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Good for her, they always said.
He got what was coming to him, the Brambillas echoed.
So I’m very aware that I’m confronting a possible murderer—at least it’s more probable she killed her husband than my dad killed his wives.
But out of all the B&Bs in town, the Harbor Inn is my best bet to score a room.
One step closer.
And she holds up a finger. “Stop right there.”
As if she put a spell on me, I freeze. Do what she says. Don’t cause waves. I need her help, not her hatred. “I’m back,” I say with a half-hearted smile.
“I have two eyes.” She picks up her teacup. “And two ears. I was already informed of your return.”
Gossiping gossipers. Don’t they have something better to talk about?
I clutch the handle to my suitcase. “I need a room.”
She doesn’t blink. I swear she hasn’t blinked this whole fricking time! Okay…maybe she is a witch—a fable that Mistpoint Ghost Tours love to tout to tourists.
I’m not an idiot though. Witches and vampires don’t exist. The only monsters here are the humans that inhabit the town.
“And why should I give you, a Durand, a room at my Inn?” She surveys me like I’m grocery store produce. Ripe or rotten.
I pull my shoulders back, not cowering to Mrs. Kelly. “Because you out of everyone should know what happens when you have someone with power in your corner.”
She sips her teacup languidly, almost in boredom. Then she says, “You don’t have any power here, Zoey.”
“I’m not the same girl who left six years ago. I’m a writer now. I have a book deal with a big fancy New York City publisher, and you know what my book is about?”
Her face pales, already guessing. “You wouldn’t.”
“I spent a good part of my life watching from the sidelines. I’m the best person to detail the lovely inner workings of the families, businesses, and people of this town,” I say, confidence flowing with each word. “So if you want me to put in a good word or two about you and the Harbor Inn—you should really reconsider letting me rent a room.”
She stares me down for a full minute, and my palms sweat. Will she call my bluff? Besides October, no one here knows what I studied in college. No one knows about my job in Chicago. It’s the pin keeping this façade together.
She finally blinks and reaches for a skeleton key. “It’s four hundred a night.”
Okay, that shit is steep. And I know for a fact that is not the rate of a room here. “Really?’
“This is a very popular Inn. Make sure to note that in your book.”
I restrain an eye roll. “Of course.” I fish out my debit card from my bag. Luckily, I did have a decent paying job back in Chicago. I’m not broke or strapped for cash—just strapped for connections and…time. But I’m not loaded. I won’t be able to afford more than a few nights here without seriously dipping into my savings.
I pass over the card, and she swipes it into her reader.
When she passes it back, I opt for politeness. “Thank you, Mrs. Kelly.”
“It’s just Kelly.” She hands me the key. “Remember that for your book too.” She arches a brow, as if testing out my resolve. Shit, there’s probably a part of her that doesn’t believe my story. She could sniff out a fib from a mile away.
All I can do is layer on the confidence. Fabricated or not, I choose to believe my own lie.
“I will,” I tell her.
“You’re in the Edgar Allen Poe room.” She continues to penetrate me with her stone-cold gaze, while my stomach nosedives.
Every room at the Harbor Inn is named after an author of gothic literature. Tourists eat that shit up, and they also talk about renting out the infamous “Poe Room” where George Kelly took his last breath.
I don’t believe in ghosts.
Not completely.
Sort of.
Okay, werewolves and witches seem ridiculous. But ghosts—ghosts could just be spirits who haven’t crossed. They could be real.
And I’m aware she’s testing me.
Kelly gives me a smile that looks more acidic than charmed. “I’m sure you’ll have lots to write about in that room.”
I give her a nod, and I swiftly leave her sight.
It’s not until I’m heading up the creaky old staircase that I realize what I’ve done. I just made a deal with the real murderer of the town.
Maybe Parry is right.
Maybe I do have a death sentence.
CHAPTER 13
October Brambilla
Cooks hustle in the kitchen. Pots clanking and clam chowder bubbling on the stove. I keep to myself in the corner, beating two eggs into a dough mixture for the fried crullers. My head has been spinning all day. Ever since this morning at the lighthouse, I’ve been replaying my words over and over.
If we had that kind of power, your father would have been banished after he killed your mother.
