The caretaker at an isolated mountain hotel finds herself fighting for her life—and sanity—in this twisty, addictive thriller.
Kerry’s life is in shambles: Her husband has left her, her drinking habit has officially become a problem, and though the deadline for her big book deal—the one that was supposed to change everything—is looming, she can’t write a word. When she sees an ad for a caretaker position at a revitalized roadside motel in the Catskills, she jumps at the chance. It's the perfect getaway to finish her book and start fresh.
But as she hunkers down in a blizzard, she spots something through the window: a pale arm peeking out from a heap of snow. Trapped in the mountains and alone with a dead, frozen body, Kerry must keep her head and make it out before the killer comes for her too. But is the deadly game of cat-and-mouse all in her mind? The body count begs to differ . . .
Release date:
January 14, 2025
Publisher:
G.P. Putnam's Sons
Print pages:
336
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It hit me hard as the motel came into view through snowflakes thick and white: This was my last chance.
Carefully, I pulled off the highway and into a gravel parking lot mostly coated in snow, completely empty, not a car in sight. I turned at the front office, following the line of rooms until I found the last one on the left, then put the car into park and leaned forward, taking in the motel through my windshield, wipers going double time, the sun already setting, sky quickly losing light.
The place was a retro-modern Instagram dream. I'd seen plenty of photos, of course, had trolled through the Twilite Motel's carefully curated grid, dreaming of cozy, tucked-away spaces that would revive my floundering writing practice, but even those hadn't done it justice. Atop a snow-covered roof was a bold red sign, lined with neon lights, that proudly proclaimed MOTEL in letters that had to be several feet tall. The place was painted pink, with baby blue doors and yellow chairs stacked in the corner of each patio-a color scheme that would have had Siobhan, much more visually minded than me, salivating. Pretty, most definitely, but for me, the lure was the history-the stories that had to be contained within, inspiration practically bursting through the seams. I dutifully pulled out my phone and took a quick snap through the snow-dusted windshield, knowing I couldn't upload anything without service but imagining the future social media post already: This is where I finished the book that changed my life.
The owner, Maisy, a self-styled "patron of the arts," was far from a trailblazer. Lots of revitalized motels had been popping up in recent years, luring not budget travelers on road trips but people with Tribeca lofts and cash to burn. My husband, Frank, and I kept noticing them, after reading an article in The New York Times about places just like this. Roadside motels that had gained new life for the Instagram set. Throwbacks updated with modern conveniences. Sixties stopovers meet Sub-Zero appliances.
I shut off the car, then checked the backpack next to me for all my supplies. The sandwich I'd grabbed on my way out of the city, plus nuts, chocolate, granola bars and the full guide to caring for the Twilite Motel, all fifty pages of it printed and bound and sent to me by Maisy, since she didn't pay for Wi-Fi in the winter months and cell data was spotty at best. Maisy had even warned me that most mobile hot spots didn't work well, had mentioned the "lack of digital amenities" three times before I'd signed the contract for the month. Little did she know, the absence of internet was among this job's largest selling points. It prevented me from obsessively poring over everyone else's feeds, watching as both babies and books were birthed into the world. From googling things like "fertility at 39," "divorce lawyer cost," and "can a publisher force you to declare bankruptcy?" From sharing carefully staged updates on my writing process (MacBook open in front of a window; sharpened pencils against fresh notebooks), knowing full well I wasn't getting any writing done at all.
A gust of wind smacked me across the face as I got out of the car, reminding me what I'd signed myself up for. It was no wonder the place shut down in January and February. Who in their right mind would want to come here in the deep of winter, with the more touristy Catskills towns forty-five minutes northwest and the ski resorts even farther still?
And yet for me, it was perfect, my own little Overlook Hotel, where I could finish my book (minus the ghosts, psychotic break, and homicide, of course). And unlike Jack Torrance, I didn't even have a family to terrorize and I wasn't going to be drinking a single drop. All work and no play was finally going to make Kerry a truly successful girl.
See, where Jack had gone wrong was bringing the people he loved with him. I, on the other hand, had solved that problem. Frank, my other half for the past ten years, had gone to his brother Danny's in Jersey for Christmas and not returned, sending Danny and his girlfriend over to pick up his things. And my best friend, Siobhan? Well, I hadn't spoken to her in two months. She was blocked, in fact, on all social media. Couldn't even get in touch with me if she wanted to.
