Breakfast was served in a solarium at the back of the house, glass walls steamed with condensation. There were three other guests. A stoic woman in a business suit named Margaret, who clutched her briefcase like a shield. A retired boxer named Sal, his knuckles a roadmap of scars. And a teenage girl with purple hair and hollow eyes, who gave her name as “No One.”
The sign swinging over the wraparound porch of the old Victorian manor read simply: . Below it, in smaller, hand-painted script: “Check your baggage at the door.” eva notty bed and breakfast
“You can go now,” she said.
My room, the Honeymoon Suite, was at the end of the third-floor hallway. It was obscenely large, with a four-poster bed draped in burgundy velvet and a fireplace that lit itself the moment I stepped inside. On the nightstand, a single tag lay waiting. Eva’s voice echoed from nowhere: “Write down what you’re carrying, Leo. Then leave it by the door.” Breakfast was served in a solarium at the