollow thud, sealing us into what had to be the most depressing space I'd ever seen. And as a doctor who'd spent years working in underfunded hospitals, that was saying something.
"Welcome to the murder scene," Ronan announced with dark humor, dropping his still-dripping gym bag on the threadbare carpet. "Pretty sure I saw this exact room on an episode of 'American Crime Story.'"
I stood just inside the doorway, taking in our temporary shelter with growing dismay. The carpet was a dingy beige with mysterious stains I absolutely did not want to identify. The wallpaper—an aggressively ugly pattern of brown and orange flowers—curled at the edges where moisture had seeped in. A single bulb lit the room with sickly yellow light, revealing two full-sized beds covered with faded floral spreads that looked like they hadn't been washed since the Clinton administration.
"This place is..." I struggled to find a diplomatic word.
