The killer is back.

Gordon’s left the motel again and who knows when he’ll show up, so it’s just me and Ma. Ma’s English isn’t as good as mine, so I check him in.

I don’t want him to know I’ve got my eye on him, so I don’t look up when the annoying bell buzzes as he steps into the office.

“Afternoon,” he says. I look up now—he’s tall—and meet his eyes. Too blue. Back in Cambodia, my friends thought blue eyes were sa’at, beautiful. Some got contact lenses to change theirs, but I find that weird. My Grandpa had blue-gray eyes when he got old and couldn’t see. Blue eyes make me think death is close.

“Welcome to the Good Sunshine Motel,” I say in my cheerful American voice. “How can I help?”

“Is room 28 free?”

He always picks 28. It’s tucked upstairs at the far end of the L-shaped motel, giving him a clear view of all the other rooms. That’s what first made me suspect him. Whenever he comes, that’s where he stays, like a spider hiding and waiting for his prey.

We already have his ID on file—it says “Lucas Macintosh”, but I’m sure that’s a fake name—so I hand him his key. He stops at the door and turns back.

“Sorry to ask, but how old are you?”

My skin prickles. Why does he want to know? He’s never seemed interested in me before. But I shouldn’t be afraid, I’ve done my research. Murderers always target a particular type and I am not his.

“I’m 16,” I say, like Gordon told me to. I’m actually 14, but Gordon says American kids can’t work that young, so I lie. I work in the motel during school breaks. I should probably be more upset about it. I heard Alison at school bitching because her mother wanted her to do some babysitting over the summer, and she would have to miss parties. But Alison’s a spoiled brat who wouldn’t survive a year in most countries. And it’s not like I have a long list of actual friends I should be spending time with. Besides, if I wasn’t working, I wouldn’t be able to investigate “Lucas Macintosh”.

He looks at me with a weird, sad expression now, as if he doesn’t believe me. But he always looks sad. And tired. Maybe it’s hard to sleep when you’re thinking of all the people you’ve killed, or dreaming about who you’ll kill next.

“Well, look after yourself,” he says, which always sounds weird to me but especially from a murderer. Ma comes out of the back when he’s gone, carrying so many towels I can hardly see her face.

“That killer is here again,” I say in Khmer. We speak our own language when Gordon’s gone. He only wants us to speak English. To help us learn, he says, but more likely because he’s worried we’re saying bad things behind his back. I wish. Ma still won’t admit what a big fat mistake she married.

“Bopha, that man isn’t a murderer. You heard your Pa.” Gordon’s not my Pa. “Murderers don’t come back to where they killed someone.”

“Then why does he come so often? And never do anything except watch people?”

“Some people like watching! And anyway, Americans are strange.”

That’s Ma’s answer for everything she doesn’t understand here. Americans are strange.

If watching is strange then I’m strange too, because I watch “Lucas Macintosh” for the rest of the afternoon. He always sits by his window. Maybe he thinks he’s far enough back to be hidden, but I see his ghost shape through the reflections. Watching. Waiting.

America is bursting with serial killers. I’ve done research. YouTube is pretty good but Netflix is where the best stuff is— half of its documentaries and shows are about serial killers.

I wonder if “Lucas Macintosh” is like that killer who dressed as a clown. Or maybe he’s like Jeffrey Dahmer and eats his victims. I checked the newspaper reports on the guy who was murdered here last month, but they didn’t say anything about bits being missing. But maybe they wouldn’t. One thing I’ve learned is that the police keep details secret to help them rule out fake confessions. Fake confessions! Ma’s right. Americans are strange.

***

He’s here again.

I’m working the second floor, cleaning rooms, because Gordon and Ma are arguing downstairs and I hate overhearing.  She always ends up apologizing, even when it’s one thousand percent Gordon’s fault. Ma was taught that women should obey men, Chbab Serey, it’s called in Cambodian schools: Women’s Rules. I’ve told her we’re in America now and she should tell him to go fuck himself.

Sometimes guests ask where me and Ma are from. A few say Cambodia’s supposed to be dangerous and we must be glad to be in America, as if we should thank them personally for letting us live here. But we don’t have serial killers in Cambodia. Probably everywhere is dangerous, just in different ways.

On the second floor, I can observe the killer closely. Mostly, he reads books, and only looks through the window when a car pulls in. A couple checked in earlier, but he’s not interested when there’s women. “Lucas Macintosh” doesn’t murder girls, he murders boys.

Well, young men, really. And only one I’m absolutely sure about.

I checked him in. He was called Salvator and was short with dark skin, big brown eyes, and a sweet smile. He could have been Cambodian if you didn’t look closely but Gordon called him Mexican even though his ID was American.

