I got the worst night’s sleep of my life.
I didn’t lie awake. That would have been preferable to what happened, which is that I dozed off and woke up every hour on the hour with horrible nightmares. But they weren’t exactly nightmares. They were memories.
We had our first date at a French restaurant. It was so much fancier than what I was used to. We didn’t have a lot of money growing up, and of course, things got much harder after our parents died and it was just me and Claudia. I wasn’t used to being spoiled that way.
I opened up the menu and was immediately intimidated. It was entirely in French, and I had a feeling that even if I spoke French, I wouldn’t have known what half these dishes were. I timidly asked Derek what was good, and he told me he would order for both of us. He didn’t even ask me what sort of things I liked to eat, but his confidence was compelling. It was so different from every other man I’d ever dated.
Derek ordered some special fancy red wine. He actually sniffed the cork. The server poured it into my glass, and Derek watched eagerly as I took a sip. What do you think, Quinn?
I sat there, unsure how to distinguish this fancy wine from the kind I got for ten dollars from the local liquor store. It’s got a fruity note, I finally said. (It didn’t. It tasted exactly like the ten dollar wine.)
Derek beamed at me, and I felt like I had gotten the right answer on a test. He was so handsome and dripping with charm and charisma. He seemed better than me. Claudia would have been angry if I said that, but I couldn’t help feeling that way.
He ordered us something called coq au vin, which he explained was hen braised in red wine. I also tried foie gras, which is apparently duck liver. It tasted terrible to me, but over the last several years, I grew to appreciate the taste.
And then as we were finishing up the most divine chocolate soufflé, Derek leaned in and kissed me.
In real life, it was a lovely kiss that led to a second date, then a third, then far too soon, a proposal I couldn’t say no to. But in my dream, we had that same dinner, the same expensive wine, and the same delicious chocolate soufflé. And he kissed me the same way. But then when he pulled away, there was a red stain spreading across his white dress shirt.
Quinn, he gasped.
I looked down and saw a steak knife in my right hand. It was covered in my husband’s blood. I let it clatter to the floor, but it was too late.
You bitch, Derek managed as the color drained from his face. Call… an ambulance…
But I didn’t call an ambulance. I just stood there, watching the life drain out of him.
I let my husband die on the floor of my kitchen.
So that’s my other secret. I stabbed Derek in the abdomen to keep him from strangling me, but there was a moment when I might have been able to save him. If I had run straight to the phone and called 911, maybe he would be alive right now. But I didn’t. Yes, I killed him in self- defense, but I wanted him to die.
Not only that, but I waited to make sure he was dead. I stood there, watching him bleed out. As he cried for help. He begged me to call an ambulance until he lost consciousness. And even after he was unconscious, I still waited. Waited until his chest stopped rising and falling. Waited until I couldn’t feel a pulse in his wrist.
I wake up with a start in my uncomfortable double bed in the hotel room. For a moment, I’m completely
disoriented. I have no idea where I am. But then it all comes rushing back to me. Where I am. What I’ve done.
I sit up in bed, my heart pounding. I’ve got to get out of here.
I look at my wrist watch—it’s close to nine o’clock. I don’t know how I managed to sleep so late when I was hardly sleeping at all. But I can’t even waste a second getting back on the road. I don’t have time to attempt to get the television to work to check out the news. I’ll listen to it on the car radio.
I hit the bathroom to empty my bladder and splash some water on my face. When I look at my reflection in the mirror, I flinch. I look awful. My blond hair is at least dry by now, but it looks like it was cut with… well, with a pair of scissors in somebody’s bathroom. The strands are limp and lifeless, and there are dark purple circles under my eyes. I look like I’ve aged ten years overnight.
But the worst part is I still look like me. Yes, a bedraggled version of me, but I’m still clearly Quinn Alexander. If anybody saw a photograph of me, I’m recognizable, even with my hair hacked off.
