Alongside the box was a letter from the hotel, informing her that the tourist brochure she’d requested was attached. Someone on the hotel staff must have mixed her up with another guest she thought as she opened a glossy leaflet attached to the cover letter.
It was a brochure of the local cemetery, which the front cover described as one of the town’s heritage highlights. According to the brochure, the cemetery dated back to the Revolutionary War and there were a number of graves of historic interest.
The brochure included a double-page spread with a map of the cemetery on one side and a list of notable graves on the other. Rachel’s heart skipped a beat when she saw that a name had been added at the bottom of the list. Someone had written Jenny Stills in blue pen. A corresponding grave was circled with the same blue ink on the map.
This time Hannah had crossed a line. There was something insidious about the way this message had been sent to Rachel, left on her bed. It was as if Hannah wanted Rachel to know that she could get to her anywhere, even in the privacy of her hotel room.
If this was supposed to intimidate Rachel then it failed badly. It infuriated her. She marched to the lobby. The drunken guests from earlier were gone, their used shot glasses strewn across their tables. Discarded beer bottles lay on their sides, amber liquid trickling out. The night clerk at Reception looked up in surprise as Rachel approached.
“I’m in room four-oh-one-four,” Rachel said. “Do you know why this brochure was left in my room?”
The night clerk took a moment to retrieve the computer records associated with Rachel’s room. “There’s a note in the system that says you called the reception desk at six P.M. and asked for the brochure to be brought to your room,” the clerk said with a neutral expression that didn’t quite hide the fact that she thought Rachel was a raving lunatic for making a fuss over a brochure.
“It wasn’t me,” said Rachel. “I didn’t contact the hotel today at all.”
“Then it must be for another guest and our staff mixed up the room numbers,” said the clerk, confused at how such a mistake might have happened. “Either way, I’m terribly sorry for any inconvenience.”
Rachel knew it wasn’t a mix-up and she didn’t like the situation one bit. First the note on her windshield. Then the letter skewered to the jetty with the blade of a pocketknife. Now a tourist map left on her hotel room pillow with Jenny Stills’s grave clearly marked on its pages.
“Do you record all your calls for training and quality purposes?” Rachel asked the clerk.
“Yes, we do, ma’am.”
“I’d like to listen to the call from earlier in which I supposedly called to request the brochure,” Rachel said.
The clerk retrieved the recording of the call from the computer and played it back for Rachel, who had to lean over the counter to hear the audio properly. A woman had called the hotel and in a poor attempt at mimicking Rachel’s voice had asked for a brochure that had been left for her at the concierge’s desk to be brought up to her room.
“Does that person sound like me?” Rachel asked when the recording was over.
“No, ma’am. It doesn’t,” said the reception clerk, swallowing nervously. “It’s very strange. I’ll ask the manager to look into it first thing in the morning.”
Rachel asked the clerk to note in her file that moving forward, nobody had her permission to enter her room other than the morning cleaner. No turndown service. No room access. No mail or messages left for her in her room. She’d collect it all in person from Reception. “And, please,” she added, “make sure that my room number is not divulged to anyone.”
With that she went back to the elevator, her eyes blurred from exhaustion. When Rachel reached her floor, she walked down the corridor, passing the peepholes of one closed door after the next. The room service trays had been collected. Only one tray was left lying on the carpet. It was on the floor right outside Rachel’s door.
Rachel picked up the tray and removed the stainless-steel cloche to reveal a hamburger and fries. It was exactly what she would have chosen if she’d ordered room service. Under the cutlery was an envelope. With her name on it.
Rachel turned around. The corridor moved out of focus as she looked down the long, silent passageway of flickering lights and rows of peepholes that seemed to be watching her. The elevator chimed, but the doors didn’t open.
9
Hannah
I hope you’re enjoying Neapolis, Rachel. It’s a majestic coastline. Postcard pretty. Don’t let that lull you into a false sense of security. Always remember that it’s beautiful on the surface. Underneath, it’s treacherous. It should never be underestimated.
I owe you an apology, Rachel. It was terrible manners on my part, inviting you to the jetty and then standing you up. The invitation was sincere. I truly hoped we could meet in person. In the end, I found it too overwhelming, returning to Morrison’s Point. I had a sudden flash of memory. It left me shaking and sucked the breath out of me. I couldn’t stand to be there a moment longer. I had to leave. You can’t imagine what she went through that night, Rachel.
For me, the past is like an overexposed photograph: so blindingly bright that it can’t be looked at with the naked eye. Filled with moments too painful to recall, beyond the faint taste of a bittersweet memory lost in time.
Being here in Neapolis for the first time since I was a child, I’ve come to the conclusion that to overcome my past, I must remember it. Every detail. From the poignant, to the trivial, to, yes, even the horrifying.
When I return to a familiar place, or stumble across a scent that takes me back to my early childhood, or even taste a food I haven’t eaten since I was young, I glimpse a snapshot of forgotten memories. It helps me remember. Funnily enough, writing you these letters helps as well.
It’s excruciating, this lancing of my emotional wounds. If I’m asking too much of you to share the burden then feel free to rip up my letters. I won’t judge you. But I’ll keep writing, nevertheless. I find these letters cathartic. It may take me a while to get my story out. Some of it is buried so deep that I need time to digest it before formulating it into words.
So where were we, Rachel? I remember now. I was telling you about my mom. At first she waved off her diagnosis as a blip. Another obstacle to overcome in a lifetime of hurdles. Eight months after her diagnosis, she was sicker than ever and trying to pretend there was nothing wrong.
On the first day of the school vacation, Mom insisted on dropping us at the beach. She stopped her beat-up sedan in the dirt parking lot, leaving the spluttering engine running while she popped the trunk. Jenny went out to retrieve our beach bag and towels.
With Jenny temporarily distracted, Mom slipped me cash.
“Ice-cream money,” she whispered. “Don’t tell Jenny where it came from. She’ll make you give it back.” I bunched it up in my fist.
“Have fun,” Mom said, blowing us kisses as she jerked the car into motion. She was heading to the hospital for an appointment. “I’ll expect you both at dinnertime. Not a second before.”
“Sure, Mom,” said Jenny. Her voice was drowned out by the rattle of the car. It badly needed a repair that it wouldn’t get unless it broke down entirely. Mom hadn’t held down a regular job since she was diagnosed. She worked when she was able, which was becoming less and less frequent. When she did get a shift, she came home ashen. It would take her days to recover.