He wasn’t in a hurry checking in, we spent some time chatting. I told him I’d moved here two years ago and he said my English was wonderful. Sometimes I don’t like it when people talk about my English, but he wasn’t patronizing and I liked him saying it. Ma teased me once he’d gone, said she knew a crush when she saw one. I told her I wasn’t the one who chased foreigners, and she glared.

The next time I saw Salvator, his body was under a sheet being carried to an ambulance.

Ma cried all morning after finding him. It’s not like she hadn’t seen a body before—every Cambodian has seen a fatal motorbike accident at least once—but she said it was his facial expression that hurt her heart. He looked so surprised and sad.

She wouldn’t tell me anything else about what happened, but I read about it online later. He was strangled. That meant the murderer was big enough to overpower him.

Lucas Macintosh is big. I noticed that when he first checked in a week after Salvator’s murder. A week exactly. I hadn’t seen him on the day of the murder, but I wasn’t paying attention back then. I still want to kick myself over that. Maybe I could have helped Salvator or helped catch Lucas Macintosh sooner.

I’ve tried to find other victims so I can build my case but when I search for murders in California there are so many it makes my head hurt. There have been plenty of young men who were found dead recently, but most were shot. Most serial killers stick to one method, that’s another thing I’ve found out through my research, but not all of them. Ted Bundy strangled some, beat some, and shot some. They say he was charming. Lucas Macintosh is probably charming if you can’t see through him like I can.

***

Red alert.

Lucas Macintosh is here again. A guy named Dean Storey has also checked in tonight, alone. He’s paler and less healthy-looking than Salvator, but about the same age and height. As I checked him in, I looked up at Room 28. Lucas Macintosh was so close to the window I could see his face.

“Be careful,” I told Dean Storey as I gave him the key to room 12.

“Okay, Mom,” he said. I don’t like Dean Storey, but I’m not going to let him get murdered. I haven’t taken my eyes off room 28 since he arrived. If Lucas Macintosh creeps out of his room, I’ll get Gordon. He must be good for something.

A pick-up truck pulls up. An old looking man steps out. I’m not surprised when he goes to room 12. I think the young guy’s selling sex. In Cambodia we call girls and boys like that taxis: you pay, you take a ride. Ma says that’s mean.

Anyway, so much for Rule 9. Nobody reads the Motel Rules or don’t care. They smoke in the rooms (breaking rule 1) and play music late (rule 6). Rule 9 states outside guests must always be checked in. When I told Gordon I’d seen someone breaking that rule he said it was for show, and that if we enforced it, we’d be out of business in three months.

Later, Ma comes out of the back and says she’ll take over.

“I’m fine,” I tell her.

“What’s wrong? You normally can’t wait to play TokTok.”

“TikTok. But I don’t feel like it.”

Ma’s eyes narrow. She checks the key rack and sees 28 is missing.

“Stop bothering that man, Bopha. Go to your room.”

I pretend to, but slip out the side door. I find a pool of darkness near the parking lot where I can’t be seen. I wait until the two men emerge from 12. The old man looks sad, the young one looks happy. That seems the wrong way round.

When they both drive off, I look at 28 one last time. His face is gone. Maybe he’s gone to bed, disappointed. Another failed hunt.

I sneak back to my room.

Later, I wake up to Gordon and Ma arguing.

“You break your promise.” That’s Ma, shouting.

“When we met, you didn’t say you had a daughter.” Gordon’s tongue sounds fat with alcohol. “You tricked me.”

“No! I did not trick you. I tell you before we married.” Her English is getting better.

“You think I wanted a daughter at my age?”

“Then we should not marry!”

“No, we should not,” he mimics, mocking her accent. Sometimes I’d like Lucas Macintosh to kill Gordon, but he’s too fat and old for him. I put my headphones in and listen to music until I sleep again.

***

When Lucas Macintosh steps into the office today, I feel nervous for the first time. Ma and Gordon are out buying supplies so I’m really on my own.

 “Can I ask a question?” My skin does that itchy thing and I check my phone is near. “Do you get other guests like me?”

Murderers? Except I don’t say that, because then he’d know I was onto him. Instead, I act innocent.

 “Like what?”

“Men who come on their own for work.” Liar. He never works when he’s here. Besides, he checks in during afternoons and never goes out or changes into work clothes. “Are there others like that?”

“No,” I say, then wonder if I should have acted surprised that he asked. It would be a weird question to anyone who didn’t know what he was really after.

He frowns. “Okay, this might sound weird, but… uh… do men come here to meet other men?”

“You mean for sex?”

He makes a strange sound. “Wow. I guess you get to know stuff working here.”

“I knew stuff before I came here.”

“Right. Okay. Then, yes—are there guys like that?”

“Some.”

“The same guys often?”

“No. They’re always different.” That’s true, there are no regulars.

He nods, disappointed. “Okay, thanks. Sorry for bothering you.”

When he’s gone, my stomach feels weird. I should have said that men don’t come here. Then he’d go and hunt somewhere else.

