Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Past
The Presidential Suite was exactly as I had left it three years ago. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and dust. I laid Lily down on the plush velvet sofa, tucked a blanket around her, and stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Chicago.
I needed to clear my head, so I walked into the private study—a room Sarah and I had used to plan our future. I pulled a ledger from the desk, a habit from my early days, and noticed something odd. The bottom drawer was unlocked. I pulled it open and found a stack of maintenance logs from three years ago—the week of the accident.
My heart skipped a beat. I started reading. There were reports of a structural issue in the ventilation system in the hotel's lower levels—the same levels where Sarah had been attending a charity function the night she died. A "gas leak," the report said. Accidental.
But as I flipped the page, I saw a handwritten note in the margins, signed with initials I didn't recognize: “Sensor malfunction ignored. Repair delayed to prioritize Gala setup. Liability coverage sufficient.”
My breath hitched. They had known. My own hotel—my own profit-driven machine—had cut corners on a maintenance issue that had likely cost my wife her life. I felt the world tilt. The grief I had carried for three years wasn't just sadness; it was based on a lie. I hadn't lost my wife to fate. I had lost her to negligence.
I heard a soft rustle behind me. Lily was standing in the doorway, clutching her stuffed rabbit. She looked tired, her eyes red from crying. "Daddy? Is Mom here?"
I dropped the ledger, my hands trembling. "No, baby. Not here."
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"I smell her," Lily whispered, walking toward the window. "I smell her perfume. It’s coming from the vent."
I walked over to the vent on the wall. I leaned in and caught a faint, lingering scent of jasmine and rain—Sarah’s signature scent. It was impossible, yet there it was, drifting through the suite. My daughter was right. Something wasn't just wrong; it was haunted.
