Page 59 of The Accidental Innkeeper

New York followed behind me, her pen moving and breath still a touch elevated. She’d worn herself out already and the day had barely started. She kept up anyway.

“That one always does that,” she said, nodding toward a ceiling light that hummed like an irritated insect.

“How long?”

“Since I arrived.”

I looked up. The fixture was newer than the rest. Someone had swapped it out at some point, probably to “modernize.” The wires leading into it were hidden behind a cheap plate that didn’t sit flush.

I stepped onto a small bench that had been shoved against the wall, reached up, and eased the plate down.

Inside, the wiring was a mash-up. Old cloth-wrapped line feeding into a newer run, joined with a connector that looked like it belonged in a discount bin. That kind of thing worked until it didn’t.

I snapped a picture. Then another from a different angle.

New York hovered, not quite close enough to be in the way but close enough to catch every word.

“That’s bad. Isn’t it?” she said.

“It’s lazy,” I said. “It’s survivable.”

She wrote that down too but then paused and looked up at me. “Survivable feels… like a low bar.”

“It’s an old building,” I said, sliding the plate back into place. “Old buildings live on low bars.”

She let out a breath that sounded like agreement and stress at the same time.

The sound of heels clicking somewhere behind us reached me.

“Well,” a woman’s voice said brightly, “this just improved my day.”

I turned as Lola came down the hallway toward us, her silk robe loosely tied, drink in hand like she’d dressed specifically for inspections and interruptions. Her gaze landed on me and stayed there, slow and deliberate.

“Do you do private work?” she asked. “Because I suddenly have… concerns. Upstairs.”

New York made a small choking sound.

Lola glanced at her and then back at me. “Strictly professional, of course,” she added. “Unless you’re flexible.”

“I fix buildings,” I said.

Lola smiled wider. “Shame.” She lifted her glass in a casual toast and continued past us, disappearing down the hall like she hadn’t just dropped a live grenade into the conversation.

Silence settled, and I turned back to the fixture.

New York stood still, pen paused midair, with a grin. “She’s a bit of a wild one.”

“No shit.” I stepped off the bench and moved down the hall, already onto the next problem.

We moved toward the stairwell. The exit sign above the doorway was mounted slightly crooked. The green letters glowed, but the casing had yellowed with age.

I checked the date sticker on the side and took a photo.

New York’s pen scratched. “Exit sign.”

“Battery backup matters,” I said.

She nodded quickly. “Battery backup matters.”