Why didn’t I?

Because I don’t want him to go away.

Because I want to catch him.

***

I’m woken by screaming and the sound of sirens.

I sit up in the dark, breathing fast. It’s happening again. Someone’s been murdered.

Now it’s real, I’m frightened. I run and knock on Gordon and Ma’s door. Nothing. They must be outside with the police, but I push the door open to be sure.

The lights are on. My eyes go to the empty bed, then the smear of blood on the wall.

I have to jam my hand in my mouth to stop myself screaming. Was I wrong? Does Lucas Macintosh not care who he kills? Where is Ma? The siren howls again from outside but it’s moving away.

I run to the office, half expecting smashed glass or a dead body, but everything looks normal. Outside the ambulance’s lights flash as it follows a police car onto the highway. I run but I’m too late, they’re disappearing and leaving me alone. For a moment I’m paralyzed, unsure what I should do, then run to my room to grab my phone.

I call Ma. It rings and rings and then I hear its echo and follow the sound to Ma’s bedroom. I find the phone on the floor, screen cracked. The ground goes soft under my feet. Everything is wrong. Is Ma hurt? What if she’s dead? Why didn’t I—

The office bell rings and I stop crying, sick with relief. That will be Ma. She’s come back for me. I run to the office and stop in my tracks.

It’s him. He’s waiting.

Ma says there’s an animal in me and maybe she’s right because I don’t try to run, I grab the baseball bat Gordon keeps behind reception. I wave it at the murderer, a warning.

“Hey!” he shouts, raising his hands. Why doesn’t Gordon have a gun? I thought everybody had guns in America. He steps forward carefully, like he’s approaching a nervous cat. I thrash the air between us and he steps back.

“What are you doing?”

“Did you kill them?”

“What?”

“Did you kill my Ma?”

His face is shocked, he’s a good actor. “Oh, no, she’s not dead. I came to tell you what happened. Why would you think I’d kill her?”

“You killed Salvator!”

His hands drop to his sides, but he doesn’t look angry. He looks confused and sad.

“You think I killed Sal?”

I can’t fall for his act. “I know you did,” I say, raising the bat higher.

“Jesus” he says, and sits down heavily on the crappy old guest sofa. He closes his eyes, like Ma does when she has a headache. “Sal was my husband. Maybe it’s my fault he’s dead, but I didn’t kill him.”

He fumbles in his pocket. I tighten my grip on the bat, ready to crack his arm if he pulls a gun, but he pulls out a wallet instead. He wriggles out one of those passport photos. It shows two people making stupid faces. Lucas and Salvatore, looking happy.

Now I’m the confused one. “So what happened to Ma?”

“She’s okay,” he says. “It’s your stepdad who’s hurt, and just his ear I think. It was bleeding. They left in the ambulance.”

“So why were the police here?”

“Because I called them. They were arguing out in the parking lot, and it was getting serious. They were hitting each other.”

He called the police? He wouldn’t risk that if he was a killer.

I let the bat drop. I suddenly realize I’ve been worrying about all the wrong things, spending all my time thinking about serial killers when the really frightening stuff was smaller and closer.

“You’re sure Ma is okay? Will she get into trouble?” The words come out so fast I’m not even sure they’re proper English. “Will we get sent away?”

“Hey, hey,” he says, hands raised again to calm me. “She’s fine. You won’t get sent away.”

“How do you know? Gordon says it happens all the time.”

“That guy’s an asshole,” he says, and somehow even in the middle of all this horrible stuff I laugh. “Look, I’ll help you work this out, but we need to calm down.” He means I need to calm down. “Do you have any tea?”

***

Lucas Macintosh and I sit in the office, drinking tea and waiting. We already called Gordon’s phone, but he didn’t reply. Lucas said he could call the hospital, but I said it was okay, if it was only Gordon who was hurt I didn’t care what happened.

“Do they fight often?” he asks.

“All the time.”

He sighs. “My parents were the same. Not violent, but always arguing. People say divorce is bad for kids, but the day Mom left Dad was the best day of my childhood.”

“She can’t divorce him. If we’re sent back to Cambodia, our family will think she failed. She says I won’t get a good education.”

“Do you want to go back to Cambodia?”

“Sometimes. I hate Gordon. School’s okay, but other kids don’t like me. They say I’m serious and boring.”

“Hard to imagine. But listen, if they got divorced, you wouldn’t have to go back to Cambodia. You could stay. You might even get the motel.”

“Ma wouldn’t know how to get a divorce. Her English isn’t great.”

Lucas considers this, scrunching his face up. It’s quite sweet. He’s not handsome like Salvator, he’s too pale and his face is too long— but he’s not old or ugly. “I have a lawyer friend. Maybe he could help.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Like I said, I know what this is like.”

