1
The first sign this week was cursed was the luggage cart.
Not that I’m superstitious. I’m a kindergarten teacher. I’m practical. I believe in routines, gentle voices, and the healing power of stickers.
But when you walk into a fancy mountain resort and the only available luggage cart has a wobbly wheel, a suspicious squeak, and the energy of a shopping trolley possessed by chaos, you respect the warning.
“Okay,” I told it softly, as if it were one of my five-year-olds about to bite someone. “We can do this together. No sudden swerves. No dramatic turns. We’re calm.”
The cart squealed like it disagreed.
Behind me, my nephew Milo dragged his suitcase like a soldier crossing enemy territory. His backpack was massive. His hoodie said CHECKMATE IS MY LOVE LANGUAGE in bold white letters, which was both adorable and… extremely on-brand.
He tilted his head at the grand wooden lobby with its stone fireplace, its chandelier that looked like a constellation, and a giant banner that read:
WELCOME NATIONAL JUNIOR CHESS FINALS!
“June,” he whispered, eyes wide. “This place looks like rich people go here to get divorced.”
“That’s a strong opening observation,” I said, trying to look like I belonged in a resort where the air itself smelled expensive. “But no. Rich people come here to play chess, apparently.”
Milo glanced at my messy bun, my thrift-store coat, and my expression—the one I wore when I pretended not to panic while children ate glue. “Do we look like we play chess?”
“We look like we encourage youth enrichment,” I said. “That’s basically the same thing.”
We rolled toward the front desk. The wheels squeaked again.
The clerk looked up with the serene smile of someone who had never, ever tried to keep twenty-seven tiny humans from sprinting into traffic.
“Welcome to the Marrowpine Lodge. Checking in?”
“Yes,” I said brightly. “Juniper Park. Two guests. One chess genius, one… adult supervisor.”
Milo muttered, “Temporary.”
I elbowed him gently.
The clerk typed. Then paused. Then typed again, slower, like the keyboard had insulted his family.
“Hm.”
That was not the sound I wanted. “Is ‘hm’ good?”
“It’s…” He smiled harder. “A small hiccup. Nothing to worry about.”
In my experience, “nothing to worry about” was always the exact thing you had to worry about.
“I’m here with the Park County youth delegation,” I said, as if that meant something important and not “my sister begged me on the phone because she caught the flu and Milo would combust if he missed this tournament.”
The clerk nodded. “Right. There was a note. You were added last minute.”
“Very last minute,” Milo confirmed, because he’s an honest child and honesty is his chosen weapon.
“I see you’re booked for six nights,” the clerk continued, “with a junior competitor.”
“Yes.”
“And the system is…” He frowned. “…showing your assigned room as…”
He looked up, eyes apologetic.
“No,” I said, immediately. “Whatever it is, no.”
“I haven’t said it.”
“You don’t need to,” I replied. “I can feel it.”
He cleared his throat and turned the screen slightly. “Room 614.”
“That sounds normal,” I said suspiciously.
He nodded quickly. “Yes. It’s a junior-friendly floor. Close to the tournament conference wing. Near the vending machines.”
“Perfect,” Milo said, already dreaming of sugar.
“And,” the clerk added, “it’s adjacent to Mr. Holt in 615.”
I blinked. “Okay?”
The clerk’s smile twitched.
Here we go.
“There’s just one issue,” he said, in the same tone I used when I told a child we were “just going to wash our hands” and then secretly handed them a toothbrush.
“What issue?” I asked.
“The dividing balcony door between 614 and 615 has a faulty lock,” he admitted.
Milo’s head snapped toward me. “So… we’re sharing a balcony with a stranger.”
“It’s not shared,” the clerk said quickly. “The balcony itself has a divider. It’s the internal latch on the emergency door that isn’t fully catching. Maintenance is scheduled.”
“When?” I asked.
He checked. “Tomorrow morning.”
I stared at him. “Tomorrow morning is a long time to sleep next to a door that doesn’t lock.”
“It does lock,” he insisted. “From his side.”
Milo’s eyebrows rose. “So we’re safe if the stranger decides we are.”
“Exactly,” I said, my smile now made of teeth and survival instinct.
The clerk swallowed. “We can offer—”
A man stepped up beside us like a shadow that learned how to wear a coat.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair. The kind of posture that looked like control wasn’t an emotion for him—it was a setting.
