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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 gaze rakes 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.

“What happened?” I ask.

Greta clutches the sock ball in her hand, studying my face with her shrewd eyes.

“It was a pretty young woman, like you. About your age. Also with blond hair. Her name was Christina Marsh. She came to stay here for a few days, but then I noticed she hadn’t come out of her room in a while.

” She looks over my shoulder, at something in the distance.

“It wasn’t just that though. Something was wrong.

I knew it. So I told Nick to go check on her. And…”

I stare at her, not wanting to hear the rest of the story. But unable to keep from hearing it.

“She was lying in her bed, stabbed to death,” she says. “Nick found her there. The police said she’d been dead for about a day.”

I clasp my hand over my mouth. “That’s horrible. Did they ever find out who did it?”

She shakes her head slowly. “They never did, but they suspected Nick. There were no signs of forced entry, so it stood to reason whoever killed her had access to her room.”

“Oh.” I remember my first impression of Nick, and how I thought he was the sort of person who wouldn’t hurt a fly. But impressions aren’t always right. “Do you think that he…?”

Greta is silent for a moment. She stares up at me with those watery, red-veined eyes.

“No,” she says. “Nick would never do something like that. The police had it wrong. I told them as much.”

I let out a breath and my shoulders sag. I don’t know what I would have done if Greta told me she thought Nick was a murderer. But, of course, she wouldn’t think that. Why would she live here if she thought the owner was a killer?

“But there was another reason they thought Nick killed her,” she adds.

I raise my eyebrows. “What reason?”

Her slightly yellow tongue protrudes from her mouth and she licks her lips. “I don’t like to tell tales.”

Really? Because it seems to me she likes to tell tales very much. But I can’t say that.

She holds the socks out to me, and I take them. The material feels rough in my hands, like they haven’t been worn in decades. But they will do.

“Thank you,” I say.

She nods. “Be careful.”

I don’t know what she means by that. She’s not wrong—I am in danger. But she doesn’t know why.

As I turn, I come face-to-face with yet another mirror.

Why does she have so many mirrors in her room?

It’s hard to look at myself right now. My blond hair is limp and lifeless, and so short now that I don’t even recognize myself.

My eyes look sunken in their sockets, and my cheeks are dark as well.

If anything looks frightening in this place, it’s me.

“I love mirrors,” Greta tells me. “Mirrors are the barrier between the conscious and unconscious mind. Everyone has an inner concept of themselves, but mirrors are reality. What you see right now—that is the truth that everyone else sees.”

“Right,” I mumble.

“If you stay here,” she says, “I’ll do a reading for you tomorrow. You may find it enlightening.”

“That’s okay. I’m not staying.”

“The future may surprise you.”

If I wasn’t feeling so uneasy, I might have rolled my eyes. This woman can’t see into the future. She doesn’t even have socks in her drawer. She’s obviously trying to scare me. I bet nobody even died in room 201. She probably made the whole thing up to freak me out.

Well, it won’t work.

“Thanks for the socks,” I say. “I’ll leave them on your doorstep in the morning.”

“Keep them,” she says. “You should have an extra pair of socks.”

It’s a nice gesture, although the second I make it out of here, I’m going to buy some socks in a drugstore or something. And some hair dye.

I slip out of her room, the socks clutched in my right hand. I can’t see the future but I predict I will never see this woman again.