And maybe he does. We fall silent for a while, quiet enough that we can hear toads belch in the desert night outside. That noise always reminds me of Cambodia.

Then I remember something. “Wait. You said it was your fault Salvator died.”

Lucas’ head drops, and he looks old again. “It’s complicated.”

“No it’s not. If you didn’t kill him, someone else did. It’s their fault.”

 “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m not a kid,” I say, and I must sound fierce because he raises his eyebrows. I stare right back.

“It’s hard to explain,” he says, looking uncomfortable. “We had a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I want to know.”

He won’t meet my eyes and looks at his hands.

“God. I can’t believe I’m saying this. Have you heard of open relationships?”

“I don’t think so.” I hate admitting there’s stuff I don’t know.

“It means we could see other people. Meet them.”

“You mean have sex?”

He lets out a surprised bark of a laugh. “Okay, point proven, you’re not a little kid. Yeah, sex.”

“That happens in Cambodia, too. Husbands have sex with other women but nobody talks about it. But you told each other, right?”

“Yeah. I didn’t want an open relationship, but Sal did and I wanted to keep him. So, I said we could but there had to be rules.”

“What kind of rules?”

Lucas opens his mouth then closes it. I glare. “Okay, fine. One was that he couldn’t meet people at our place, it had to be somewhere else.”

“Like here.” I wave my hand at the motel.

“Like here,” he says, but there’s a catch in his voice. He struggles to get the next words out. “And it could never be a date, not someone he knew. Only a stranger, from a bar or something, nobody who he could contact again. That’s why he’s dead.”

“But why?”

Lucas’ eyes are wet and his voice sounds squeezed. I’ve never seen a man cry and don’t know what to do. “Because I was jealous. If he met people at our place, it made them the same as me. And I was scared that if he got to know someone else properly, he’d leave me.”

“No, that’s not what I meant… I meant, why does that make it your fault?”

Lucas keeps staring at his hands. “If I’d let him meet guys at our place, he’d have been safer, he’d have known how to protect himself. And if I hadn’t made him meet strangers in bars, he’d have used an app like everyone else. The police would have caught someone by now.”

 “Is that why you come here? To catch the real murderer?”

Lucas starts to cry so much that I can barely understand what he says. “Yes. To try and make it up to Sal.”

He puts his hands over his eyes and I think for a moment.

“That’s stupid,” I say. Lucas’ hands drop and he looks at me with surprise. “It’s the murderer’s fault.”

“It happened because of my rules.”

“But you were trying to give him what he wanted, right? You were doing your best. So it’s not your fault.”

Lucas’ whole body shakes and, without really knowing what I’m going to do, I go over to him. His body is even bigger than I thought, my arms don’t stretch around him. I’m glad he’s not a murderer.

“It’s not your fault,” I say. “Don’t be stupid.”

His body keeps shaking.

We stay that way for a long time, until a taxi pulls into the parking lot and he breaks away. I run out into the night. Ma steps out of the taxi and hugs me. She never hugs me. That’s two hugs in one night.

“I’m sorry,” Ma says in Khmer. I think there’s a bruise on her cheek, but it’s dark. I’ll look properly later. “I thought you’d be asleep.”

Gordon gets out of the taxi, ear bandaged, and stomps through the office to the apartment. He doesn’t notice Lucas who lingers just past the office, in the shadows. He’s waiting and watching again, but only to check if I’m okay.

“What did you do to Gordon’s ear?” I ask Ma.

Her head drops in shame.

“I bit it,” she says.  I laugh. “It’s not funny, it was a bad thing to do. I have to talk to him.”

“I’ll lock up,” I say.

When she’s gone, Lucas steps back out from the shadows.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m glad. He probably deserved it.” There’s an awkward pause, like neither of us know how to talk after all the things we said before. “I have to lock up now.”

“Okay. Do you need help?”

“No. But you should stop coming here. It’s not good for you. I can keep an eye out for any weird guys and call you if I see anything.”

“More weird guys?”

“Well, you’re definitely a weird guy, so that’s one.”

 Does he almost smile? “You’re right. I should forget this place.”

“Don’t forget me, though,” I say, surprising myself.

“Highly unlikely.”

I get my phone and we save each other’s numbers.

“You call me, too,” he says. “If things stay bad.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to Ma about what you said. About divorce.”

“Call me for any reason, actually. I hope things get better for you.”

“Worry about yourself,” I say, and he laughs. I realize I’ve never really seen him smile or laugh before. He’s handsome, really. Even his blue eyes aren’t that bad. I can see why Salvator liked him. I almost hug him again, but stop myself. Two hugs in one night is enough.

“Okay, see you, Lucas Macintosh.”

He gives me one last strange look, then walks away.

By the time I’ve finished locking the office up, he’s back in his room. I step into the lot and look up. I see him, next to the window as always. He waves and I wave back.