“And what is all that?” I ask him.
“I don’t know yet,” he says. “Random papers from the rooms, notes, receipts—whatever I can find. There’s got to be a clue here somewhere. If they weren’t using aliases, maybe we can track one of these guests down and get some answers from them. A few might still be in Cape Hope.”
Noa crosses to the nightstand, reaching into an open drawer. “I did find a photo,” she says, holding up a Polaroid for us to see.
It’s a picture of a beautiful lady standing with a guy who looked like a total douchebag. The colors of the photo are faded from decades in the drawer.
Tech’s breath catches, and he snatches the Polaroid out of Noa’s hands. As his eyes dart over the picture, his expression shifts from surprise to recognition.
“Where did you find this?” he asks. “In this room?”
Noa nods, suddenly uneasy. “Yeah. Right here.” She motions to the nightstand. “Why? Who is she?”
Tech swallows. “This is…” He taps the woman’s face. “This is Florence Marsten. This was her room.”
Noa puts her hand over her heart, while Shawn looks around as if they’ve just recited a conjuring spell.
“Isn’t that the woman who died?” I ask, earning a sharp look from Shawn, as if warning me not to say it out loud. Just as I’m about to tell her not to worry about ghosts, there is a lapping sound from the hallway—like something moving through water.
I freeze, we all do, and turn toward the door. Sounds like swimming, something gliding over water. Or… it’s the sound of a dead socialite, climbing out of her watery grave to come up here and take our souls.
“We need to go,” I say immediately. I grab Noa’s hand, pulling her fast toward the hallway.
Shawn and Tech don’t argue. They gather more papers from the drawer to put in the backpack, their hands shaking as we dash past them.
“Jamie—” Noa tries to argue.
I don’t stop. I pull Noa into the hall and along the railing, the only thing separating us from the still, black water below. As we make our way toward the trellis, she tugs on my hand and stops.
“What is that sound?” she whispers as she darts her eyes around at the rooms. The closed doors.
My footsteps slow, my heart pounding. I move to the railing, clutching the wood banister as I look down. When I do, my breath catches.
Something is indeed moving down there. A ripple slices through the swamp water, long and dark, slithering just beneath the surface. Noa stiffens beside me, eyes locked on the shifting form.
“Gator?” she whispers.
I swallow. Maybe. Probably. It’s Florida—Everglades territory. But the thing moves too fluidly, like it’s barely breaking the surface. Graceful. Ghostly.
A moment later, the creature does a somersault before its head pops up. It’s a manatee—chubby and dog faced. It glides on its back before disappearing under the water again.
I let out a relieved groan, while Noa laughs softly under her breath, shaking her head.
“Damn,” she says. “For a second, I thought it was…”
She pauses, but I know exactly what she was thinking.
“Florence Marsten,” I murmur.
Noa shudders. “Yeah,” she agrees quietly.
Thing is, that possibility doesn’t seem gone yet either. The hotel feels colder now. The air denser. It’s like the walls are closing in on us.
We step back from the railing just as Tech and Shawn come racing out, colliding with us. Noa yelps, steadying herself before falling while I stagger back a few steps. Tech looks between us, annoyed.
“What are you doing out here?” he says. “You were the one who wanted to—”
The sound of voices from just outside the building echoes toward us. We freeze, looking around at one another as we listen. My heart is racing again. Is it considered breaking and entering if the building is abandoned? Are these guys here to do the same? Pretty sure I don’t want to find out.