I don’t know what to do to change my appearance. In the short term, I need to buy some hair dye. Something dark, but not a black color that will draw attention. And I can try to pack on some weight, although I can’t imagine how I’ll accomplish that when I have no money for food.
Anyway, I’ll figure it out later. Right now, I’ve got to get out of here.
As I pull on my blue jeans, I hear a rap at the door. My heart thuds in my chest. Is it the police? Have they come looking for me? But then I hear Nick’s voice.
“Kelly?”
“Hang on!” I grab my socks off the radiator. They’re very stiff, but warm and dry. I stuff my feet into them and run a hand through my hacked off hair. “Coming!”
I crack open the door, and Nick is standing there, holding a plate of food. It appears to be scrambled eggs and a few slices of crisp bacon. My stomach growls at the sight of it.
“Sorry to disturb you…” He looks pointedly at the sign hung from my doorknob. “But I made you some breakfast. I figured you’d be hungry.”
He’s right. At the sight of the plate of food, my stomach groans painfully. The eggs are brown, but I couldn’t care less. I could devour them in one bite. “Thanks. I’m going to get on the road pretty soon though.”
Nick’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “On the road?” “Yeah…” I glance out the window. “The snow stopped,
right?”
“Right, but…” He frowns. “We’re buried. I can’t get a plow to come out here till the late afternoon. I don’t see where you parked, but unless you’ve got a huge truck, I don’t see how you’re getting out of here.”
My stomach sinks. “Are you serious?”
He shifts between his feet. “I’m sorry. I can try calling the plow company again. But we got about two feet of snow here last night…”
No, no, no… this can’t be happening. I’ve got to get out of here. “Maybe I could dig out my car.”
“Uh…”
I grip the white plate in my hands, my appetite suddenly gone. “Would you help me?”
“Help you?”
“Help dig me out.” I’m gripping the plate so hard, it feels like it might shatter in my hands. “I’ve got to get out of here today. Please.”
“Uh…” Nick glances over my shoulder, out the window at the blinding white snow coating absolutely everything. “I guess we can try, but there’s a lot of snow out there. Where did you park anyway? You’re not in the lot right outside.”
“I parked by that diner. The one that’s boarded up.”
“Okay.” He lifts his shoulders. “We can give it a shot.” He looks down at my feet. “You got boots?”
Of course I don’t have boots. I didn’t even have freaking socks. “No. It’s fine though.”
He rubs the stubble on his jaw. “Let me borrow a pair from Rosalie. You look like you’re about the same size.”
Something about borrowing a pair of boots from his sick wife makes me feel a little uneasy. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. There’s a lot of snow out there. You’re going to lose a toe if you don’t have a pair of decent boots on.”
He makes a good point. “If you’re sure it’s okay…”
He nods at the plate of food. “Why don’t you eat breakfast, then I’ll meet you downstairs with the boots.”
I agree to do it, but his expression doesn’t make me feel hopeful. What if I can’t get out of here? I’m a sitting duck right now.
After he’s gone, I shovel eggs into my mouth while I attempt to get reception on the television. The eggs are pretty terrible. They are dry and bland, and the bacon is burned. He did better with the turkey sandwich. To be fair, it’s hard to ruin a turkey sandwich.
I tune into the local news, but there’s no mention of any sort of murder. Again, most of the news is about the blizzard. I don’t know if it’s just that the story hasn’t hit the news yet, or if nobody has discovered Derek’s body yet.
It seems almost impossible they haven’t discovered him yet. That he’s just lying on the kitchen floor, dead, and nobody knows it. How long does it take for a body to decompose? It couldn’t already be happening, could it? Not in the cold, at least.
It’s almost impossible to think of Derek that way. He was so strong and big and full of life. He was larger than life. For him to be dead…
He is dead, isn’t he? Isn’t he?
The thought hadn’t occurred to me. I stood there and waited to make sure he was gone. He bled out all over the kitchen floor. He’s definitely dead. He wasn’t breathing.
