Jason lowered his flashlight. “Let’s check the rest of the rooms.”
They checked the final downstairs bedroom and then moved upstairs.
The floorboards creaked with every step, the beams of their flashlights sliding over the stacked log walls and framed black-and-white photos of the inn. A large bookcase stood at the end of the hallway, filled with paperbacks for guests to enjoy.
Each of the four upstairs rooms was empty—beds made, curtains drawn, nothing out of place. But the sense of being watched clung to Olive like static.
The feeling tugged at an old corner of her mind, a place she didn’t visit often.
She and her twin sisters, giggling in the dark when the power went out in one of their childhood homes—they’d moved around a lot.
Their father had turned the blackout into a game—Manhunt,he’d called it.
He’d taught them how to blend into shadows, how to stay silent, how to trick the “seeker” with a well-timed distraction.
At the time, the game had felt magical and mischievous. She and her little sisters’ laughter had echoed through the old house as they hid behind doors and beneath stairwells.
Only later had Olive realized those rules weren’t meant for a game at all. Her father had been teaching them the art of the con.
She swallowed hard, forcing the memory away as they reached the end of the hall.
Jason turned to her. “That window downstairs—it’s our best lead so far.”
Olive nodded, her grip tightening around her flashlight. “Whoever opened it could still be inside. Maybe hiding in plain sight.”
“Or they could have heard us coming and run,” Jason said. “Which means that our team is innocent and we have a stowaway.”
She didn’t know if that made her feel better or worse.
Her gaze drifted back toward the stairwell, where faint firelight flickered from below.
Eight rooms.
One open window.
And somewhere in this inn—one killer.
Olive turned toward the stairwell to head back down as the murmur of voices drifted upward.
Just as she reached the middle landing, she heard athump!
She froze.
Jason stopped beside her, head snapping toward the sound.
It had come from above them. The second floor.
But they’d already searched upstairs. Every room. Every closet.
There was no attic. The ceiling stretched straight to the exposed rafters.
Olive’s heart kicked into overdrive. “You heard that, right?”
“Yeah, I did.” Jason’s flashlight beam cut across the ceiling, pale and trembling. “Sounded like a footstep.”
Another beat of silence followed.
Then nothing except the storm pressing against the windows and the slow creak of the old inn settling.
