Page 5 of Mania

I had assumed earlier that he was just a guest like me.

He nods once, tilting his head slightly to the side as he does so.

I shift on my feet, rubbing my hand over my nape beforespeaking again. “I asked the waitress earlier if there were any jobs available in town and she told me to ask for Mr. Ambrose at the reception desk. Do you know where to find him?”

His face stays impassive, a small smattering of freckles across his nose, as he continues to study me.

Unease begins to spread under my skin, and I’m about to bolt when he finally speaks. It’s slow and methodical. “Let’s have a seat.” His hand sweeps to the side, pointing to two chairs near the fireplace.

It takes me the time to sit down to realize who I’m speaking to.

“You’re Mr. Ambrose?” My voice is weak, feeling like an idiot for even asking.

“I own this hotel, yes,” he says, his gaze perusing me curiously once again.

“Oh.” My throat goes dry, unable to calm my nerves. I don’t know what I was expecting. Certainly not someone as young as him. He must be in his early thirties. Then, my mind snags on a detail. “You know my name.”

His pale brows dip.

I clamber to explain. “I just mean that you didn’t seem to know I was a guest earlier when we spoke outside.”

His expression grows more confused. “Outside?”

My chest constricts. Wariness pinpricks across my nape.

“Earlier this morning?” I press, “In the graveyard?”

His expression shutters, but he quickly looks away. He hums, tapping his ringed index finger on the armchair before finally focusing back on me.

“Night receptionist.”

“What?” I mutter, feeling slightly whiplashed.

His lips thin as if annoyed.

“You said you were looking for employment, correct?”

“Right,” I quickly answer, shifting in my seat, the leather cushion sticking to the backs of my thighs. “Yes, I am.”

A hotel staff member appears with a pitcher of sweet tea and pours us two glasses. The ice cubes rattle in liquid while Mr. Ambrose continues to fix me with his gaze.

Leave.

The voice is cold like a shiver down my spine. I can’t discern if it’s my common sense beckoning me … or something else. But there’s another voice, a whisper, just as clear.

Stay. Stay. Stay.

“Well?”

My gaze snaps back to Mr. Ambrose. My mind lags, slow and thick like trying to run through mud, until I realize he’s waiting for an answer.

“Night receptionist,” I repeat. “I can do that.”

“Great,” he says, running a hand through his pale blond hair. “When can you start?”

I quickly consider my options and decide that staying occupied might be the best course of action if I want to keep the haunting memories at bay.

“Tonight?”

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