When I get to my house, I unlock the door and quickly shut it behind me. I breathe a sigh of relief. At least for tonight, I am safe. I walk over to my sideboard and pour myself a glass of brandy to start my nightly ritual. Each night, before I go to sleep, I pour myself a glass of brandy to sip on while I make myself dinner. Afterward, I develop my photos in my dark room.

  My daughter keeps trying to buy me one of those new digital cameras, but I won’t let her. One of my favorite parts about taking photos is developing them. I love watching them come to life on the paper. First, the image will be just shadows and then the shadows turn into fuzzy shapes until finally, the entire thing is crystal clear.

  I grab a plate of leftovers from the fridge. My daughter made me take home nearly everything that was left after our meal the other night. I’ll be eating this food for days. She’s always so worried about my eating habits and whenever she gets a chance, she sends me home with meals I don’t even have to prepare to eat.

  I pop the leftovers in the microwave to warm up while I’m setting up my dark room. When the timer on the microwave dings, I grab the plate and bring it with me, knowing that I’m going to barely touch it. I get so distracted by my work that I sometimes even forget to eat. Joy gets on my case often, especially when she sees me losing a little bit too much weight. When she starts to make comments about how she can see my collarbone and she’s worried about me, I make a concerted effort to eat every day for several weeks. Usually, I’m fairly successful at putting the weight back on. But, once I do, I revert to my old habits and over time, start to shrink again. It’s a vicious cycle.

  I slowly begin the process of developing the photos, immersing myself in the chemicals and film. I’ve grown to love the abrasive smell of the developing solution; it smells like home in this room. Sometimes, it’s the only time that I don’t think about my wife and the love she used to bring to this house. I miss the home-cooked meals and the hugs she would give me as I walked in the door. But when I’m in this room, I sometimes feel as though nothing has changed.

  I start to hang the photos to dry and watch as they come to life. In the photos are people dancing, laughing, loving life. I envy them; I’ve never been that carefree in my entire life. I pull the next set of photos out of the solution and hang them on the line to dry. These are the ones that I took in the dark. Most of them show basically nothing and I will end up tossing them in the trash once they dry. However, there are a few that catch my eye.

  In one photo, a little girl is standing in the window, staring out into the dark. Her room is illuminated only by a dim nightlight and she seems to be by herself, looking forlornly out the window. I connect with her on a deep level. I understand what it feels like to watch others from the outside, but never becoming part of the action. That’s often how I feel. I’ve always wanted to be a part of the group, but no one’s ever really understood me. Except for my wife and my daughter, I guess. If it weren’t for them, I would have been alone my entire life, living vicariously through my photos. I guess that’s exactly what I do now that my wife is gone.

  Another photo catches my eye in the dark. It’s a photo of the suite that the woman, Chloe, occupies. I shudder as I remember the look on her face when she saw me in there earlier today. I rarely see someone as mad at me as she was. Most of the time, the guests barely even notice my existence, let alone send so much hatred in my direction. As I watch the photo come into focus, I notice a strange shadow forming in the porch light. It looks like the person is bending over near the front porch. I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman; really, I can’t tell anything about the person at all.

  Chloe mentioned that someone has been leaving unwanted gifts in her room. She accused me of being the culprit and no amount of logic would convince her otherwise. Maybe this photo is solid evidence that it wasn’t me. If the shadow person is leaving a gift on her porch, then it’s proof that I’m not the one who broke into her house and left her a gift. I squint my eyes to try and make sense of what the shadow person is doing. After several minutes of staring at the image, I’m convinced that they have a small box in their hand that they are bending down to place on the porch.

  I quickly take the photograph down and bring it to my kitchen table. I want to show it to Chloe, to prove that it’s not me leaving the gifts. However, I’m not convinced that bringing the photo to her is wise. What if it just makes her more suspicious of me? I don’t know if I can risk that, especially after possibly being seen tonight outside the luau.

  Not to mention the fact that she was so rude to me when she found me in her room. I know I seem like a gruff and strong person on the outside, but inside, I have always been weak. People hurt me much more than I let on. I’m not sure I can face her again.

  I return to the darkroom and shut off the light, vowing to store the rest of the photos in the morning. Tonight, I need to go to sleep. I walk past the kitchen table again and look at the photo, not certain what I should do. I hope that a good night’s sleep helps me process my options and that I will have clarity when I wake up in the morning.

  21

  JAKE

  As I walk back to the resort, my mind reels from the memory I just had about being at this resort as a kid. How could I have been here before and forgotten about it this entire time? It makes no sense. Maybe if I walk around the rest of the resort, more memories will resurface. Whoever is sending me these gifts must have known me as a kid. If I can remember more about that time, maybe I can figure out who is sending the gifts.

  I start with the main restaurant, where the luau is held. I didn’t remember anything when I was there at night, but I’m hoping that something will look more familiar during the day. As I approach, I notice the tables outside are filled with customers. A live band plays music on the stage. I stand at the edge of the restaurant for several minutes, hoping that something will trigger a memory, but nothing happens. I simply don’t remember being here.