He’s dead. But…
It’s not like I’m a doctor. It seemed like he wasn’t breathing. I couldn’t feel a pulse. He was so still. And there was so much blood. There’s no way he could still be alive.
Before I left the house, I didn’t check him. I couldn’t bear to. I just assumed he was still lying on the kitchen floor, the way I left him. It’s like that feeling you get when you left your house in the morning and you’re not sure if you shut off the lights or locked the door. Except a million times worse.
What if the reason nobody’s looking for me is that Derek isn’t actually dead?
I feel like I’m going to throw up the eggs I just ate. A few moments ago, I felt confident of one thing: Derek was dead. I was sure of it. But now I’m not so sure anymore. What if he got up off the floor, got himself patched up, and now he’s out there looking for me?
Either way, I need to get the hell out of here.
I look down at my left hand, where my wedding band is still there, taunting me. Whatever else, I want that stupid thing off my hand. I yank it off roughly. My skin is a couple of shades whiter where the band used to be. The first thing I’m going to do is get rid of that tan line.
I pull open the dresser drawer next to the bed. The only thing inside is a copy of the Bible. I shove my ring in the drawer and slam it shut.
I grab the key to the room and lock it behind me when I leave. I consider bringing my bag with me, but I decide to leave it behind. I can swing by the motel entrance and toss it in on my way out.
“Leaving so soon?”
I whirl around—Greta standing behind me. She’s wearing a long, light blue nightgown that grazes her ankles. Unlike me, she doesn’t seem all bothered by being in her bare feet.
“Uh, yeah,” I say. “Got to get going.” “There’s a great deal of snow out there.”
“Right,” I say irritably. “Nick is going to help me dig my car out.”
Greta looks down at my feet. All I’ve got on now are my socks. “Interesting choice of footwear.”
I grit my teeth. “Nick told me he would borrow a pair of boots from his wife.”
Greta’s lips curl up. “Be careful what you borrow from that man’s wife.”
Something about her expression makes me very uneasy. “He said it was fine. It was his idea.”
“Of course it was.” She scoffs. “I’m just saying. Rosalie will not be happy about handing over a pair of her boots so that her husband can help a pretty young guest.” Her eyes narrow at me. “She’s always watching him, you know.”
I think of the shadow in the window of the house across from the motel. My breath catches. “There’s nothing to be jealous of. Believe me.”
“Tell that to Christina Marsh.”
My throat goes dry. What is she saying? Is she implying that Rosalie Baxter had something to do with the death of that girl in Room 201?
But no. That’s crazy. Nick said that his wife is sick. She’s ill—she’s not going around murdering anyone.
Of course, he didn’t say what she was sick with. What if she’s mentally ill?
I shake my head. This is ridiculous. I’m going to be gone within the hour. I don’t need to think about Nick’s crazy wife. And Greta is just trying to scare me. Nick said she had a flair for the dramatic.
“It’ll be fine,” I say to Greta. “It was…. nice meeting you.” Not really.
The expression on the old woman’s face is unreadable. “Nice meeting you too… Kelly.”
With those words, Greta slams the door in my face. I hear the locks clicking into place behind the door. Even though she and I are the only people here. And Nick, of course. I wonder why she feels she needs all those locks.
As I walk down the hall, I pass room 201. That’s where it happened. That’s where a girl was murdered two years ago.
I wonder what it must’ve been like to discover her. Nick would have opened the door with his master key, then found her lying on the bedspread, the fabric stained with her blood. Surely, he had to throw out the bedspread. I know now how hard it is to get blood out.
I shiver. I don’t need to think about this anymore. After today, I’m never going to see the Baxter Motel ever again.
As promised, Nick is waiting for me on the first floor. He’s got on a heavy black coat and a black beanie on his head. When he grins at me, he looks sort of adorable. Derek was undeniably handsome, but I always preferred guys like Nick. Those boy-next-door good looks.
“Got you some boots!” He holds up a pair of black, fur- lined snow boots. “This will keep you warm.”
