I climb out of bed, the springs on the mattress groaning slightly but not enough to wake my husband. I walk over to the picture window across the room and stare outside. The lawn in front of the house is completely covered in snow—at least two feet of it. All of the trees are caked in white. We’re not going anywhere anytime soon in Ethan’s BMW. Our best chance of leaving is if cell service returns.

I realize sleep is a lost cause so I decide to go downstairs. But it’s too cold to go down there in a bra and panties. I rifle through the pile of clothing I took off yesterday, but I’m reluctant to put on jeans and a blouse at three in the morning.

Then I see the robe hanging from the bathroom door. It surely belonged to Dr. Adrienne Hale. It’s bright red, like the way her hair looked in certain lights. I walk over to feel the material—it’s made of fleece. Sensible and warm, for a house that gets buried in snow every winter.

Before I can second-guess myself, I tug the robe off the hook and shove my arms into the holes. It fits me perfectly—Dr. Hale must have been about the same size as me. It’s just as warm and cozy as it looks, and it’s even better when I wrap the belt around my waist and cinch it closed. There’s no way I’m not wearing this robe now that I put it on.

It’s not like I’m stealing it though. I’m just borrowing it. For like an hour—tops.

I start to leave the bedroom in my bare feet, but then I spot the fuzzy red slippers shoved up against the dresser. Well, if I’m borrowing her robe, I may as well take the matching fuzzy slippers.

I shut the bedroom door behind me and make my way slowly and carefully down the spiral staircase to the first floor. I’m not sure exactly what to do down here. My best bet is to find a book to read. That has the best chance of putting me to sleep.

I bypass all the bookcases filled with texts about the workings of the mind and head straight to the one in the back—the one stuffed with novels. Of course, that’s the bookcase that also concealed the doctor’s secret hiding place. I scan the rows of books for the second time. There are plenty of intriguing titles. There’s no shortage of things to read.

But once again, my eyes are drawn to The Shining. Even though I know it’s not a real book. Or maybe that’s why I’m drawn to it.

I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.