Do Not Disturb

by Freida McFadden

Maybe Quinn wasn’t that wild about Derek, but she had a good life. The idea that she would stab him to death... I just can’t imagine it.

and I can’t leave the bedroom with the bed still unmade. I just can’t. And I would die of shock if Rob ever made the bed.

The phone rings again. If it’s another one of Derek’s mistresses, I swear I’m going to lose it. But when I look over at the screen, I see a name I didn’t expect. It’s Quinn.

And that means Quinn isn’t being held captive somewhere. She left on her own volition. Probably right after she stabbed Derek to death. This changes everything.

“You know her though. You know she wouldn’t do something like this.” “I don’t know her.” I’m surprised how cold Scott’s voice sounds.

“Will you tell me if you think you know where she is?” “Yes.” But he hesitates for several seconds before answering, which makes me think he has absolutely no intention of telling me anything. Why should he? He doesn’t want me to tip her off, after all.

“You say you are looking for her?” she asks me. I squeeze my hands together. “I want to know what happened after she left the motel.” “Do you?” I nod. “Can I come in?” Her eyes narrow at me for a moment, but then she steps aside. My heart is racing, telling me this is a mistake, but I keep moving. I enter the old woman’s room and allow her to lock the door behind me.

“I read your sister’s fortune,” she says. “It was very dark. Her past was dark, and her future was even darker.” “Dark?” She turns to look into one of the mirrors. Her reflection stares back at me. “I’m talking about death, Claudia. There was a death in her past and death in her future. And the worst part…” I hold my breath. “What?” “It was emanating from her.” Greta’s voice is a hiss. “Like a stench. Or a virus. Infecting everyone around her.”

I’m not dead. Did you think I was? That I’m some corpse my husband propped up in front of the second-floor window to frighten his guests? I’m not. I’m very much alive. And I’m afraid my husband is a murderer.

Have you ever just met somebody that you clicked with? That you felt was an extension of yourself? The missing piece. From the first moment we sat down to dinner on our first date, I felt like I could tell him anything.

“Rosalie,” she hisses. “You must not marry that man.” “What?” I try to yank my hand away, but she’s holding on tight. “What are you talking about?” “Please.” Her black eyes lock with mine. “You must listen to me. You think this man will bring you happiness, but he won’t. He will bring death into your life.” “Death?” I repeat. “You mean… he’s going to die?” The thought of Nick dying is like a hand squeezing my heart. I can’t imagine my life without him. “No,” she says firmly. “He will not die. He will bring the death of another.”

“Look, I’m not thrilled about this. Obviously. But I love you. And there’s nothing that would make me not want to be with you anymore.” We sit there together in the kitchen for a long time, holding hands and contemplating what the rest of our lives will be like together. I have no idea at that moment how bad things are going to get.

She squeezes my hand in hers. For an old woman, she’s strong. “I lost my Bernie—it was the greatest tragedy of my life. Do not let Nick get away from you. Do not lose what you have with him. You must protect your marriage at all costs.” I shake my head. “I…” “Promise me, Rosalie. Promise me you will not let him go. Protect your marriage at all costs.” Her grip on my hand is so tight, it hurts. I try to pull away, but she’s too strong. Or I’m too weak. “I… I promise.”

She gives me a hard look, then she releases my hand. The imprints of her fingers remain on my skin, darkening into what will become bruises. Greta made me swear not to let him go, but I don’t know what she means. If Nick wants to leave, there’s nothing I could do to stop him.

Later in the afternoon, Greta brings me a dusty old pair of binoculars. I stash them at the bottom of a drawer, where Nick is unlikely to come across them. I feel a rush of relief when I get them in my hands. I didn’t think Greta would really come through for me. But it turns out she was absolutely right. The binoculars are a huge mistake.

Now I’m watching the moon. It’s a full moon tonight—a perfect circle, marred only by the dark smudges that almost look like a man’s face. There’s something soothing about looking up at that bright white spot in the sky.

I wonder if this is what that psychic foretold at the carnival all those years ago. He’s effectively killed me, even if he doesn’t know it.

