Chapter Thirty-Four
As Mr. Robinson searches for the key, I move the plywood out of the way, shoving some buckets as well.
“You see all the stuff that’s here. It’s been in that exact spot for months, at least,” he says as he tries one of the keys.
“I’d still feel better if I took a look,” I say.
“Of course,” he mutters under his breath. “Ah, there it is.”
Turning the knob, the door gives, and he pulls it toward him. Beyond it is darkness.
“As you can see, there’s no electricity back here. As I said before, no one goes here. At one time, this was a ballroom used for conventions and parties and the like, but there was far too much for the owners to fix, and they elected to close it down until they wanted to deal with it. We replaced the door with one that locks firmly, and I assume they blocked even that with the plywood to discourage curious guests.”
“There’s no electricity on this side of the hotel?” I ask, stepping closer.
“That is correct.”
“Then what is that light back there?”
Mr. Robinson stammers for a moment, his eyes following my finger, pointing to the far end of the ballroom. Behind stacks of chairs, draped with sheets, there is a pinprick light glowing in the distance. I watch his head turn sideways, and his eyebrow wrinkles before he turns to me.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” he admits.
“Then let’s get one,” I say, moving toward the door.
“Miss Griffin, I must object. I don’t know what kind of equipment is in there or how dangerous the room could be.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I say and brush by him. I step into the darkness, and my footsteps echo off the hardwood floors. I turn back toward him. “You coming?”
There is a moment’s hesitation before he nods. “Yes,” he says.
“And that’s Agent Griffin to you,” I add.
I pull out my phone and turn on the flashlight. It illuminates the room quite well, and I take in the vastness of the space. Tables and chairs are pushed against either wall, sheets draped over them gathering dust. I go up to a few of them, crisscrossing the room, looking for obvious signs of someone being here. Nothing jumps out at me, so we continue moving through.
“I just don’t understand there being a light on,” the manager wonders aloud as he stays rather close beside me. “The electricity in this part of the hotel has been off for some time. It has done wonders for the power usage. This room was extraordinarily difficult to heat in the winter and cool in the summer.”
“I imagine,” I note as I sweep the light up the walls to the high ceilings above.
I point the flashlight down toward where the tiny emergency light is shining. It does little to illuminate the giant room, but it does give me the impression that nothing will impede us, so we head that way. As we reach the end of the hall, the light hangs above us, and we both stare up at it. Just below it is another door. There is no lock on it.
“It’s an industrial kitchen,” he says without prompting. “When they would have weddings and things of that nature here, this is where all the cooking would be done. It’s dark in there, so I assume the electricity has been off in there for a long time. The emergency light must have been given an exception for some reason.”
“Or,” I said, pushing the door open. As soon as I am inside the room, I reach for the wall. My fingers stumble across it until I feel the plastic underneath, and I flip the switches with one finger.
The room lights up in brilliant white light.
“This is ridiculous,” Mr. Robinson says beside me. “These lights should be off. All of these lights should be off.”
“Shh,” I say, putting one finger to my lips and holding my other hand out to him. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“The low humming sound.” Somewhere on the edge of my hearing, a hum drones at the lowest pitch. It’s constant yet quiet. Like an appliance that was left on.
“I don’t…. oh, wait,” he says, suddenly seeming to catch the sound.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Miss Griffin, I don’t know. None of this is making any sense to me.”
I follow the sound across the kitchen. The islands in the middle of the room are on wheels, but none of them seems to have been moved in some time, judging by the fine layer of dust on the floor. Except one. It is set beside a large metal door, and a streak of clean floor seems to suggest it was shoved there recently; the area around it has marks that look like footprints mixed together.
Suddenly, I realize the room is very cold.
“It’s the freezer,” I say, pointing to the metal door. “The freezer is on. And someone has been here not long ago.” I walk up to it despite a blubbering objection and a hand that reaches out to stop me. When I yank the door open, the cold air washes over me, and the chill runs up my spine.
But the chill from the cold is nothing compared with the one I get when I look down. Just beyond the door, to see the lifeless, frozen body of Lydia Walsh.
“You saw her on the video. She was obviously extremely drunk, or high, or something,” the manager stammers as soon as he sees the body. He doesn’t even recoil or act surprised. Immediately, his lips just start moving in an attempt to blame the victim, the woman who once lived inside the skin lying near my feet. But his yammering is falling on deaf ears.
“You need to call the police right now. I’ll need to take pictures for evidence,” I say.
He doesn’t budge at first, and I take another step toward him. When I do, his eyes, which had been locked on Lydia, move over to me. Finally, he nods and takes a few
