Chapter 4 The Seaview Inn

The highway ended in salt.

By the time I reached Myrtle Beach, the sun was high and cruel, reflecting off the hood of my car like a mirror. The town sprawled in both directions - neon signs, chain restaurants, souvenir shops hawking seashells and airbrushed T-shirts.

But past the noise, tucked along a quieter stretch of sand, was what I had come for.

The Seaview Inn.

The teal paint on the sign was just as chipped as the Polaroid. The boardwalk leaned in the same weary slump. And as I pulled into the gravel lot, a strange nausea crawled through me.

Because it was exactly as I remembered.

And yet, I had no memory of ever being here.

The building looked tired, its wooden beams warped by decades of salt air. A flag snapped in the wind above the roof. The lobby doors were propped open, welcoming, though the welcome felt... forced.

I parked, slung the backpack with the Polaroids over my shoulder, and forced myself inside.

The air smelled of chlorine and sunscreen, faintly sour, as if it had clung to the walls for years. Behind the desk sat a woman with gray hair and glasses perched on her nose. She glanced up, smile automatic.

"Checking in?"

Her voice was warm, but her eyes flickered - just for a second - with something sharper. Recognition.

I froze. "Uh... yeah. Just for a couple nights."

She clicked at her keyboard. "Name?"

I hesitated. "Lena."

Her fingers stilled, and when she looked up again, the smile had vanished. "Of course. Room 17. Second floor, end of the hall."

My stomach lurched. I hadn't told her my last name. I hadn't even given her an ID.

Still, she slid the key across the counter as if the room had already been waiting.

I took it with trembling fingers. "Thanks."

The hallway smelled of carpet cleaner and ocean brine. My footsteps thudded against the warped floorboards, echoing longer than they should have. At the far end, the door to Room 17 waited, the brass number dulled by years of fingers brushing against it.

The key turned too smoothly, like it had been oiled in anticipation.

Inside, the room was nothing special - beige walls, floral bedspread, a nightstand with a lamp that flickered when I touched it. But it wasn't the room that made my chest seize.

It was the picture on the wall.

A framed photograph of the beach.

The same one from the Polaroid.

I staggered closer. In the frame, my younger self laughed in the sunlight, head thrown back, hair tangled by the wind. Beside me, holding a beer, was my ex.

The glass was cool under my hand. Too real.

Someone had hung my memory on the wall.

I tore it down. The nail screeched against the plaster as I dropped the frame onto the bedspread. The glass cracked but didn't shatter.

This wasn't just surveillance. It wasn't just someone watching. It was curated. Arranged. Like a museum of a life I couldn't remember living.

The air in the room thickened. I backed toward the door - and stopped.

A Polaroid lay on the nightstand.

Not taped. Not hidden. Just sitting there, waiting.

My fingers shook as I picked it up.

The image was of me, standing exactly where I stood now, holding a Polaroid in my hand.

The date on the back: Today.

My knees weakened. I sat on the edge of the bed, photo trembling in my hands. Whoever was doing this, they weren't just nearby. They were here. In the building. Watching me right now.

The floor creaked outside the door.

I snapped my head up, heart thundering.

Another creak, closer.

I shoved the photo into my pocket and killed the lamp. The room plunged into shadow. I pressed myself against the wall, holding my breath.

The doorknob turned.

Slowly. Deliberately.

The door opened just an inch before halting, as if whoever was there wanted me to know they could come in whenever they wanted. Then, just as slowly, it clicked shut again.

I didn't move for a long time. My lungs screamed for air, but I didn't dare exhale.

When I finally did, my hands were shaking so violently I nearly dropped the backpack.

I had to leave. Now.

I grabbed the Polaroids, shoved them inside, and bolted out of the room. The hallway stretched too long, every flickering light a spotlight on my panic. My footsteps pounded like gunshots.

At the lobby, the woman behind the desk lifted her head. Her smile had returned, but her eyes were flat.

"Everything all right, Ms. Hart?"

Hart. My last name. She shouldn't have known it.

I froze. "How do you-"

She tilted her head. "Room service is included, of course. Breakfast at seven. We'll see you then."

Her words were polite, but her tone made it sound like an order.

I stumbled into the sunlight, gasping as if I'd been underwater. My car was still in the lot. I fumbled with the keys, my hands slick with sweat.

But before I could unlock the door, I saw it.

Another Polaroid, tucked under the windshield wiper.

I pulled it free with numb fingers.

It showed me - not here, not now, but at the front desk, leaning over the counter, speaking to the gray-haired woman.

The date on the back: Tomorrow.

I stood frozen in the parking lot, sun beating down, salt air burning my throat.

They didn't just know where I was.

They knew where I would be.

And maybe, no matter how far I ran, I was already there.