Page 259 of The Sinner: James

I barely revel in that idea when a dark thought tarnishes that image. To raise a family, yes, but not like mine.

I move away from the memory of those trying times, filling my eyes with the view in front of me.

Kids, dogs, families, and couples walk down the street, despite the nippy air and the icicles adorning the trees.

The main square looks like a giant marshmallow sprinkled with Christmas lights.

A pang of pain flutters through my chest as we drive past Red’s. The building is dark and wrapped in silence, the main door glowing under a beam of crimson light.

And yet, the parking lot is packed.

Minutes later, the driver turns left and pulls the car to a stop in front of a boutique hotel.

I settle the fare and climb out before strolling across the sidewalk and making a beeline for the glass doors.

The driver veers the car to the side as I walk in.

Smoothly, I stop at the reception desk.

“Good afternoon,” the clerk, a sharply dressed woman with glimmering earrings, says.

Her eyes come to mine, a charming grin arching her lips.

“How may I help you?”

“I have a reservation under Rain Morgan.”

“Sure. One moment, please,” the woman says, her fingers flying over the keyboard.

A smile broadens across her lips as she scans the information on the screen.

“The Red Suite is ready for you, Miss Morgan,” she says, sliding a key card onto the counter.

“I’m sorry…”

I look at the woman, gripped by surprise.

“There must be a mistake,” I say, puzzled. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t asked for a suite. I needed a hotel room,” I say politely yet firmly, smiling nervously at the same time.

The woman gives me a full mouth grin.

“It’s not a mistake,” she says, slanting her gaze down, her index finger pointing to something on the screen. “You booked a room, and our system has automatically upgraded it. There’s no extra charge. It’s on the house.”

I look at her, still baffled, as I slide my credit card across the counter.

Maybe they’ve overbooked the rooms, and now they’re shuffling people around.

“I don’t need this, Miss Morgan,” she says, lifting her gaze from the card I slid to her.

She pushes it back to me.

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“Your suite has been paid for.”

I throw the woman a questioning look.

“Can you please explain?”

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