  I spend the next hour walking around the resort without any luck. Maybe what I remembered about the dolphins happened somewhere else and not here. But that still doesn’t explain the gifts. Why am I getting them? They definitely come from someone who knows a lot about me and has known me since I was a kid. I have to have been here before and was just too young to remember much.

  I walk behind one of the buildings and spot a playground in the distance. As soon as I see it, a pit forms in my stomach. I don’t have a clearly formed memory, but I know I’ve seen that playground before, a long time ago. As I walk toward it, the details of it come into view. I can tell it’s old. There are tall metal slides, black rubber swings and one of those old ‘death trap’ merry-go-rounds also made of metal. I’m surprised that they haven’t removed this from the resort property. It looks like an accident waiting to happen.

  The grass around the playground equipment is overgrown. It’s clear that no one uses this anymore.

  When I am about ten feet away, a memory resurfaces and hits me hard. I remember walking with my dad, holding his hand, passing this playground.

  “Daddy, please, can I go play on the playground?” I ask.

  My dad looks at me, annoyed, as if I am just a nuisance to him.

  “I’m sorry, son. I wish that we could do more fun things, but I have work to do. You’re going to be staying with a babysitter today so I can get some stuff done. And I promise, tonight we will go to your favorite restaurant here. We will have a good time,” my father says.

  My shoulders slump as I nod and look away from the playground. We walk towards the middle of the resort to a small building off to the side. My dad knocks on the door and a brunette woman answers. She has kind eyes and a bright smile.

  “Hello, Ruben. Good to see you again,” she says to my dad.

  I look up at her, nervous.

  “And you must be Jake,” she says to me.

  I nod, looking at the floor.

  “Jake, this is Miss Smith. She’s going to be watching you today. You be good, okay?” my dad instructs.

  I look at my dad and just nod. I want him to be proud of me. He pats me on the shoulder and then turns to Miss Smith.

  “Thanks so much for this, again. I really appreciate it,” he says.

  “No problem. We’ll be right here when you’re done,” she replies.

  I watch as my dad walks away. Then Miss Smith opens the door wider and says to me, “Come on in, Jake.”

  I walk in and see the same little girl with me when I swam with the dolphins and another little boy.

  “Jake, this is Chloe and Tom. We’re going to have so much fun today, I promise,” she says kindly.

  The memory hits me like a ton of bricks. My dad has always been a workaholic. There were times when I felt like he cared about me, times when he intentionally set aside his work to spend time with me. But they were few and far between.

  As I got older and became a teenager, instead of finding someone to watch me, he just left me alone, sometimes for days at a time. I remember being sixteen years old and my dad going on business trips for four or five days at a time. I was responsible for literally everything. He didn’t even leave food in the fridge for me sometimes. He usually left me a credit card, which I used to order take-out and fill my car’s tank with gas.

  By that time, I had given up hope that he would become a different person. I had just accepted that my dad gave me what he could and it just wasn’t very much.

  Suddenly, another memory from our time here at the resort rushes to me. My dad came to pick me up from Miss Smith’s. Instead of paying attention to me, my dad paid more attention to Miss Smith; they were talking and laughing with each other. I felt invisible. It hurt me to know that he cared less about me and more about this strange woman that I had just spent the day with. All I wanted to do was get away from the situation. I grabbed my stuff and took off running across the grass and I could hear my dad yelling at me from behind.

  “Jake! Stop! Where are you going?” The anger in his voice just made me run faster. I could hear his footsteps behind me, pounding. Suddenly, he grabbed my arm and yanked me back. “What the hell are you doing, Jake?” He says to me. His face is beet-red and filled with rage.

  Tears streamed down my face as I looked up at him. I couldn’t explain to him why I was running. “You wouldn’t understand,” I said quietly. He never understood.

  “You could have gotten lost; you could have gotten hurt. What’s wrong with you, boy?” He said to me.

  I stared at him in fear. My dad had never hurt me before, but at that moment, I was not sure what he was going to do.

  “Don’t you ever do that again,” he says after staring at me for several seconds.

  He let go of me and I sat down in the grass, putting my head in my hands.

  Even now, as a grown adult, I am shaken by the memory of my dad screaming at me. As inattentive as he was as a parent, he rarely yelled at me. I realize that I must have blocked this memory out because of the trauma it clearly caused me.

  I stand up and make my way back to my hotel room, overwhelmed by the emotions of these memories that keep flooding in. As I approach my door, I see a bright red box with a white bow sitting on the floor in front of it. My heart sinks.

  I quickly grab the box and bring it inside. I don’t even know if I want to open this one. All I want to do is talk to Stacia.

  I grab my computer and open the video conferencing app, then dial her number. The phone rings and rings and rings. She doesn’t answer. I look at my watch and realize it’s the middle of the night for her. She’s probably asleep.

  I close the computer and sit on the floor, staring at the box. I wonder what’s inside this time.

