"Name?" I asked, pen poised.
"Sam." He shifted the backpack on his shoulder. "Sam Jarrow."
He pulled out a driver's license and slid it across the desk. Brand new. Connecticut. The photo looked like him, but younger somehow. Less haunted.
I copied the information into the ledger, noting the address in Hartford. "Long way from home," I said conversationally.
"Yeah." He didn't elaborate.
"What brought you down to South Carolina?"
His eyes flicked to mine, then away. "Needed a change. Connecticut winters—" He shook his head. "Hate the cold."
It wasn't much of an answer, but I didn't press. People came to places like this to escape things. Questions weren't always welcome.
I found the key to the smallest room—number six, tucked at the back of the second floor with a window that looked out over the marsh. It was clean and simple, nothing fancy, but the bed was good and the view was better.
"How long are you staying?" I asked.
He hesitated. "Not sure yet. A few days, maybe. Depends."
"On?"
"Things." He pulled a crumpled hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and set it on the desk. "This enough for now?"
"Sure." Hazel could deal with the details later.
I handed him the key. "Room six. Top of the stairs, last door on the left. Bathroom's across the hall—you'll be sharing with room five, but it's empty right now, so you'll have it to yourself."
He nodded, fingers closing around the key.
"Lunch is usually around noon," I added. "Dinner at six. Maude—she's the cook—makes enough to feed an army. You're welcome to join us."
"I'd rather sleep," he said quickly. Too quickly.
"Sure. No problem." I gestured toward the stairs. "Rest up."
He moved toward them, then stopped at the base, looking up like it was the longest climb he'd ever seen. His hand gripped the railing, knuckles white.
"The owner," he said without turning around. "She around?"
"She ran to the hardware store. Should be back soon."
"I'd like to talk to her. About—" He paused. "About how long I'm staying. Work out a rate, maybe."
"I'll let her know you're here. She'll probably catch you at dinner."
He grunted, then started up the stairs. Slow. Each step deliberate, like he was rationing energy. I watched him go, something nagging at the back of my mind.
There was something about him.
Or maybe I was just paranoid. Old habits surfacing. Seeing threats where there were only ghosts and exhaustion.
He disappeared down the hallway. A moment later, I heard the soft click of a door closing.
I stood there for another beat, staring at the stairs, then shook my head and went back outside.
The trim wasn't going to cut itself.
