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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 ridiculous. 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 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 and I make our way over to that immense pile of snow that covers my car. 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…”