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“A memory. There used to be a hotel here, and this was my room. Now it’s a place where we can be
together. You know the wheel that turns when you go into someone else?”
“Uh-huh . . .”
“This is the middle. The hub.”
“I wish we could stay here. It feels . . . safe. Except for those.” Abra pointed to the French doors with
their long panes of glass. “They don’t feel the same as the rest.” She looked at him almost accusingly.
“They weren’t here, were they? When you were a kid.”
“No. There weren’t any windows in my room, and the only door was the one that went into the rest
of the caretaker’s apartment. I changed it. I had to. Do you know why?”
She studied him, her eyes grave. “Because that was then and this is now. Because the past is gone,
even though it defines the present.”
He smiled. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“You didn’t have to say it. You thought it.”
He drew her toward those French doors that had never existed. Through the glass they could see
the lawn, the tennis courts, the Overlook Lodge, and Roof O’ the World.
“I see her,” Abra breathed. “She’s up there, and she’s not looking this way, is she?”
“She better not be,” Dan said. “How bad is the pain, honey?”
“Bad,” she said. “But I don’t care. Because—”
She didn’t have to finish. He knew, and she smiled. This togetherness was what they had, and in
spite of the pain that came with it—pain of all kinds—it was good. It was very good.
“Dan?”
“Yes, honey.”
“There are ghostie people out there. I can’t see them, but I feel them. Do you?”
“Yes.” He had for years. Because the past defines the present. He put his arm around her shoulders,
and her arm crept around his waist.
“What do we do now?”
“Wait for Billy. Hope he’s on time. And then all of this is going to happen very fast.”
“Uncle Dan?”
“What, Abra.”
“What’s inside you? That isn’t a ghost. It’s like—” He felt her shiver. “It’s like a monster.”
He said nothing.
She straightened and stepped away from him. “Look! Over there!”
An old Ford pickup was rolling into the visitor’s parking lot.
8
Rose stood with her hands on the lookout platform’s waist-high railing, peering at the truck pulling
into the parking lot. The steam had sharpened her vision, but she still wished she had brought a pair
of binoculars. Surely there were some in the supply room, for guests who wanted to go bird-watching,
so why hadn’t she?
Because you had so many other things on your mind. The sickness . . . the rats jumping ship . . . losing Crow
to the bitchgirl . . .
Yes to all of that—yes, yes, yes—but she still should have remembered. For a moment she
wondered what else she might have forgotten, but pushed the idea away. She was still in charge of
this, loaded with steam and at the top of her game. Everything was going exactly as planned. Soon the