The Coffee Killer, Book 1 - Motel at the End of the World

Sample Chapter

Few jobs are more depressing than sitting in a dank office behind the counter of an old motel in the middle of the night. Unless it’s the end of the world, and you’re running the motel your dead aunt left you. Then it’s even more miserable. Add a former police dog as your constant companion and a bossy housekeeper, and somehow we make it work—most of the time.

Bruno doesn’t like bad weather or certain people. He whines under his breath, scooting closer to me as the branches outside shake in the wind. Shadows flicker across the parking lot, empty except for the swaying trees.

“It’s just the wind… you big baby. Stop grumbling.” I glance at him, then out the window at the flickering Crescent Motel sign buzzing against the storm. “Don’t you do that now!” I mutter to the sign, hoping it doesn’t go out. Last thing I need is restarting the generator.

Suddenly, the door swings open, letting in a gust of cold air. A soaked man steps inside, backpack slung over one shoulder. Bruno growls.

I fold the paper and size him up. “Good evening. Looks like you just made it before the rain hit.”

The man swipes water off his forehead, stomping the floor to shake off the drops. His backpack thuds to the ground. “Yeah. It's coming down out there. Think it’ll rain for days. I need a room for the night. I’ll be out of here before it gets worse.”

“Well, that depends on what you’ve got for payment.”

He smirks and unzips his pack. I can’t see what he’s rummaging for, but I start rattling off the usual list anyway. “We need soap, shampoo, razors. Deodorant, maybe. No more toothbrushes, though. Food’s always a win. Got mac and cheese? Ramen? That’ll get you a night here, easy.”

Then the man pulls out a small, oblong package and slaps it on the counter. It’s matte brown, wrapped up tight, and almost looks like...no, it couldn’t be.

“What’s that?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“It’s what you think it is,” he says, grinning.

I swallow, trying to keep my composure. “Yeah, but is it what I *smell* it is?”

He nods. “It is.”

I glance at the windows, checking to see if anyone’s watching, then reach out and squeeze the package. It feels like little granules of gold under my fingers. “No way,” I whisper, barely believing it. Coffee. Real, ground coffee. Almost extinct.

I let out a long breath. “I’m not even gonna ask where you got this.”