“He keeps it locked.”

I nearly jump ten feet in the air at the sound of Greta’s voice. I don’t know how long she’s been watching me, from that little crack between her door and the door frame. I yank my hand off the doorknob.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

She arches one of her white eyebrows at me. “Do not apologize to me. Nick and Rosalie Baxter own this motel. I do not care what you do.”

I wipe my hand on my jeans. “I was just…” “Curious?”

“I guess.” I don’t want to talk about the strange leak coming from the ceiling right below room 201. “Anyway.”

Greta blinks at me. “You should join me. I’m about to have lunch.”

That’s when I notice quite a nice smell emanating from Greta’s room. A minute ago, I had no appetite whatsoever. But the smell of something actually appetizing reminds me it’s time for lunch. And whatever Greta made is much better than another turkey sandwich. Or some brown eggs.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“I would not invite you if I did not want you to come.” That is true.

I drop off my coat and boots in my room, then I head to room 202 to join Greta for lunch. Of course, the second I walk into her room, I’m reminded of why it gave me the creeps last time I was here. If I had remembered all the mirrors, I might have said no.

She has a small table set up in front of her bed. I sit down on the edge of the bed and watch as she scoops what looks like a dark brown stew onto a nest of egg noodles.

“Is that goulash?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “This is porkolt.” “Porkolt?”

She shakes her head vigorously. “No, porkolt.”

I’m never going to say it right, so I just nod. She is heaping an enormous amount of stew onto my plate—easily enough for three people. She plops it down in front of me, along with a slightly bent fork.

“It’s a lot of food,” I comment. “Yes. You are too skinny. Eat it all.”

If I tried to eat all this food, I would probably vomit it up immediately after. But I’m not going to argue. I dip my fork into the food and spear a hunk of meat. I lift it to my mouth and take a tentative bite. “This is good!”

“Why are you so surprised?”

“It’s just…” I take another bite. Maybe I could eat the whole plate. “Where did you make this? You couldn’t have made it in this room.”

“I made it in the kitchen. Nick lets me use it, and he takes me out to the grocery store once a week. I do not care for his cooking and he does not care to cook.”

I take another bite. This is fantastic. It’s got this rich stew flavor, and then a hint of paprika. If I made this at home, Derek would…

Oh God, what am I thinking? I’m not making any meals for Derek again. Ever.

“So what was it like working at a carnival?” I ask.

“It was a living.” She shrugs as she settles down next to me with her own heaping plate of stew. I don’t know how she eats so much when she’s so tiny. “I have a gift, so it was my obligation to share it.”

“What is your gift… exactly?”

She smiles thinly. “You are skeptical.” I shrug.

“It runs in my family.” She stirs the food on her plate. “We all have an ability to see beyond what is visible to the naked eye. I can see past, present, and future.”

I chew on a hunk of meat. I have no idea what animal this is, but it’s delicious. “Mmm.”

“You should let me tell your fortune.” “I’d rather not.”

“Why not? You do not believe in it anyway. So do it for a laugh. Yes?”

I nod at the dresser where I saw the Tarot cards. “So you use Tarot cards or a crystal ball or…?”

She waves a hand dismissively. “Those are just ornaments for putting on a show.” She taps her temple. “The real gift is in here.”

“Did you tell Nick’s fortune?” I ask. She takes a bite of the stew. “I did.” “And?”

She clucks her tongue. “Whatever happens during a session is private. But I will tell you this. He did not believe his fortune. And that was to his detriment. Also, I will tell you…” She leans in close enough that I can smell wine on her breath. “If Christina Marsh had listened to her fortune, she would still be breathing today.”

A hunk of meat feels like it has gotten lodged in my throat. “I think I’ll pass on the fortune-telling.”

She shrugs. “That is your choice. But even if you do not know your fortune, that does not keep it from coming true.”

“If you know your fortune, are you able to stop it? Or do you just have to try to look surprised when it happens?”

“In some cases, people may alter their destinies,” she says. “But it is rare. Most people simply allow it to happen. Like Christina.”

I want to roll my eyes at her, because it’s also ridiculous. But there’s something about this woman. Something about her strange room and her eye socks and her beef stew that is the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life. If anyone can tell the future, it’s this woman.

And that’s all the more reason for me to refuse.