And as the three of them—pregnant mother, serious child, weary agent—stepped together toward the front porch, Kate felt something she hadn’t felt in days.
Hope.
A door opening inside her, not to darkness
—but to the past stitched back onto the present.
For one fragile moment, she allowed herself to believe it:
Everything was going to work out for the best.
Nothing bad could happen here.
Not in this house.
Not among people like this.
Not today.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Forest Suites had the kind of optimism you only ever found on motel signage—big green font, a stylized pine tree, a promise of serenity that disintegrated the moment you stepped under the flickering canopy light.The place smelled faintly of chlorine and old cigarettes, and the carpet pattern—once possibly a tasteful burgundy—had faded into something the color of dried blood.
Kate sat on the edge of the bed, phone pressed between shoulder and ear, staring at the air-conditioning unit as it rattled quietly to itself.It was a shabby room, dominated by an ugly pine wardrobe that belonged somewhere much larger.
Her mother answered on the second ring.
"Kitty?"
“Hey, Mom.”
“Well, thank God.You had me worried, young lady.”
“I’m fine,” Kate said automatically, because that was the script.“Really.I’m just on the northern edge of town, at the Forest Suites.”
A pause.
“The old motel,” Kate clarified.
“Oh, Lord,” Catherine groaned.“That place still exists?It wasn’t Suites when we were there.It used to be called Motel du Lac.”
“They dream big, obviously.”
“Please.Your grandmother stayed there once and declared that the shower gave her tetanus.”
This was a familiar anecdote, but tonight Catherine sounded almost relieved to tell it.
“One Thanksgiving,” she went on, gathering steam.“She insisted on staying there.All that nonsense about ‘not imposing’ on us.Your father tried to reason with her, I tried, but nooo.And then at three in the morning she rings the house in a blind panic because a drunken fisherman was trying to get into her room.‘Catherine,’ she said, ‘he wants my honor.’As if he cared about anything except finding the nearest piece of furniture he could pass out on.”
Kate laughed weakly, more exhale than mirth.“Yeah.I think I remember.”
“Oh you weretiny, you wouldn’t.You probably just remember being told the story.”
“Well, whatever,” Kate said, suddenly feeling like she was about fifteen.
“Your father had to go and rescue her.In the snow.He never let her live it down.”
Kate let her mother continue—stories were safer, lighter, easier than trying to explain why she was here.
