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.”