So she looked a bit wild in the picture, longish blonde curls blowing in all directions. Her braces had recently been removed, and her teeth still felt huge and strange in her mouth. She was wearing one of Lola’s old dresses (some things never changed), which was just a little too long on her. She was the only one not looking at the camera. She was turned halfway back toward the hotel, and the expression on her face clearly said, “Am I the only one seeing this?”

Because in the background, a man could plainly be seen stealing the lid of their trash can.

After the photo was taken, Scarlett reported the theft of the lid to her dad, who said, “It must have just gotten knocked off. No one steals trash can lids.” Which was a reasonable enough assumption, except that it was false—a fact he admitted when he saw the picture and said, “Oh yeah. I guess you were right.” They still had that trash can, and it still had no lid.

This photo used to hang proudly with the dozen or so others behind the front desk downstairs (the Martins liked photos), but Marlene had requested that it be taken down. She didn’t like people seeing her “bald pictures.” So it had been moved here, to the fifth floor. Scarlett didn’t think this was a crazy request. She had never liked having the picture downstairs, advertising to the world that you could steal stuff from the Hopewell, get your picture taken doing it, and almost be celebrated for your accomplishment.

What disturbed Scarlett about the photograph now, however, was the strange woman who was staring at it when she got home from school. She wasn’t a guest—they only had five right now, and all of them were male, in town for a business meeting about popcorn franchises. This woman was maybe about fifty and carried a small plastic bag from Macy’s in one hand, and a clump of tissues in the other. Scarlett had already had a painfully long week, and this wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted to find on a Friday afternoon.

“Can I help you?” Scarlett asked nervously.

“He killed Sonny,” the woman said, poking at Spencer’s photo with the tissues.

Scarlett did a quick mental inventory. She could tell from the quiet that she was the only Martin on the floor. The woman was three doors away, past the bathroom and Marlene’s room and the Jazz Suite. Three doors was ample running room, and chances were, the woman had no idea which door the stairs were hidden behind. She could make it, easy. Escape, very possible.