I was alone now, completely so, and that meant things had to change. No more missed deadlines. No more excuses. No more booze.
Because if I didn't have something to show my publisher by the end of the month, my agent had warned me that the whole project could be cancelled-and even worse, the publisher could demand repayment of the money I'd already received. Money that had long ago been spent. Fruitlessly, of course, but spent nonetheless.
I walked up to Room Thirteen, where Maisy had told me to stay. Her instructions had said that the prior caretaker would leave a large ring of keys in a flowerpot beneath the room's window. I quickly spotted a substantial clay receptacle, filled up with large rocks, and knelt to retrieve the keys.
I pulled out one rock and then another, but the bottom of the pot was empty. Fingers freezing, I stood, wondering if there'd been some miscommunication, if the keys had been left in the room instead.
The doorknob turned easily, and relief flooded my veins. I pushed open the door to the sound of jangling and quickly stepped inside, out of the biting wind, the bitter cold.
I looked down. The noise had been from the ring of keys, left, inexplicably, right behind the door. I grabbed them, stood up, and it hit me fully then: Everything was wrong.
The kitchen stood out the most. The countertop was littered with paraphernalia, like someone had had a full-on rager. I stepped forward, the smell of wine and whiskey hitting me from a collection of mismatched, half-drunk glasses, crusted with lipstick and dregs from the drinks, bottles, some more than half full, open beside them, empty ones standing proud like the rocks of Stonehenge.
I felt it instantly, that tickle of desire, of anticipation, my mouth nearly watering, just looking at it all laid out. How easy it would be to grab a fresh glass, pour a drink, take some of the edge off, from the storm, from the drive. From the fact that things weren't starting out at all the way I'd planned. Then my eyes caught the rest of it: the glass pipe, the burned remnants of weed on the counter, the half-empty pack of Parliament cigarettes, a light dusting of white across the marble countertop. The thought of partying like that again, of giving up all concerns but the now, but the moment, but the more more more, it was-no pun intended-intoxicating. Why could some people do it without losing everything, that was the real question. People like Frank, people like Siobhan, people who could let loose for a night and in the morning, nothing about their world had changed, apart from a massive headache and maybe a serotonin crash. People who could get an everything bagel, turn on some reality TV, and lose little more than a day of their lives. Probably the same sorts of people who could get a book deal as massive as mine and finish the godforsaken book.
I turned away from the kitchen, forcing myself back to the issue at hand. The bed was made but rumpled, as if someone or someones had sat on it, passed around a glass pipe, and clinked highballs of whiskey. Next to the bed, a navy, hard-shell suitcase, half open; and next to that, another suitcase, brown-this one shut and standing-almost like the occupant had been in the middle of packing and then all of a sudden stopped. On the wall opposite the bed, a cast-iron woodstove crackled, coals still within it, radiating heat. What was going on?
"Hello?" I asked. "Is anyone here?"
No answer.
Had I somehow gotten this wrong? Mixed up the dates, walking into the aftermath of someone's rager a day too early? It wasn't possible. There wasn't even another car in the lot.
I flipped through Maisy's instructions again, read the words three times over. Arrive any time after four on Saturday, February 1. I grabbed my phone, checked the date, but it was indeed the first. And it was nearly five o'clock. I was supposed to be here. Only I was supposed to be here.
I opened my email, wondering if there'd been a change in plans, something I'd missed. It wouldn't load, of course. No data up here. Barely a single bar, my phone already proclaiming it was now "roaming."
My eyes caught a rotary phone mounted to the wall-retro avocado green. Maisy had mentioned each room had a landline, but I hadn't expected to find one so . . . old.
Sure enough, a tone.
It took forever to dial, the curl of the numbers interminable-motions I hadn't made since I was maybe seven or eight years old. It rang four times, and I got a cheerful voicemail. I left a rambling message, hung up. Tried sending a text instead, but it wouldn't go through.
My heart began to race as the cold bit against my cheeks. It was already twilight. Twilight at the Twilite Motel. It would be fully dark in a matter of minutes, and through the window, I could see that the snow was coming down even harder now, the wind making the trees across the road dance.
