The Last Room on the Left

The caretaker at an isolated mountain hotel finds herself fighting for her life--and sanity--in this "twisty, addictive, feminist take on Kerry’s life is in shambles: Her husband has left her, her drinking habit has officially become a problem, and though the deadline for her big book deal--the one that was supposed to change everything--is looming, she can’t write a word. When she sees an ad for a caretaker position at a;revitalized roadside motel in the Catskills, she jumps at the chance. It''s the perfect getaway to finish her book and start fresh.; But as she hunkers down in a blizzard, she spots something through the window: a pale arm peeking out from a heap of snow. Trapped in the mountains and alone with a dead, frozen body, Kerry must keep her head and make it out before the killer comes for her too. But is the deadly game of cat-and-mouse all in her mind? The body count begs to differ . . .

Autorentext

Leah Konen is the author of Keep Your Friends Close, You Should Have Told Me, The Perfect Escape, All the Broken People, and several young adult novels, including Love and Other Train Wrecks and The Romantics. Her books have been featured in Vogue, Rolling Stone, Marie Claire, Reader’s Digest and The New York Post, among others. She lives in Brooklyn and Saugerties, New York, with her husband; their daughters, Eleanor and Mary Joyce; and their dog, Farley.

Leseprobe

1. February 1, 2023

   4:43 p.m.

   It hit me hard as the motel came into view through snowflakes thick and white: This was my last chance.

   Carefully, I pulled off the highway and into a gravel parking lot mostly coated in snow, completely empty, not a car in sight. I turned at the front office, following the line of rooms until I found the last one on the left, then put the car into park and leaned forward, taking in the motel through my windshield, wipers going double time, the sun already setting, sky quickly losing light.

   The place was a retro-modern Instagram dream. I'd seen plenty of photos, of course, had trolled through the Twilite Motel's carefully curated grid, dreaming of cozy, tucked-away spaces that would revive my floundering writing practice, but even those hadn't done it justice. Atop a snow-covered roof was a bold red sign, lined with neon lights, that proudly proclaimed MOTEL in letters that had to be several feet tall. The place was painted pink, with baby blue doors and yellow chairs stacked in the corner of each patio-a color scheme that would have had Siobhan, much more visually minded than me, salivating. Pretty, most definitely, but for me, the lure was the history-the stories that had to be contained within, inspiration practically bursting through the seams. I dutifully pulled out my phone and took a quick snap through the snow-dusted windshield, knowing I couldn't upload anything without service but imagining the future social media post already: This is where I finished the book that changed my life.

   The owner, Maisy, a self-styled "patron of the arts," was far from a trailblazer. Lots of revitalized motels had been popping up in recent years, luring not budget travelers on road trips but people with Tribeca lofts and cash to burn. My husband, Frank, and I kept noticing them, after reading an article in The New York Times about places just like this. Roadside motels that had gained new life for the Instagram set. Throwbacks updated with modern conveniences. Sixties stopovers meet Sub-Zero appliances.

   I shut off the car, then checked the backpack next to me for all my supplies. The sandwich I'd grabbed on my way out of the city, plus nuts, chocolate, granola bars and the full guide to caring for the Twilite Motel, all fifty pages of it printed and bound and sent to me by Maisy, since she didn't pay for Wi-Fi in the winter months and cell data was spotty at best. Maisy had even warned me that most mobile hot spots didn't work well, had mentioned the "lack of digital amenities" three times before I'd signed the contract for the month. Little did she know, the absence of internet was among this job's largest selling points. It prevented me from obsessively poring over everyone else's feeds, watching as both babies and books were birthed into the world. From googling things like "fertility at 39," "divorce lawyer cost," and "can a publisher force you to declare bankruptcy?" From sharing carefully staged updates on my writing process (MacBook open in front of a window; sharpened pencils against fresh notebooks), knowing full well I wasn't getting any writing done at all.

   A gust of wind smacked me across the face as I got out of the car, reminding me what I'd signed myself up for. It was no wonder the place shut down in January and February. Who in their right mind would want to come here in the deep of winter, with the more touristy Catskills towns forty-five minutes northwest and the ski resorts even farther still?

   And yet for me, it was perfect, my own little Overlook Hotel, where I could finish my book (minus the ghosts, psychotic break, and homicide, of course). And unlike Jack Torrance, I didn't even have a family to terrorize and I wasn't going to be drinking a single drop. All work and no play was finally going to make Kerry a truly successful girl.

   See, where Jack had gone wrong was bringing the people he loved with him. I, on the other hand, had solved that problem. Frank, my other half for the past ten years, had gone to his brother Danny's in Jersey for Christmas and not returned, sending Danny and his girlfriend over to pick up his things. And my best friend, Siobhan? Well, I hadn't spoken to her in two months. She was blocked, in fact, on all social media. Couldn't even get in touch with me if she wanted to.

   I was alone now, completely so, and that meant things had to change. No more missed deadlines. No more excuses. No more booze.

   Because if I didn't have something to show my publisher by the end of the month, my agent had warned me that the whole project could be cancelled-and even worse, the publisher could demand repayment of the money I'd already received. Money that had long ago been spent. Fruitlessly, of course, but spent nonetheless.

   I walked up to Room Thirteen, where Maisy had told me to stay. Her instructions had said that the prior caretaker would leave a large ring of keys in a flowerpot beneath the room's window. I quickly spotted a substantial clay receptacle, filled up with large rocks, and knelt to retrieve the keys.

   I pulled out one rock and then another, but the bottom of the pot was empty. Fingers freezing, I stood, wondering if there'd been some miscommunication, if the keys had been left in the room instead.

   The doorknob turned easily, and relief flooded my veins. I pushed open the door to the sound of jangling and quickly stepped inside, out of the biting wind, the bitter cold.

   I looked down. The noise had been from the ring of keys, left, inexplicably, right behind the door. I grabbed them, stood up, and it hit me fully then: Everything was wrong.

   The kitchen stood out the most. The countertop was littered with paraphernalia, like someone had had a full-on rager. I stepped forward, the smell of wine and whiskey hitting me from a collection of mismatched, half-drunk glasses, crusted with lipstick and dregs from the drinks, bottles, some more than half full, open beside them, empty ones standing proud like the rocks of Stonehenge.

   I felt it instantly, that tickle of desire, of anticipation, my mouth nearly watering, just looking at it all laid out. How easy it would be to grab a fresh glass, pour a drink, take some of the edge off, from the storm, from the drive. From the fact that things weren't starting out at all the way I'd planned. Then my eyes caught the rest of it: the glass pipe, the burned remnants of weed on the counter, the half-empty pack of Parliament cigare…