“Thanks.” I reach for the boots, but then I hesitate. “Are you sure it’s okay if I borrow them?”
“Yeah!” He bobs his head. “Of course. She never wears them anymore anyway. You could probably just, you know, have them.”
There’s no way I am taking his wife’s boots. But I’ll wear them until I get my car free.
When I get outside the motel and see all the snow, I feel sick. Nick wasn’t exaggerating. This looks like way more than two feet of snow. In some areas, it looks like ten feet of snow. And I’m driving a Corolla, not a pickup truck. How in the hell am I going to get out of here?
“Wow,” I mumble. “I didn’t realize how bad it was.” He nods. “What sort of car do you have?”
“A Corolla.”
His eyes widen. “Well, this will be a challenge.”
To his credit, he still seems game to help me. Rosalie’s boots sink into the deep white powder as we make our way very slowly over to the diner where I parked my car. When I explain that we have to walk all the way around the restaurant to my parking spot, Nick seems a bit surprised, but he goes along with it without questioning me why I would do something like that. He’s got a shovel, and I’ve got one in the trunk of my car. But with each step, I’m realizing how impossible this is going to be. We are going to need to shovel the length of a football field to get me out of here.
When we get around the side of the restaurant, Nick squints into the whiteness. “Where is your car? I don’t see it.”
I don’t see it either. Shit, where did my car go?
But then I see the big mound of snow behind the dumpster, and I notice a little patch of the blue side mirror. That’s my car. It’s just been buried. I would have hoped the restaurant might shield it from some of the snow, but this seems more consistent with my luck recently.
“It’s over there,” I say.
Nick nods, and we made our way over to that immense pile of snow that buried my car last night. When we get there, he has to steady himself on the hood of my car. “Jesus, this is a lot of snow,” he comments.
“Thanks for helping me,” I say.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Well… let’s get to it.”
He helps me clear off the trunk so that I can pop it open and get my own shovel as well as the ice scraper—a crucial tool for any New England winter. And then the two of us get to work.
It’s slow going. There is a lot of snow on my car. And surrounding my car. And surrounding the area surrounding
my car. I’m seriously discouraged, but Nick doesn’t complain. He just keeps shoveling snow around my car.
“Thanks for your help,” I say. “Really. I appreciate it so much.”
He flashes me a smile. “No problem. Happy to help.” “I’m sure most owners of motels don’t help their guests
shovel snow.”
He laughs. “Well, we’re a full-service motel.” He blinks up at me. “And if you need to stay longer, you’re welcome to. We can, you know, work out a discount rate or something.”
He’s figured out money is tight for me. But the reason I’m not staying has nothing to do with the money. And anyway, from the looks of his crumbling motel, he’s in no position to be offering anyone a discount. “Thanks,” I mumble.
“And the food won’t be any better,” he continues cheerfully, “but at least there’s plenty of it. Like that joke about the restaurant where the customers complain the food is so terrible? And then they say, ‘And the portions are so small!’”
When I don’t crack a smile, he adds, “You know, because why would you want a big portion if the food is terrible, right?”
I nod. “Yeah…”
He clears his throat. “Sorry, I’m just trying to get you to cheer up. I don’t think I told that joke very well.”
I manage a very tiny smile, just for his sake. I’m not feeling it though. “Don’t worry about it. Whatever food you give me is fine.”
“Like I said, my wife was the cook.” Again, he’s talking about her in the past tense. “It’s just hard for her now.”
Despite the cold, I wipe some sweat off my brow. Shoveling is hard work. On top of everything else, I’m going to be sore in all my muscles tomorrow. “So… this was her restaurant?”
Nick glances behind him at the boarded up building. “Yeah, it was. That was always her dream. To have her own restaurant. And for a while, it was doing really well. Really really well, considering it’s just a tiny rest stop on the side of the road.”
“What happened?” I blurt out.
