The silence behind the door is endless. Finally, I hear locks clicking open. The door creaks as loudly as the stairs as it swings open. The woman is standing there in a long, white nightgown, peering up at me.
“You say you are looking for her?” she asks me.
I squeeze my hands together. “I want to know what happened after she left the motel.”
“Do you?”
I nod. “Can I come in?”
Her eyes narrow at me for a moment, but then she steps aside. My heart is racing, telling me this is a mistake, but I keep moving. I enter the old woman’s room and allow her to lock the door behind me.
Chapter 25
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.