"Let me think. It's such a long time ago. Samantha Young, Samantha Young." Mrs. Milton squinted at Samantha as if searching for a resemblance. "Yes, I remember her. She didn't stay here long. She paid in advance for a week, but she disappeared after a few days. Beatrice-one of our maids-complained of an awful mess left in her room. Poor Beatrice cut her hand on a broken liquor bottle and had to get five stitches. Am I to assume your mother abandoned you at a young age?"

"Yes. Did she leave an address when she checked in?"

"I'm afraid any such records are confidential unless you're working for the police." Before Samantha could protest, Mrs. Milton raised her hand. "In this case, you needn't worry. Your mother didn't leave us with any real information. The address on file is for a pizza parlor in Bangor. I suspect her real name is not Samantha Young, is it?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Young lady, I've been in this business for nigh on sixty years. I've seen more than my share like your mother."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, dear girl, the type of woman on the run from something in her past."

"You mean like a criminal?"

"Perhaps. In any case, I wish I could be more helpful to you. If you don't mind, all this activity has me feeling a bit worn. Let me show you out."

Samantha left her half-filled teacup on the table, following Mrs. Milton to the front door in stunned silence. She put on her jacket and then heard the door close behind her. With it ended any chance to answer the questions haunting her.




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