  Curiosity finally gets the best of me and I pull the ribbon, then take off the lid of the box. When I see the contents of the box, I gasp. After several seconds of shock, I reach inside the box and pull out the object. Fear grips my chest. I know exactly what this is.

  22

  JERRY

  The sun peeks through my window, hitting my eyelids. I’ve never needed an alarm clock. I’ve always naturally risen with the sun every day, even on nights when I’m out till the early morning hours. I can’t sleep in the daylight. Most days, I can’t even nap very easily when the sun is in the sky.

  My joints are stiff and achy as I swing my legs off the bed. I groan as I stand; the first few steps of the morning are the hardest. My bones creak as they get used to walking again.

  I make my way into the kitchen and put several scoops of coffee in my French press then fill it with water. I open my fridge and grab the rest of the leftovers Joy had given me the other day. Other than the leftovers, my fridge is empty. I eat most of my meals at the resort. One of the perks of working there is the free food.

  I warm up the food and sit down at the table, a cup of coffee in hand. I notice the photograph lying where I left it the night before. I feel conflicted all over again.

  I know that I should just leave it alone, but I’m terrified that this woman is going to blame me for these gifts being left at her door. I’m already on thin ice with Mary; I can’t chance another person complaining about me.

  By the time I’m done with my breakfast, I know what I have to do. I grab the photograph along with my work gear and head out the door.

  It’s still early in the morning; my shift starts in about an hour. I walk towards the woman’s room, fear gripping my chest. I just hope she believes me. I knock on the door. There’s no answer at first. I look at my watch; it’s six a.m. Hopefully, it’s not too early. I’m about to give up and walk away when the door slowly opens.

  Chloe is standing there, her hair is a disaster and her eyes are bloodshot. She looks at me, confused.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. I should have come later in the day, but I wanted to make sure to come by before my shift started.”

  “What do you want?” She asks nervously. I can tell she’s scared of me.

  “I wanted to give you this picture,” I say, handing it to her. “I took it last night. This is your hotel room,” I say, pointing to the room in the picture.

  She looks at it and her eyes widen. “What is this? When was this taken?” She asks.

  “I take pictures around the resort as a hobby. I was taking pictures last night and happened to take one of your room. When I developed them, I noticed there was someone placing something on your front door. Look, right there,” I say, pointing to the shadow.

  She looks at the picture again and then looks at me.

  “Why were you taking pictures of my hotel room?” She asks suspiciously.

  “It wasn’t just your hotel room. I just take pictures of everything.”

  “But that’s weird,” she says. “Aren’t you the guy that I walked in on the other day in my room without permission?”

  I take a step back, realizing I’ve made a mistake.

  “This photograph doesn’t show anything other than there was somebody walking by my door, but it’s weird to me that you were there, taking pictures of my door.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I should not have come,” I say, backing away.

  “What’s your name?” She says.

  I shake my head, unwilling to give it to her. I turn around and walk in the other direction.

  “Hey, come back here!” she yells. The door is now wide open. I glance over my shoulder and see her standing there in her pajamas. I can tell she’s trying to decide if she should come after me. I pick up my pace and walk faster.

  “This was not how this was supposed to go,” I mumble to myself. I can only hope and pray that she decides to drop it.

  23

  CHLOE

  As I watch the maintenance man walk away, I’m torn. Should I run after him or just let it go? I glance at the picture in my hands again. It clearly shows someone near my room, but I can’t tell if they are dropping something off or simply walking by. The figure is too dark to identify.

  I need to show the photo to Tawni. I close the door, making sure the deadbolt is secured. Whoever is sending these photos might have a key card to get in and I’m not taking any chances.

  I walk back to Tawni’s room only to find her sound asleep. This can’t wait. I flick on the light. She groans and rolls over.

  “Chloe, what are you doing?” She asks groggily.

  “I need you to wake up. This is important. Remember the maintenance man I found in our room?” I reply.

  “Uh-huh,” she mumbles.

  “He just brought me this picture.”

  “What? He brought you a picture?” She says, becoming more alert.

  “Look,” I say as I lay the photo down in front of her.

  She rubs her eyes and sits up slowly to look at the picture.

  “What is this?” She asks.

  “It’s a photo he took of somebody outside our hotel room,” I explain.

  She looks at the photo and then back at me, confused. “What does this show? I don’t get it.”

  “Look,” I say, pointing towards the shadowy figure. “It shows somebody dropping off a gift. Whoever this is, they’re the ones leaving the presents,” I insist.

  She examines the photograph again and then meets my eyes. “I don’t know, Chloe. This is just a photo of somebody walking in front of our hotel room.”

  “I know, but why were they in front of our room?” I press.

  “I don’t know. Can’t this wait until morning?” She begs. “It doesn’t seem that urgent.”

  “Okay, we can talk about it tomorrow,” I concede, knowing she’s probably right.

  She sees the disappointment on my face. “Look, we’ll stop by the main office in the morning and ask about this photo, see if anyone recognizes the person,” she suggests.

  Not completely convinced, I agree. “Okay, fine. But promise me we’ll do it first thing.”