Except wait.
THE FAMILY OFfour check out later that afternoon, and since the girls went to see what fun could be had in town and the honeymooners seem perfectly content locked away on the second floor, I decide to take the evening to visit Mom.
She looks the same as always. Sometimes I feel like time has stopped at Hope House because nothing there ever seems to change, except the seasonal decorations at the front desk and down the hallways. Same nurses, same faded bulletin boards, same blank expression on Mom’s face. Even her outfits blend together, some version of a top, pants, and a sweater, slip-on Keds on her feet.
I stay longer than usual, watching an old episode ofDatelinewith Mom—or at least while I sit next to her, I guess. “I know,I know,” I say, her hand cool and limp in mine. “Me and my ‘murder shows.’ You always hated this kind of thing, but this TV has like three channels, so it’s this, sports, or home shopping.”
Once again, I find myself waiting for a reply that isn’t going to come, and I sigh, laying my head on her shoulder. “I wish I could talk to you,” I tell her softly. “I wish you could tell me what Lo was like, and Edie, too. Frieda. I wish you could tell me why you kept all those articles about Lo, and if you really thought she killed Landon Fitzroy, and—”
Her hand spasms against mine, and I jerk my head up, looking at her face. “Mom?” I ask softly, and she doesn’t look at me, but her hand keeps moving, weakly flapping against my palm, and as I watch, a tear spills from the corner of her eye.
“Mom?” I say again, wiping the tear away with my thumb, but in the end, she only sighs once, then twice, and finally her hand goes still again, her expression distant as ever.
It gnaws at me the whole drive home, that shaking hand, that one tear. She’s had little reactions to other things before—a tapping finger when I played her a song she used to love, a soft smile once when I kissed her cheek before leaving. But those were all at least a couple of years ago.
I’m still thinking about it as I pull back into the tiny staff parking lot just off the inn’s main lot. The rain hasn’t stopped—if anything, it’s coming down a little heavier now—and I tug the hood of my rain jacket up before opening the car door.
Only to stop short when I see Edie’s truck is still in the lot.
I check the time on the dash. It’s past eight, and Edie never stays later than six, even if I’m not here. We have a night desk manager, Louisa, who comes in then and handles things until Edie returns at 6AM, and of course I’m always on call throughout the night just in case.
Louisa’s little red Mazda is in its usual spot, and as I jog through the puddle-filled parking lot, I wonder if it’s the rain that made Edie stay late. She hates driving in it, but she hates not being home by dark even more. It would surprise me if it was enough to keep her here.
The lobby is empty, the inn quiet. Louisa sits behind the desk, playing on her phone, and doesn’t even bother looking guilty when I come in. “Been dead,” she says, not raising her eyes from the screen.
“Yeah, hardly any guests here right now,” I say, then glance around. “Have you seen Edie?”
“Nope,” she replies. “Figured she’d already left. I didn’t see her when I got here.”
“Her truck is still in the lot,” I say, but Louisa only shrugs and flips her strawberry-blond braid over her shoulder.
“Didn’t see her,” she reiterates, and for the first time, something like worry starts tickling the back of my brain. Louisa’s been here since six. That’s two hours, and if something had gone wrong, something that required Edie staying so long past quitting time, she would have either texted me to let me know or mentioned it to Louisa.
There are no messages on my phone, though, and when I glance over at the walkie-talkies lined up behind the front desk, Edie’s is firmly in its cradle. That’s always the last thing she does before leaving, putting her radio back.
I shoot her a quick text, and as I wait for a reply, I check the back office, the staff kitchen, even the laundry room despite Edie frequently telling me, “I’ll do a lot around here, Geneva, but I ain’t doing laundry.”
No sign of her.
No reply to my text, either.
Moving back into the lobby, I dial her number. It startsringing, but after five rings, it goes to voicemail, Edie gruffly saying she’ll get back to me while sounding like that’s the last thing in the world she intends to do.
I’ve teased her about that message before, but now it makes my skin feel hot and cold at the same time, because something is wrong. Edie’s truck is here, and Edie’s radio is here, but Edie doesn’t seem to be, and I move to the back door, trying her number again as I pace up and down.
“Maybe she’s asleep in one of the rooms,” Louisa suggests as Edie’s cell starts ringing again. I’m about to tell her that Edie would never do that, that once you’ve spent as much time in these rooms as we both have, they’re the last place you can think of relaxing, but then I hear a noise.
Edie’s phone is still droning in my ear, but there’s another, tinnier sound somewhere nearby. It’s distant and hard to hear over the rain, but then my brain makes sense of the sound, twisting it into something familiar.
“Free Bird.”
Edie’s ringtone.
My heart leaps, and I end the call, then immediately dial again, opening the back door and stepping out onto the porch.
The song is still faint, but it’s louder out here, and I pull my cell phone away from my ear, calling out, “Edie?” over the rain and waves.
There’s no answer, and I start moving toward the corner of the porch where the ringtone seems to be coming from.
