This room is nothing short of terrifying.

It’s all the mirrors. It’s likely about the same size as my room, but mirrors cover every inch of the walls. It’s like I’m in a fun house. I’m afraid I’m going to walk into the wall without realizing it, especially considering how dark it is in here.

“My name is Greta,” the old woman tells me, fixing her blue eyes on me. For the first time, I notice she has an accent. Something East European.

“I’m Melissa,” I say.

Her eyes darken. “We tell the truth in this room. Or else you leave.”

She looks like she means it. I clear my throat. “Fine. I’m Claudia.”

Greta gestures at her bed, and I sit gingerly on the edge, clutching my purse to my chest. She sits beside me, her eyes luminous in the yellow light of the room. “She was here. Your sister, Quinn. Right where you are sitting.”

“When?”

“Only hours ago.”

I run my fingers along the sheets, as if I could almost touch her presence. “You spoke with her then?”

“Yes. And so did Nick. The police were here looking for her, and Nick lied to them. For her.”

I was wondering why the police drove past me without having discovered Quinn here, when they obviously had been looking. Now it all makes sense. That guy Nick lied to them. No wonder he was so squirrely when I came in. “That was nice of him.”

“It was. But Rosalie did not like it.”

“Who is Rosalie?” The name sounds strangely familiar, like one I heard recently.

She smiles thinly. “She is his wife.”

Right. That’s where I know the name. I saw it in all those articles. Rosalie Baxter. The co-owner of the motel. The one whose husband cheated on her and then his mistress ended up dead.

“Is Rosalie here?” I ask.

Greta shakes her head. “She does not leave her home.

She is always at the window. She is always watching.”

I shiver, remembering the silhouette of that woman in the window of the house next door. “Do you know what happened to my sister?”

Greta is silent for a moment, as if debating what to say next. “She did not leave.”

“So is she still here? Is she in room 201?”

“I did not say she is still here. I just said she did not leave.”

This is like one of those ridiculous riddles, like what goes up and down without moving? (The stairs.) “What do you mean?”

“I think you know what I mean.”

I shake my head, my stomach sinking.

Greta stands up from the bed. She’s so tiny, yet somehow her presence fills the room. There’s something about her. “I read your sister’s fortune,” she says. “It was very dark. Her past was dark, and her future was even darker.”

“Dark?”

She turns to look into one of the mirrors. Her reflection stares back at me. “I’m talking about death, Claudia. There was a death in her past and death in her future. And the worst part…”

I hold my breath. “What?”

“It was emanating from her.” Greta’s voice is a hiss. “Like a stench. Or a virus. Infecting everyone around her.”

This woman seems like a crackpot, but there’s something about her. She knows something. “How do you

know my sister didn’t leave?”

She turns to look directly at me. “Go outside. Go to Rosalie’s.”

“Rosalie’s what?”

“Not what. Where. To Rosalie’s.”

I frown. “You mean to the house?” “No. Not the house.”

“But—”

“Go.” She holds up her wrinkled hand. “I have told you all I know.”

“Have you?”

She just stares at me, her chest rising and falling under her nightgown.

I rise from the bed. “Because I’m not sure you have.” “Go,” she says, more firmly this time.

Maybe she does know more, but it’s clear she has no intention of sharing it with me. Whatever I’m looking for is outside of this motel. And I’m going to find it.

I take my purse and my coat with me when I leave my room. I also keep Quinn’s wedding band tucked away in my pocket. I have no intention of coming back here. The police are long gone—it’s time to get on the road as soon as I’m done here.

Just as I’m going down the hall, I run into that guy Nick.

He’s got a tool kit in his hand, and he almost drops it.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m, uh…” Somehow I don’t want to tell him I’m leaving. Not yet.

Nick nods at room 201. “Going to fix that leak.” “Good luck,” I say.

He grunts.

When I get back down into the lobby, it’s eerily empty. The ceiling is still leaking into that bucket. Every time there’s a drip of water, I hear a noise. Plunk plunk plunk. Good thing he’s getting that fixed. It’s going to destroy the

ceiling. Rob always talks about how people don’t call him fast enough for a leak, and then they wreck the ceiling. He can fix the leak, but he can’t fix that.