He looks surprised by my question. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked, but we’ve been shoveling for over an hour. We’ve bonded through our manual labor.
“Well,” he says, “she got sick.” He hesitates a moment. “She has MS. Multiple sclerosis. She has this progressive subtype, and it’s just been downhill the last five years. She can’t even walk anymore, and I’ve been mostly taking care of her.”
“Oh no,” I murmur. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.” But there’s a part of me that’s relieved he didn’t confess his wife has paranoid schizophrenia. Instead, she is too impaired to even leave her house. It doesn’t sound like there’s any reason to be afraid of her, even if she’s the jealous type.
“I wanted her to keep running the restaurant,” he says. “I said we could pay to modify the kitchen so she could use it in a wheelchair. But she never wanted to. She’s just stuck on wanting to do things the way she’s always done them, and if she can’t…”
“People can be stubborn.”
He nods. “I get that it’s hard for her. I’m not saying I would’ve taken it well if the same thing happened to me. But she could still do everything she used to do if she wanted to. Instead, she doesn’t want to do anything anymore. She just stays in the house all day, even though she’s going crazy in there. It’s driving me crazy.”
I flash him a sympathetic look, thinking of Derek. “We all go a little crazy sometimes.”
“Right, but…” He puts down the shovel for a moment and looks off in the distance, at his small house. “It’s a lot. On me. It’s hard.”
“I get it.” I bite my lip. “Have you ever thought maybe she would be better off… at another place somewhere?”
There’s a sudden flash of anger in his mild brown eyes. “Another place? You mean like a nursing home?”
“Well…”
“She’s my fucking wife.” His gloved hand turns into a fist. “She’s only thirty-five. I’m not sticking her in a nursing home. Are you kidding me? What kind of person do you think I am?”
I take a step back, my grip tightening around the shovel. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I was just…”
I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until Nick’s shoulders sag. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped on you. You didn’t mean any harm. I shouldn’t have been complaining. It’s my fault.”
I’m shocked how quickly the fight went out of him. If this were Derek, it would have been the start of him screaming at me for hours and mentally torturing me for days. When I dared tell him once that his mother’s casserole was too salty, he changed the locks on the front door so I couldn’t get in the next day. (And believe me, that casserole was essentially a salt lick.)
“It’s okay,” I say. “You probably don’t get to talk to people much out here.”
“That’s for sure.” He smiles crookedly. “Anyway, thanks for listening. We’re relatively happy out here. I mean, things could be better. But it could be worse too, right?”
“Sure,” I say. You could be on the run after killing your husband. Or maybe you didn’t kill him, and he’s coming after you. So yes, things could be worse.
“Oh hey,” he says. “I think that’s my phone ringing.” “I don’t hear anything.”
“It’s on silent. I feel it buzzing.” He pulls off his right glove, revealing pink fingers. He digs around in his pocket and pulls out his phone. “Hey, Rosie. What’s wrong?”
I watch his expression change as his wife speaks to him. He turns and takes a few steps away from the car. His voice is lower this time but I can still barely make it out. “I’m just helping her dig out her car,” he murmurs. “She’s stuck in the…” He ducks his head down. “No……… Rosie, come on, that’s not…” He lets out a long sigh. “What do you want me to do? I have to help.”
I wince. Greta was right—it looks like I’ve gotten him into trouble with his wife.
He lowers his voice a few more notches, and now I’m having trouble hearing him. Finally, he hangs up the phone. For a moment, he looks annoyed, but then he shakes it off.
“Sorry if I got you in trouble,” I say.
He waves his hand. “It’s fine. Do you want to try the car? See if you can get it going?”
I look doubtfully at my Corolla. We have gotten all the snow off of the car, but we’re still basically sitting in an ocean of snow. How am I supposed to drive out of here? But I’m willing to give it a try. I don’t have to get that far.
I slide into the driver seat. I thought it would be a bit warmer inside the car, but somehow it’s even colder. I say a Hail Mary, stick the key in the ignition, and I’m relieved when the engine turns over. I was worried the car died overnight.
