Page 49 of If Anything Happens To Me

We reached the stately, faded-yellow hotel. It had balconies trimmed with ornate white gingerbread, and front stairs adorned with fancy carved railings that made it look like a wedding cake. But the paint was peeling, the trim cracked and broken, and a few black shutters dangled, banging in the wind. It was four stories high, and at the top was a turret.

An elderly lady in a white dress stood on the front porch. She looked as old as the Miramar itself. Thankfully, there was no sign of Matt’s Jeep or Fitch’s blue van. We must have beaten them there, so we had some time.

“This is the place,” Iris said as Minerva drove alongside the hotel.

“I thought you didn’t see it,” I said.

“I feel it, Oli,” she said. “Like . . . a force. I know Hayley is in there.”

I reached back and squeezed her hand. I completely believed her, because I understood the pull of sisters, something unseen and unspoken. A force—just as she had said.

Minerva circled the hotel, and I made a note of all the entrances and exits. There were six doors: one at the top of the wide stairs, two in back, and one that I guessed led to a kitchen, considering the dumpster right outside besieged by screeching gulls. The other two doors opened onto the side porch. There was also a driveway that slanted downward toward garage doors.

“Does Fitch live here?” I asked.

“Not officially,” Minerva said. “But he’s constructed this whole persona as a researcher who needs his own space to work on the cure. That’s why he uses the attic. He calls it his ‘lab.’ Everyone just indulges him. It’s easier that way.”

I craned my neck to peer anxiously at the top floor. If the huge place was mostly vacant and the family didn’t care, it explained why no one had intervened with Fitch taking the girls up to the hidden attic.

My older-sister-ness kicked in, and I began to plan. Even though Matt and Fitch weren’t here yet, I didn’t know who else might be stationed inside, to guard Hayley. I figured that Abigail could be in the attic with her.

“What floors are the occupied rooms on?” I asked Minerva.

“Scattered through the hotel,” Minerva said. “Lower floors, though—the elevator is always broken, and the older tenants find the stairs too difficult.”

Minerva parked on a side street, and the three of us jumped out of the car.

“Ready?” Iris said. “Let’s go inside.”

She was so revved up, it was easy to forget the fact she had been buried alive less than thirty-six hours ago. But it was obvious the physical and emotional trauma had taken a toll. She was so pale, her head wound stood out like Halloween makeup, a black slash. She had dark circles under her eyes. She was clenching her hands to hide the fact they were shaking. I knew it would take superhuman strength for her to return to the attic, the site where she’d nearly died.

“I’m ready,” I said, hiding the fact that I was scared. Not just for my own safety, but because I was afraid I would fail. Fail Hayley and fail the spirit of my sister.

“Iris, can you lead us up to Hayley?” I asked.

“I can try. But we were blindfolded and barely conscious when we got here,” Iris reminded me. “And when Fitch took me out to bury me, I was totally unconscious. So I didn’t see anything.”

“How about you, Minerva?” I asked. “Fitch did that test on you in the attic, right?”

“Yes, but like I said, the inside is a maze,” Minerva explained. “Staircases everywhere, but they don’t go straight up, floor-by-floor—they kind of zigzag through the hotel. Walk up to one floor, then down a hallway, then up to another. We could wind up at a dead end or trapped inside a utility closet or something.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Why would a hotel be built that way?”

“A combination of things,” Minerva said. “Don’t forget, it used to be a place where people came to get well. Some of them were famous, like stage actors from New York, so the owners came up with a design to protect their privacy. So the attic, where treatments were given, was very hard to find.”

“What else? You said a combination of things . . .”

“Magic and intrigue,” she said. “The Sibylline sisters were part of the Miramar’s allure. Nothing could be straightforward or simple. Guests wanted to feel they’d checked in to an enchanted hotel. So the owners filled the interior with magical elements, like mirrors everywhere, stars painted on the ceilings, twisty hallways that don’t always lead where you expect them to.”

Iris sighed, frustrated. “I don’t care. We’ll head in there and we’ll find our way somehow.”

Minerva shook her head. “I know I said we should rush over here, but you were right, Oli. We shouldn’t just storm in until we know exactly where to go. Do you want to get trapped again, Iris? What we really need is a map.”

“What are you talking about?” Iris demanded.

“There’s an old brochure that I’m pretty sure maps out the interior so guests could choose their rooms back in the day,” Minerva explained. “I think my great-aunt has it. Come on.”

Iris and I followed Minerva to the front of the hotel, where the very old woman was standing on the wide porch. She was extremely thin, with long, flowing white hair, her face scored with soft wrinkles. Her ankle-length dress was white, printed with faded yellow flowers. She leaned on a cane, watching us carefully. After a few seconds, she sat in one of the rocking chairs.

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