Then again, my feet are freezing.
To hell with it. I flip open the deadlock and unlock the door, then I tromp across the hallway in my bare feet to room 202. I hesitate for half a second, then knock on the door.
After a good ten seconds, I hear a voice behind the door. “Who is it?”
“Um, hi.” I chew on my thumbnail—a bad habit I had as a child that seems to have resurfaced. “I’m staying in room 203. Across the hall. And… I was wondering if you could help me out with something.”
There’s a long silence. For a moment, I wonder if she simply walked away. But then I hear the turning of locks, and a second later, the door cracks open.
For the first time, I can see her clearly. She’s older than I thought. Her hair is long and fine, and as white as the snow falling outside. Every millimeter of her face is lined with wrinkles. Her watery blue eyes stare up at me.
“What do you need?” she says in a crackly voice. She sounds like she used to be a smoker. Or maybe she still is, but I don’t smell cigarette smoke coming from her room.
I smile apologetically. “Socks, actually. I forgot to pack them for my trip.”
Her eyes drop to my bare feet. Then back up again to my face. “You want to borrow a pair of socks?”
“Yes.” I squeeze my hands together. “I’ll rinse them out in the morning when my own socks are dry.”
“If you are going on a trip, it is important to pack socks.”
“Right. I know. I just forgot.”
She considers this for a moment. Finally, she backs away from the door and opens it enough to allow me inside.
Room 202 looks a lot different from my room. It’s about the same size, maybe slightly larger, but it looks lived in. Nick told me she has been staying in this room for years, and I believe it. Instead of the stiff bedspread in my own room, her blankets are made of wool and covered with exotic multicolored patterns. She has multiple lamps that give the room a yellow glow. And the wall is lined with mirrors, so I can see myself no matter where I look.
I don’t look too good right now.
“I am Greta,” she says. She has the very slightest hint of an accent that I can’t identify. East European, I think.
“I’m Kelly,” I say.
She sniffs. “If you do not want to give me a real name, don’t even bother.”
I open my mouth to protest, but then shut it. She’s right. That isn’t my real name.
As I wait for Greta to rifle around inside her dresser drawer, I look down at a deck of cards she has on her dresser. It takes me a second to realize that they’re not playing cards, but rather Tarot cards. Next to them is an orb that glows in the yellow light of the room.
Greta sees me noticing them and comments, “I was a fortune teller at a carnival for thirty years.”
I manage a smile. “So you can read the future?”
She pauses for a moment and looks up at me. Her watery blue eyes rake over my bedraggled appearance. “For some, yes.”
I don’t really believe in any of that stuff, but I don’t tell her that. It seems like she’s getting a kick out of trying to freak me out. As long as I get my socks.
“I have stockings,” she finally says, as she pulls a pair of crinkled tan stockings from the drawer. “Is it socks you require?”
“Well, I don’t require them.” I shift between my feet. “But if you have them…”
Greta holds up a finger. She throws open the closet on the wall and pulls out a large black trunk that probably weighs more than she does. She fiddles with the lock to get it open. I feel guilty that she’s going to so much trouble for a pair of socks.
“Have you lived here a long time?” I ask politely.
“Many years,” she confirms. “Since I retired.” She raises her eyes. “You are in room 203.”
“That’s right,” I say. “And I guess 201 is empty then.”
The lock on the trunk opens with a click. “Nick always leaves 201 empty.”
I nod. “Because of the leaky pipe, right?”
“No,” she says. “Not because of that.”
“Then… why?”
“Because…” Greta pulls a ball of socks out of the trunk and gets back on her feet while holding onto the wall for support. “Because a couple of years ago, a woman was murdered in there.”
She says it so matter-of-factly, like this is something everyone must know. That somebody was killed here in the recent past.
Yet again, I desperately wish I had my phone. I could find out in a second what went down at the Baxter Motel. I have a feeling Greta here knows all the details.