A cold June night in 1927 on a two-lane highway outside Elkhorn, Nebraska. I was chasing a rumor about a singer who vanished from a roadside motel, but what I found in the manager's ledger wasn't her name. It was a room key that had been checked out a hundred times to guests who never turned it in. The owner swore the key was never lost, just kept coming back. He showed me the drawer where he kept the duplicates, all stamped with the same number: 7. Room seven. I asked to see the room. He looked at me like I was the one who'd been sleeping with the lights on for thirty years. This is what I learned about room seven at the Pines Motor Lodge, and about the woman who still keeps the key.

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