What was I supposed to do, get in the car and drive nearly three hours back to the city? A family from Europe was arriving at my apartment today, the place booked up for the whole month. I couldn't very well get a hotel. I had no money for one. Besides, why should I leave? I hadn't done anything wrong.
"Hello," I called again as I walked past the kitchen and to a door open on the right-the bathroom. "Hello, is anyone here?"
I flicked on the light and quickly jerked at the shower curtain over the claw-footed tub, then sighed with a bit of relief. No one hiding with a knife in the shower, waiting to make me the next Marion Crane. Still, there was a mess of toiletries, what looked like a woman's things: press-on nails and bright red polish spread out on the counter, lipsticks uncapped, standing upright and eerie.
My bladder full from the long drive, I used the toilet, then got up, washed my hands, and returned to the main room.
My mind ran through possible explanations. There had been a party of some sort, that much was clear. Maybe the woman, whoever she was, had gone home with some guy, was currently sleeping off a hangover? That would explain the lack of a car in the lot, wouldn't it? Maybe she'd gone somewhere, to get more coke, maybe, and was in the midst of a bender. Maybe she was a fuckup, just like me-maybe she'd been so drunk and high her whole time here she didn't even realize what day it was.
My eyes caught the ring of keys, which I'd set on the table by the door. Why had she left these behind?
Drinking would explain that, too, I supposed. More than once I'd buzzed Frank because I'd left my keys in a bar or in my drunken state I hadn't had the wherewithal to check every pocket of my bag.
At some point, this woman would surely resurface: face red, mouth full of apologies.
The issue was what I was supposed to do in the meantime.
My eyes returned to the keys. Not just to this room but to the front office, the outbuildings, and all the other rooms as well. I was the caretaker, of course. I had access to it all.
I stepped back into the cold, pulled the door shut behind me, leaving it unlocked should this mysterious woman come back.
Room Twelve, right next door, seemed as good a place as any, and I slipped that key into the lock, opened the door to reveal a new room, same style and layout as the one I'd just been in but clean and made up. Only one thing was off: an open wine bottle on the nightstand, a corkscrew sitting next to it.
I grabbed the bottle and took it over to the sink, pouring it down the drain before I could lose my nerve. Then I found a thermostat, set to fifty-five degrees. I shot it up to seventy.
I slipped off my snow boots, pulled on an extra pair of wool socks and a heavier sweater, unwrapped the sandwich I'd brought with me, and grabbed my laptop, intent on completing Day One with at least a few hundred words written.
I stared at the blank screen while I housed my sandwich, suddenly ravenous, and soon it was gone, the trash was in the bin, and then the blinking cursor was flashing at me, metronomic. A reminder that I was so very much behind. Like a clock. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Book finished or bankruptcy. Your choice, Kerry. Your choice.
Without thinking, I found myself reaching for my phone, hungry for my onetime vices: Bitching about publishing with fellow authors on Twitter; drooling over the gorgeous covers of books that were already coming out on Instagram. Texting Siobhan-before we stopped talking, at least-silly GIFs because I didn't have it in me to write. Googling, for the umpteenth time, the type of research questions I'd already covered over and over.
Instagram was fully open before it hit me that I didn't have service. The speed with which I'd gotten there when my brain knew full well my phone wouldn't work scared me a bit. I set it down and returned to my screen.
Forced myself to type.
She never wanted it to turn out this way.
I read the sentence before it, realizing this new one made no sense in context.
So I deleted it, watched the cursor once again as the weight set in, pressing against my chest, as if all the books in the world, all the books I'd ever read, all the books I would ever read, all the books that anyone would ever read, ones that were being published, left and right, up and down, when mine almost certainly never would be, were balancing atop my breastbone, pressing and pressing and pressing, ready to crush my heart.
My pulse quickened, my breathing sped up, and I grabbed my water, guzzling it down, and for a moment, I could have sworn I was standing in the wilderness, facing down a ferocious beast, fangs exposed, ready to tear my body to shreds, instead of sitting on a comfy bed in a renovated motel, trying to type out a novel that had sold for a healthy six figures on a rose gold MacBook. How could I be panicking like this? How could I not see that none of this was really life and death? That all I had to do was imagine words and then type them?
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