“Is there a way to get food?” I ask. Nick chews his lower lip. “Uh… sure. We don’t have room service or anything, but I could throw something together for you in our kitchen. Like… a turkey sandwich?” “That sounds amazing,” I breathe. He laughs. “Oh, it won’t be. Believe me. My wife, Rosalie, she was the cook.” I freeze for a moment. Did he just refer to his wife in the past tense? That’s odd. And the name Rosalie sounds strangely familiar. Then it hits me where I heard the name before. The restaurant next to the motel. The one that’s all boarded up, where I parked my car. It was called
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