But that’s not my problem. Quinn is my only problem.

I drop the keys to my room on the desk, next to where he left his cell phone behind—he’s awfully trusting to leave that sitting there. Anyway, he’ll get the idea that I left. That’s fifty bucks down the drain. Well, forty-eight bucks.

When I get out of the motel, the temperature is about twenty degrees colder than it was when I first came in. The wind hits me in the face, and I regret not having brought a scarf. What’s wrong with me? I’ve lived in New Hampshire my whole life. I know how cold it gets.

Rosalie’s. Find Rosalie’s.

Rosalie’s what? What the hell was that old woman talking about?

I scan the outside of the hotel. I parked my car all the way in the back of the lot. I look up and see the old house next to the motel. That one light on the second floor that’s still on. And the silhouette is still in the window, like she hasn’t moved one inch since the last time I looked.

Is that Rosalie? Is she watching me?

I swivel my head to the other side, to check out that old abandoned building. It looks like it used to be a restaurant, but now it’s all boarded up. I squint into the darkness, and I can just make out a sign on the restaurant that is caked in dirt and snow. I can’t quite see what it says.

I trudge through the snow to get a closer look. It’s only when I’m a stone throw away that I can see the writing, but I still can’t make it out. I’ve got to get a little closer.

I inch forward on the ground, which is now lined with ice. I don’t want to slip and break my wrist, but I need to see what the sign says. It isn’t until I’m about six feet away that I can finally read the writing.

Rosalie’s.

I shiver and hug my purse. This is the place Greta was talking about. Did Quinn go inside?

I make my way over to the front door of the abandoned restaurant. The door is not just closed, but boarded up. I cup my hands around my eyes, squinting to see inside. But it’s completely dark. There are no signs of movement.

But Greta said to come here. What was she talking about?

I walk around the side of Rosalie’s. I’m going very slowly because of how slippery the ice is. I have to hold onto the side of the restaurant to keep from slipping. It isn’t until I get around the back that I see something blue peeking out from behind a garbage bin.

I hurry over, as fast as I dare. When I am about ten feet away, I can make it out clearly. It’s a Corolla. Quinn’s car.

That’s what Greta was talking about. She knew Quinn wasn’t at the motel anymore. But she knew she hadn’t left because her car is still here. Although God knows how she knew the car was here, considering how well concealed it is. You can’t see it from the motel.

I walk the rest of the way to the car. When I get over to the car, I grab onto it so as not to fall. I look inside, but unsurprisingly, the car is empty.

A gust of wind nearly knocks me off my feet. My eyes are tearing from the cold. Or maybe from something else.

I look up. I can still see that broken down old house with the one light on in the upstairs bedroom. From that house, you can see everything. You can see the parking lot of the motel. You can see Quinn’s car behind the restaurant. And you can see through the window of room 203.

The police were here looking for her, and Nick lied to them. For her.

That was nice of him.

It was. But Rosalie did not like it.

Rosalie.

I’ve got to talk to her.

But one thing is for sure, I’m not going to end up like my sister. I’m smarter than that. I feel around in my purse until my fingers make contact with their destination: Rob’s pocket knife.

My heart is pounding as I carefully walk the distance from the restaurant to the dilapidated old house, my boots crunching against the hardening snow. Even though the snow has stopped, the wind is brutal, like an ice cold dagger in my face. Every few seconds, I glance up at the second- floor window of the house. The light is still shining. Rosalie has not moved. Not a millimeter. She is still in the window, staring down at me. I squint up at her, trying to make out any features. But I can’t.

My legs feel like rubber as I reach the small house. The door is made of wood, which has splintered over the years and nobody bothered to fix it. The paint surrounding the door is outright peeling off. Like our house, it’s a fixer-upper that nobody bothered to fix.

I swallow a lump in my throat. Maybe this is a mistake.

Maybe I should turn around and leave.

I feel the weight of the knife in my hand. It gives me confidence. I’ve never let anyone push me around. I can deal with one small woman.

Right?

I knock on the door with my left hand. There’s no answer. Rosalie isn’t coming down. I suppose I’m not surprised.

I put my hand on the door knob. I let out a gasp as it turns. The door is unlocked.

I push open the door and walk inside.