“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.
Chapter 11
“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.
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“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.
Chapter 12
I spend nearly two hours in Greta’s room. She tells me more about her time in the carnival—she’s actually quite entertaining. She has me laughing out loud at the story about how the carnies fought the mandatory daily shower rule by having a shower strike that lasted a grueling two months.
“By the end,” Greta says, “I had to walk around with a clothespin on my nose. Have you ever tried to read somebody’s palm with a clothespin on your nose?”
“I can’t say I have,” I say.
“I do not recommend it.”
“Did you have your own room there?”
She adjusts her billowy white nightgown. “I shared a room with Bernie. He was my husband.”
“Oh.” I swallow. “I didn’t realize you were…”
She continues to play with the fabric of her nightgown. “We met at the carnival. I was only nineteen when I met him. I didn’t speak much English. He taught me. We were together for over thirty years.”
“Was he psychic too?”
She smiles distantly. “Oh no. He did not have the gift. He would run games or rides for them or whatever they needed. We were not blessed with any of our own, but he loved the children who came to the carnival. He loved seeing the smiles on their faces. And then…”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “What?”
“One morning, he did not wake up. The doctors said it was his heart.” One side of her lips quirks up although her eyes are wet. “Bernie liked his corn dogs and curly fries. You did not have to be a psychic to know it would do him in. But I am grateful for the years we had together.”
I feel an irrational stab of envy. I can see on Greta’s face how much she loved this man. I never felt that way about Derek. I’m not sure if I’ll ever feel that way about a man. Somehow, true love has eluded me. Maybe I’m immune to it.
“Do not worry.” Greta’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “You will find love. I promise you.”
I cock my head to the side. “Is that what you see in my future?”
“No. You are young and beautiful. Some things are simply obvious.”
Right, but she does not know my past. She does not know what I’m running away from. If she knew, she might not be so optimistic about my future.
The thought of what I left behind makes Greta’s delicious lunch churn in my stomach. I should not be sitting here chit chatting with an old woman. I’ve got to get back on the road. I look down at my watch. “I should check in with Nick. Maybe the plow has arrived.”
“No. It has not.”
“But maybe—”
“I am able to hear the plow through my window. Trust me—it has not arrived.”
I wipe my hands on my jeans and get to my feet. “I better get going anyway. But… thank you for lunch. Would you like me to bring the plates downstairs to the kitchen?”
“No, please don’t bother yourself. Nick will fetch them later.” She arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure you will not let me read your fortune?”
I hesitate. It was a firm no before, but I’ve gotten to know Greta. I like her. And she seems to really want to do this. So why not? It’s better than sitting around my room, pacing back-and-forth as I wait for the plow to arrive.
“Okay,” I say. “Sure. Go for it.”
Greta smiles at me. “You will not regret this.”
That remains to be seen.
She reaches out to dim the yellow lamp by her bed. And now the room is strictly mood lighting. I am sitting beside her on the bed, and she reaches out to take my hands in hers. Her skin feels so delicate, like tissue paper.
“Relax your mind,” she instructs me.
“How do I relax my mind?”
“Clear out all thoughts. Make your mind blank.”
Easier said than done. “Okay…”
She closes her eyes, but I keep mine open. She tilts her head back and her eyelids flutter. “Yes. You are very accessible to read. You are an open book.”
Oh. Wonderful.
“I see…” Her eyelids flutter again. “There is a man in your past. A very handsome man.”
“Yes…” I’m not impressed quite yet. There are plenty of handsome men out there.
“Yes, yes…” Her fingers apply pressure to mine. “He was somebody you loved, but you don’t love him anymore. He is…”
My breath catches in my throat, and I’m suddenly hanging on her every word.
“You are frightened of this man.” Her eyes crack open. “You feel he means to bring you harm.”
I swallow. “Well…”
“But the question is,” she goes on, “will he? What lies in the future for you and the handsome man?”
The pressure of her fingers on mine grows uncomfortable. I want to pull my hands away but I don't dare break the spell. Suddenly, she lets go of my hands and jumps away from me, like I’m made of fire. Her eyes fly open. “You must go!”
“What?” I stare at her uneasily. “What are you talking about?”
She takes a step back, like she’s almost afraid of me. “You go now. You… you are… danger.”
I stand up, my legs trembling beneath me. “You mean I’m in danger?”
“I’m sorry.” She backs up again until she hits the wall. Or the mirror, as it were. “You must go now, Quinn. Go! Go out of here!”
“But…”
“Get out!” she shrieks. “You must go! Get away from this place!”
The veins are standing out in her neck, and her eyes are bulging out in their sockets. I don’t even understand what’s happening. Why is she freaking out like this? It was her id
ea to tell my fortune!
I’m afraid she’s going to start throwing things at me, so I obediently stumble out of her room.
For a moment, I linger in the hallway, stunned. Was that for real? Or was it all a performance, like Nick said? I can’t even tell.
Then something hits me.
She called me Quinn. Somehow, she knew my name.
All right, now I’m officially freaked out. I definitely never told her my name. I said I was Kelly, and she called me on it being a fake name, but I never corrected her. So how did she know my name is Quinn?
I close my eyes and I can still see her panicked face. The veins standing out in her neck and on her temples. Screaming at me: Go! Get out of here!
What does she think is going to happen if I stay here? What horrible thing did she see in my future?
This is ridiculous. She has to tell me the truth. This isn’t fair.
I knock on her door. Then I knock a second time. Then a third.
Okay, she’s obviously not answering.
I have a sick, horrible feeling in my stomach. I don’t know what she saw in my future or if any of this is real, but I agree with her on one thing: I need to get out of this place. Now. I’ll go sit in my car until the plow gets here if I have to.
I return to my room and throw everything back into my luggage. It doesn’t take very long. Regretfully, I leave the boots behind in the room. I’ll have to do what I can with my sneakers.
As I take one last look at the room, I look out the window at the house across the way. The sun is still up, so it’s hard to see, but I can just barely make out the shadow of a woman sitting in the window on the second floor.
Rosalie.
I wonder why she’s on the second floor. If she can’t walk, why wouldn’t she want to stay on the first floor? Why would she trap herself upstairs?
I shake my head. There’s no point in thinking about this anymore. Nick’s wife isn’t my problem anymore. And I’m sure she’ll be happy I’m gone.
I take the stairs down as quickly as I can go. It’s hard with my bulky luggage, but I need to get out of here. I’ve got this horrible feeling I don’t have much time.
Nick is at the front desk when I come down. He sucks in a breath when he sees me with my luggage. “What are you doing, Kelly?”
Do Not Disturb: An addictive psychological thriller Page 7