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He loves his brother, I have no doubt. I admire the way he protects Dov, even though Dov is older and bigger than him.

I reach my room and pause. I’m not sure what it is, but something feels different. Has someone been in here? I haven’t locked the door, because what would be the point? I’m pretty certain there’s a master key and anyone could get into this room whenever they wanted. I turn in a circle. Nothing looks out of place, but there’s a different atmosphere.

The drawer where I’d hidden those horrible drawings is open a crack.

I almost don’t want to open it and be faced with them again. The only reason I haven’t thrown them away is because I didn’t want one of the men to find them in the trash and question what they were.

I haven’t had another experience like it, but is that just because I haven’t been able to bring myself to pick up a sketch pad and pencil again, for fear of the same thing happening? What even had happened?

There’s something strange about this hotel. I don’t understand why none of us are talking about it out in the open. Whenever I’ve tried to tell Blake about the things I’ve seen and experienced—the blood in the bath, the woman on the road—he’s dismissed my fears, despite him admitting that he believes the hotel has memories.

But what if it isn’t the hotel? What if it’s more than that?

Ghosts.

A place this old, with this must history, must have had some events occur over the years, perhaps tragic events.

What if it’s not the hotel trying to tell us something, but a person?

I remember the bookshelves that line the walls of the dining hall. Would they have some history books, something that might give me some background into Windridge Hall? I have the reader pen that Levi gifted me, so I could try to read them. Perhaps I could find something out about the hotel’s history that could help us make it through winter?

29

DOV

I already know where she’ll be before I find her.

I’d watched her progress through the hotel to come to stop in what used to be the formal dining hall. The rear walls, with deep, built-in bookcases either side, are now what captures her attention.

Does she realize how long she’s been standing here like this, just staring?

“Do you like books?”

She doesn’t seem surprised by my presence. I know the others hate when the weather closes in like this and traps them in this building, but for me it brings a huge relief. I no longer have to avoid every window for fear of the head-splitting brightness it allows in. I don’t need any other light except for her. She is my light now. My sun, my moon, my stars. All I ever need.

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “I guess my feelings are mixed.”

“In what way?” I move to perch on the edge of the table, watching her.

“They’re a bit of a mystery to me.” She gives me a shy look, and my heart melts for her. “You know I struggle to read, right? That I’m dyslexic. Badly dyslexic.”

I do know. I think it’s one of the reasons I’m drawn to her. I’m fully aware that my brain doesn’t function in the same way many others do. It’s not just the headaches, either. There are times when I forget words, or even entire sentences. I might do an activity, such as eat a meal, and then completely forget what I’ve eaten. I don’t want to be around people, other than her, and occasionally my father and brother. I get frustrated and I’m quick to anger.

I don’t like any of those things about myself, and yet I’m powerless to change them.

“Yes, I do know that.” I’m unsure how, though. Did someone tell me? Did I decipher it for myself? If my brain was working like it used to, I’d probably know the answer to that.

“So when I look at books,” she continues, “I wonder how many stories are inside their pages that I’ll never understand. It’s one thing to listen to an audiobook, but to be able to sit with the actual book, and smell the pages, and feel like you’re diving deep into it, I think would be like experiencing something else entirely.”

“What kind of stories do you like?” I push myself off the table and approach the bookshelves.

I guess I was lucky in that my brain injury didn’t affect my intellect. I might forget which page we’re on, or what a character’s name is, but I can still read just fine.

“I like mysteries,” she says. “Maybe something with a little romance thrown in.” She pauses and adds, “That wasn’t what I was looking for, though. I’d been hoping to find something on the history of this place.”

“The history of Windridge Hall? Why?”

“To learn more about why it is the way it is.” She turns her face to me. “It’s not normal, is it? The things that are happening here?”