“You can’t keep him,” I say to the walls. “You can’t have me, either.” The music in the hallway quiets, replacing my anger with grief. I might not get back home. The real possibility of that is terrifying, and I quickly strip down and step into the red dress. I smooth it along my hips, slip on the shoes. I teeter on the heels, higher than Catherine’s, the minute they’re on my feet.
After a long pause I turn to the mirror, speechless at my reflection. Despite the lack of effort, my image is flawless. I’ve never, not even at prom, after hours of primping, had this complexion. Hair this luxe. I start to smile, but then I take a step back from the mirror, glaring around the room accusingly.
“Is this what you do?” I call out. “Corrupt the images? Make it perfect when things are so clearly not.” I stare at my reflection, waiting for the real me to appear, battered and bruised. But nothing happens. Well, I won’t be seduced. I grab my phone off the bedside table and hurl it at the mirror, sending shards spitting across the room.
I heave in a breath and look down. My phone is lit up—even though it hasn’t been charged. How could it be? I’m not really here. In the top left corner of the screen is the photos icon.
My eyes begin to water, and I pick up my phone and sit on the edge of the bed among pieces of glass. Don’t see, my mind whispers. My thumb hovers for a moment, and then I open the album titled “No.”
The first image that pops up breaks me down, and the tears flow. Two weeks before she died, my mother and I got our hair done at the mall. The picture is us in the front seat of the car, me holding out the phone with my right hand, our heads pushed together. Mom’s pursing her mouth, doubtful of her new, slightly darker hair. My lips are rounded in an Oh, snap! exaggerated expression. When I turned the phone around to show her the picture, we both cracked up. She made me promise not to post it on Instagram. She said she looked awful.
“I will disown you,” she said, still laughing. “I look like a Muppet!”
“You’re beautiful,” I say now, reenacting the conversation. Lost in the memory, I can smell her perfume, hear her voice. Like I’m there. Like she’s here. “You’re still way hotter than Ryan’s mom,” I add.
She tsked. “Stop it,” she said, even though she knew I was only joking. “Do you think your father will notice the change?” She glanced in the rearview, brushing her fingers through her fringe.
“He never notices anything,” I whisper, tears wet on my cheeks.
“Cut him some slack,” she said, turning to smile at me. “Your father loves you to pieces. You have no idea how many times he’s talked me into something on your behalf. So whether you know it or not, your dad spoils you.”
“Only fair, because you’ve made Daniel rotten,” I say. She laughed and then nodded that it was mostly true.
“I don’t know how I got so lucky,” she said with a sigh, smiling at her reflection. “I just don’t know.”
“Me either,” I whisper, and close my eyes as my soul aches. When I reopen them, the hotel room is still and silent. The echo of my mother’s voice is gone. The smell of her perfume replaced with vanilla candles. Glass glitters all around, sparkling in the flickering light.
My body is numb, heavy with loss. My father didn’t notice her hair, even though he complimented her almost every day. Like Daniel, he was never observant. I’d grown used to it, considered it one of his quirks. Dad retelling the same stories, mispronouncing names even after he’d been corrected.
I sink lower into grief. My father brought us to this place, and I can see now that he’s trying to keep us here—extending our stay. Wanting us together. It’s selfish and horrible, but I can understand. If he didn’t think we could leave, he just wanted our family back together. He wanted to fix us.
My cries start again—thick, choking betrayal. I scream my anger and hurt, dropping the phone and slamming my fists down on the bed. There is a biting pain, and I yelp. Hazy with tears, I lift my hand and see a triangular shard of glass sticking out of my skin. I quickly yank it free and toss it aside. I gather Catherine’s shirt from the floor and wrap it around my hand. I wince at the sting—the pain bringing me back. Focusing me.
I stand and grab the invitation from the bed, shaking off the bits of glass. I leave my keycard on the dresser because I won’t be coming back to this room. Instead I’ll grab Daniel and my father, and we’ll head to room 1336. We’ll wake up. We’ll be together there.
At the door I see I’ve bled through the shirt wrapping my wound. I unravel the fabric carefully to check the cut, and I’m stunned when I find my skin smooth. Unbroken. I open and close my hand a few times, completely healed, although the shirt is stained with blood.
Both Elias and Catherine told me that Kenneth couldn’t hurt me, and now I know why: I’m not really here. But if that’s true, how can Kenneth inflict so much pain on Lourdes? Terrify the other guests? What’s different about them?