An unfortunate accident has sent Grace Reeves spiraling out of control. Having lost her voice, as well as her closest friends. , she returns home to recuperate. But as time passes, Grace's family grows concerned with the severity of her depression...
We arrive in Lancaster long after dark. The Lapp Inn is located in a secluded Amish community on the western side of town. A recent snowfall is evident in the weight it bears on the trees, as well as the white puffs lining the roads. The skies are clear, the moon a bright sliver that reflects off the ground. The village is quiet at this hour, and the inn is easy to find.
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At the edge of a small forest, a series of cabins circles the back of a modest home. We park in a lot outlined with felled birch logs, then exit the truck. Payton slings our bags over his shoulder, and we trudge through the fluffy snow. The wooden porch creaks beneath our feet. Payton holds the door open, and I pass beneath his arm. I enter the home, noticing the entry hall has been refurbished to function as a concierge.
The furniture is old, and the style is simplistic. A wool cloak and felt hat claim the coat rack in a corner. Worn boots are propped beneath the window. A counter splits the room, and an older woman sits behind it, her hair tied into a neat bun. She wears a long-sleeved dress, an apron, and a pleasant expression.
"Welcome to the Lapp Inn. I'm Mrs. Lapp," she announces, rising from her chair. "You must be Stephanie's niece. Danielle, right? And your husband, Liron?"
My aunt must've placed the reservation under our middle names just in case. This is a sheltered community. The citizens won't find things like televised sports or rock music necessary to their livelihood or faith. We're not likely to be recognized by face, but perhaps our names would tip someone off.
"Thanks for waiting up," Payton says. "I know this was last minute."
"We have five cabins, and four of them are vacant," Mrs. Lapp says, getting straight to the point. Maybe the oil in the lamps is running low. "You're welcome to choose, although I recommend the one by the pond. The water is frozen, but it's a lovely view."
"Sounds great," Payton replies.
The woman sets a brass key on the counter, with a tag attached indicating we've been assigned cabin number five. Payton slips the key into his jacket pocket, adjusting his grip on our bags.
"This is the main residence," she explains. "We're technically closed for the night, but we'll open again at sunrise. A breakfast buffet will be served in the dining hall, and you're welcome to enjoy the sitting room. We also rent ice skates if you'd like to go on the pond."
I glance to my left, spotting a room with several circular tables. To my right is the sitting area, equipped with a bookcase, armchairs, and an old spinet piano made of maple wood. I stare at the instrument, my pulse thrumming. I haven't touched a piano since that day on Copacabana Beach. The baby grand in our living room at home mocked me with its silence until, finally, I took a crowbar to it.