He wore a simple black jacket, no visible brand, like he didn’t need labels to prove anything. A carry-on sat perfectly upright beside his leg, as if it, too, feared disappointing him.
His eyes flicked to the clerk, then to me, then to Milo, in a single smooth sweep that made me feel briefly… evaluated.
Not in a creepy way.
In a you are possibly a security risk way.
“Mr. Holt,” the clerk said, with the relief of someone spotting a lifeboat. “Good evening. Checking in?”
The man nodded once. “Rafael Holt.”
His voice was deep and calm, but there was something clipped about it, like every word had been trained to behave.
The clerk smiled too brightly. “Yes, of course. We were just explaining a minor room detail—”
“The balcony door,” I cut in, because if I was going to be murdered, I wanted to be murdered with clarity. “It doesn’t lock from my side.”
Mr. Holt’s gaze met mine. It was steady. Unamused. Not cold exactly—more like… controlled weather.
“Okay,” he said.
Just okay.
Not Oh no, that’s unacceptable, please take my room. Not Don’t worry, I’m a normal person, I don’t break into random women’s hotel rooms.
Just okay, like I had informed him the sky was blue.
Milo leaned closer to me and whispered, “June. He looks like he owns a helicopter.”
I whispered back, “Milo. Don’t profile strangers based on vibes.”
“He does.”
I hated that Milo was probably right.
The clerk cleared his throat. “Mr. Holt, would you like to switch rooms so that the lock is on—”
“No,” Mr. Holt said immediately.
The speed of that “no” was… personal.
Then he glanced at me again, and his jaw tightened like he realized how it sounded.
“I’m traveling with my daughter,” he added, like that explained everything.
Milo perked up. “You have a kid too?”
Mr. Holt’s gaze flicked to Milo, and for half a second, something softened. Not much. But enough that I saw the difference.
“Yes,” he said. “Ivy.”
Milo’s face brightened like someone had offered him a new opponent. “Is she here for chess?”
“Yes.”
Milo made a noise that can only be described as thrilled panic. “Oh my God. Another child warrior.”
I coughed. “Milo.”
“It’s okay,” Mr. Holt said, and—was that humor? It was faint, like the ghost of a smile that hadn’t been used in years.
The clerk looked between us like he was watching a train approach a cliff.
“I can add an extra latch,” the clerk offered desperately. “A temporary security bar, at least, for your door, Ms. Park.”
“Yes,” I said. “Please. Preferably made of steel and prayer.”
Mr. Holt’s eyes narrowed slightly. “If you want, I can ask maintenance to—”
“No,” I said too quickly.
He raised an eyebrow.
“I mean,” I added, scrambling for dignity, “I appreciate it. But I’m fine. We’re fine. It’s fine.”
Milo murmured, “We’re not fine.”
I pressed my lips together and accepted the room keys the clerk offered. Mr. Holt took his with the same controlled efficiency people use when they fold parachutes.
“Elevator is to your left,” the clerk said, voice bright with the hope that we would leave before things got worse. “Conference wing is down the hall. Tournament orientation begins at seven a.m.”
Milo saluted like it was war.
I grabbed the luggage cart. The wheel squealed, offended by my grip.
Mr. Holt turned to go.
Then he paused, just slightly, and looked back at me.
“If the door opens,” he said, tone flat but certain, “it won’t be me.”
I blinked.
It was the strangest reassurance I had ever received.
My mouth opened, and because I am who I am, I said, “That’s… good. Because if it is you, I will scream so loud the chess pieces will file a restraining order.”
Mr. Holt stared at me like I had spoken in riddles.
Then, unexpectedly, his mouth twitched.
Not a smile.
But the beginning of one.
“Noted,” he said.
And he walked away.
Milo watched him go with the awed expression of someone observing a particularly intimidating chess master.
“He’s scary,” Milo whispered.
“Yes,” I agreed.
Milo’s eyes gleamed. “I hope Ivy is scarier.”
I started pushing the cursed cart toward the elevator, trying not to think about the fact that tonight, I would be sleeping next to a door that didn’t lock—beside a man who looked like he could fly helicopters, survive avalanches, and crush my emotional stability with one eyebrow raise.
Behind us, the fireplace crackled.
Ahead of us, the elevator doors opened like a warning.
And I had the sudden, terrible feeling that this wasn’t just a tournament week.
It was a trap.