Near the dumpster. It’s Nick. What’s he doing over there? I focus in the best I can on his face. He’s not smiling. He dumps a black trash bag in the dumpster, then he wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He takes a step back, staring at the dumpster. He wipes his hands on his jeans, then starts back to our house. What the hell was he doing there at three in the morning?

He raises his face to look at me. “Please tell me you believe me. Tell me you don’t think I killed her.” That night I confronted him about her, Nick promised he would make things right. He swore it. That night, Nick was skulking around the motel at three in the morning. And the next morning, the other woman was dead. Stabbed to death. And Nick is the only person who had the key to her room. “I believe you,” I lie. That psychic at the carnival was right. My husband is a murderer. And it’s all because of me.

I wonder if she’s in any trouble. After all, she pulled into a seedy motel in the middle of the snowstorm. Or maybe she’s here to make trouble.

I watch them chatting for a moment, wishing I could hear what they’re saying. But more than that, I wish I could trust him. But I can’t.

Isn’t this what I wanted though? I was just looking up how to kill myself on Google. And now this stranger is going to do the job for me. Why am I calling 911? I should open the door for her. Welcome her. Except I realize at this moment that I don’t want to die.

As my heart pounds rapidly in my chest, it’s like a fog has lifted from my brain. The fog that’s been coloring every moment of my life for the last five years. My life isn’t hopeless, and I don’t want to die. I want my restaurant back. I want to get those contractors in and convert the kitchen so I can use it again even if I can’t stand or walk. I want to do a course of physical therapy so that I can take care of myself again and I don’t have to depend on Nick for every little thing. And I want Nick. I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want him to find some other woman and be happy with her. I want him to be happy with me again. I want to start a family with him. But most of all, I want him. I want him so badly. I don’t want to die before seeing him again.

“Please…” A tear escapes my right eye. “I didn’t do anything to your sister. I swear.” She takes another step forward. Her eyes are pools of darkness, staring into mine. “I never said you did.”

“Do you think Claudia could have hurt Quinn?” I frown. “Wait. Do you think Claudia might have been the one who stabbed Derek? And… done something to Quinn?” Deputy Dwyer folds his arms across his chest. “We’re just trying to explore every possibility.” “Oh,” I breathe. “Yeah, okay. Makes sense.” “Do you think she might have, Mr. Delaney? Do you think she’s capable of it?” I reach out and touch the scar on my hairline. The one that required five stitches in the emergency room. “Yes,” I say. “She’s capable of it.”

I had to find Quinn. And then I promised myself I would make her pay for what she had done to the man I loved. I triple dipper promised with a cherry on top.

“I think you still love me too.” My cheeks grow warm. “You’re right. I do. I really, really do.” He takes my hand in his. “I knew it.” “Also,” I say, “I think this dining room would make a really great bedroom.” For the first time, maybe in years, I see his eyes light up. “I think so too.” And so we sit there for the next hour, holding hands, and making plans for the future.

And now I’m celebrating my morning of labor by sitting on my front porch, in a rocking chair, having a delicious glass of lemonade with lots of ice in it. It’s the late afternoon and the temperatures will drop soon. A slight breeze lifts a few stray strands of hair off the back of my neck. Some days, it’s just nice to be alive.

“I will tell you a secret, Rosalie.” Her fingers linger on mine. “I cannot really read the future. Or the past. I am just an ordinary woman.”

Those Tarot cards were right all those years ago about my future. Death. Because Nick and I got married, a woman is dead. But he wasn’t the one who killed her. It was Greta.

Greta reaches deep into the pocket of her long black wool coat. She pulls out a rectangular sign with the familiar words “DO NOT DISTURB” stenciled on it. She holds it out to me. “I took this off the door of Room 201,” she says. “It’s time to open the room up again to guests. Let the past be the past.” I take the sign from her, but it drops from my fingers and flutters to the floor, the letters of “DO NOT DISTURB” staring up at me, looming before my eyes. I lean forward as my head spins. I get that cramping sensation one more time. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Greta killed a woman. I can’t just pretend I didn’t hear this. I have to call the police. I have to tell them what I know.