Page 8 of No Room in the Inn

“Both.”

“Are you sure?”

Mr. Lawyer Man sighs, taking his glasses off slowly. “I’m fairly certain, yes. There’s no one like that here.”

“No one like that here?” I repeat.

He smiles politely at me. “There’s no Mr. Nixon in Woodfield, ma’am.”

I cringe at being called “ma’am” so much, but I let it slide. I instead look back to the letter. Maybe I got the name wrong?

But no—it’s right there.Please also help Mr. Nixon; he’ll be lonely without me.

“Is there a Mrs. Nixon?” I say, looking back to the lawyer, who I can tell is gettingrealtired of this conversation.

Me too, Mr. Lawyer Man. Me too.

“Gerty Nixon,” Mr. Lawyer Man says with another sigh. “She was friends with Gladys.”

I hate when people call Granny that. Yes, it was her name, but anyone who spent more than two minutes with her would realize she could only ever be “Granny.”

“Great,” I say, relieved that I’m finally getting somewhere. I search my memory, digging up what I know about Gerty. “Does Gerty Nixon have a son? Or—wait,” I say, another thought occurring to me. “Maybe Mr. Nixon is a pet of some sort? Does she have a fish or something?”

“No children that I’m aware of,” Mr. Lawyer says. “You would have to ask Gerty if she owns any fish.”

It feels unlikely. Maybe Mr. Nixon isn’t this person’s real name. Maybe it’s a nickname. Or a fake name.

Oh, no, I think with dawning horror as yet another idea occurs to me, and I turn to Sarah. “Maybe someone was catfishing my Granny.”

“All right,” Sarah says, eyeing me skeptically. “You’re spiraling. Your emotions are valid and real, but I do seriously doubt anyone was catfishing your eighty-something-year-old grandmother. Let’s go, okay? We’ll figure it out later. Come on.” She stands and tugs on my hand, nudging me toward the door, and I go reluctantly.

Mr. Lawyer Man looks less reluctant to see me leave. He bids us a cheerful farewell, and we exit his office and then the building. My mind is racing the whole time.

Because something feels…funny. Weird. Strange in a way I can’t quite describe. I frown, trying to put my finger on why I feel like I’m experiencing déjà vu.

“What’s that face?” Sarah says.

“I don’t know,” I say, still frowning. “This all just seems…familiar? But it can’t be. Obviously none of this has ever happened before.” I look absently at the letter still clutched in my hands. Unfolding it, I skim it again. When I’m done, I look at Sarah.

“Doyouknow a Mr. Nixon?”

She shakes her head, looking sympathetic. “No. Just like that guy said”—she jerks a thumb over her shoulder toward the little office we’ve just left—“only Mrs. Nixon. And he was right. She doesn’t have kids or anything. Not that I know of, anyway.”

I nod, but I’m only half paying attention. My eyes are scanning the letter again, still trying to place this familiarity—

And it hits me.

I gasp suddenly, and I poke Sarah a few times in the side.

“Ouch!” she says, swatting my hand away. “Ouch! What?”

“A Hallmark movie,” I breathe.

Her nose wrinkles even further as she frowns. “What?”

“A Hallmark movie,” I say again. “I’m in a Hallmark movie.”

“A Hallmark—” She breaks off, stepping closer to me. “Okay,what?” When she places her hand on my forehead, I shake my head.

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