Chapter 10
CHAPTER
TEN
The beam of Olive’s flashlight sliced through the darkness as she and Jason moved down the hallway. The wooden floor creaked beneath their boots, each sound amplified in the heavy quiet.
The storm outside battered the windows, wind rattling the panes. The inn felt older now—different without light and laughter. Its charm had turned to shadows.
“There are eight bedrooms, right?” Jason asked.
“Eight,” Olive confirmed. “Four down here, four upstairs.”
They began with the rooms on the ground floor. The first door groaned as Jason opened it, his flashlight sweeping across empty beds, neatly folded quilts, and small wooden nightstands.
The room smelled faintly of pine cleaner and cinnamon.
The second was colder but still held the faint warmth of recent use—JJ’s duffel sat on the floor, half unzipped, clothes spilling from the top.
Olive hesitated in the doorway, her chest tightening. “He didn’t even unpack.”
Jason rested a hand lightly at the small of her back. “I know.”
“We should look through his things—just in case,” Olive said. “Don’t you think?”
“It’s a good idea.”
Olive carefully pulled everything from his duffle while Jason checked the dresser drawers and bathroom.
When Olive saw his favorite Pac-Man shirt, her heart lurched.
He would never wear this again.
“Anything?” Jason’s voice snapped her from her thoughts.
She put the shirt down, her throat still tight. “No, nothing. You?”
“Same.” He nodded toward the door. “Come on. We’ll finish the sweep.”
They moved to the third room.
The air was different here—colder, sharper. Olive’s light skimmed across the bed, then froze on the far wall.
A window was slightly open, the curtain barely fluttering.
They crossed the room together to examine it.
The sill was dusted with snow, and meltwater trickled down the wall in a thin line.
Olive peered outside, but the wind had picked up. Any footprints that would have been on the deck had blown away.
“The killer could have gotten in or out through this window,” she murmured, pushing it shut and locking it. “I doubt we would have noticed it’s cracked open from the outside. It’s barely open—but it’s definitely not locked.”
They swept the light through the corners, under the bed, inside the closet.
Empty.
But the room still felt wrong—like someone had been there only moments before.
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 a thump!
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.
Olive’s voice dropped to a whisper. “We checked everything.”
Jason’s jaw tightened. “Then where did that noise come from?”
They both turned slowly, scanning the upper landing again.
The beam of Olive’s flashlight brushed across framed photos and a row of hooks holding extra coats.
Nothing moved.
Jason gestured toward the end of the hall. “Could be the roof shifting under the weight of the snow.”
“Could be.” But even as she said the words, Olive didn’t believe them.
The sound had been sharp and heavy, like a single step on old wood.
They crept back upstairs, their flashlights slicing through the dark. The air felt colder now, tighter, as if the house held its breath.
They moved down the hallway again, checking each room.
Doors still closed. Still silent.
At the last door, Jason paused. “Maybe we missed something.”
Olive’s beam swept across the room.
Everything was as they’d left it: bed undisturbed, curtains drawn tight, nothing out of place.
Her pulse quickened. “If we missed something, then what?”
Jason didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
They both knew the truth: something—or someone—was still inside this inn.
Watching.
Waiting.
A chill ran up her spine at the thought.