But then I hit the gas. And the car doesn’t budge. I roll down the window. “It’s not moving at all.”
Nick nods thoughtfully. “Okay, put it back in park. Let me dig your wheels out a little more. Then we’ll try again.”
I wait patiently while he digs my wheels out. After a few minutes, he motions to me to try the car again.
This time, the wheels move forward. I cheer internally for about two seconds, then I’m stuck again. My wheels are spinning, but I’m not going anywhere. I push down harder on the gas, but it’s not enough.
“Damn it!” I cry.
Nick frowns. “I’m sorry, Kelly. I just don’t think it’s going to be possible for me to dig you a trail from here back to the main road. It’s pretty far.”
“I know,” I mumble.
“And like I said, the snow plows will be here this afternoon. I’ll make sure they plow around the restaurant so you can get out.”
There’s nothing I can do about it. We are snowed in until the plow comes. And God knows when that will be. He claims it will be in the afternoon, but when? How many hours am I going to sit around, a sitting duck in a motel room?
And that’s when the tears jump into my eyes.
“Kelly?” Nick bends down beside the window. “Are you okay?”
I do my best to wipe the tears away. But he knows what’s happening. “I’m okay. I just… I have to be somewhere.”
“I wish I could take you. But my Ford would do even worse than your car…”
I blink, unable to keep the tears from spilling over. It wouldn’t help if Nick drove me somewhere anyway. I can’t leave my car behind. I at least need it for a trade-in. “It’s fine.”
Nick is quiet for a moment, standing outside the car. He rifles around in his pocket, and I think he’s going for his phone, but then he pulls out a wad of tissues. He hands them to me. “They’re clean. I promise.”
I accept the tissues, wiping my eyes off and struggling to get myself back under control. I can’t let myself lose it. This isn’t that big a deal. If the roads are snowed in, hopefully the police won’t be looking for me too hard either. I’ve got a few hours. Maybe the plow will come early.
I get out of the car and we trudge back to the hotel together. He’s still got the bucket set up on the floor in front
of the main counter. I guess he never got around to fixing that leak in Room 201.
I notice now that the water dripping from the ceiling doesn’t look clear the way water usually does. It has a brownish tinge. Almost reddish. I wonder if that’s from rust. It makes sense that the pipes would be rusty here.
“I’m going to wait for a plumber,” Nick says when he sees me looking at the dripping water. “I gave it a go this morning and… well, I’m not having much luck. I think I need a professional, you know?”
I nod. I look at the water accumulating in the bucket. It definitely looks red. That’s so strange.
“I’m going up to my room,” I say. “I’m going to lie down a bit. All that shoveling made me tired.”
“Sure.” He goes behind the counter and sits down. “I’m going to catch up on some paperwork, but call me if you want me to make you lunch.”
I almost make a joke about big portions, but it dies on my tongue. I’m not in the mood for making jokes right now. I’m also not in the mood for eating.
“I’ll let the boots dry out on the radiator, then I’ll bring them down to you later,” I tell him.
He shrugs. “You may as well keep them. Like I said, Rosalie can’t walk anymore anyway. She doesn’t need them.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So she’s okay with you just giving them to me?”
He opens his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything right away. “Yeah. You’re right. You should probably give them back.”
I feel guilty about the wet footprints I leave on the stairs as I tromp back up to my room. Maybe it’s the weight of the boots, but the stairs are even creakier this time around. I wouldn’t be surprised if they just collapsed in one gigantic pile of rubble.
As I walk back to my room, I pass room 201. I don’t know what it is, but every time I walk by this room, I get the chills. The door is closed, and there is a “DO NOT DISTURB” sign hanging from the door knob, even though the room is empty. I press my ear against the door. It’s silent inside.
I reach out my hand and brush my fingers against the door. On an impulse, I lower my hand onto the door knob.
And I try to turn it.
