From USA Today bestselling author Sara Ackerman comes a spellbinding dual-timeline novel set at Honolulu’s iconic Moana Hotel, where a real-life mysterious death in 1905 collides with a writer’s search for the truth one hundred years later. For fans of Ariel Lawhon and Fiona Davis.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Sara Ackerman’s The Guest in Room 120, which releases on September 23rd 2025.
1905 As the mother of a university and a woman with an iron will, Jane Stanford has made her share of enemies. After a scare at her mansion in San Francisco and on the advice of her doctor, she flees to Honolulu and the fashionable new Moana hotel. But as fate would have it, the island is not as safe as it seems.
2005 Zoe Finch is a bestselling author who desperately needs a jump start on her next novel, and she makes a split decision to attend a writers’ conference at the Moana under an assumed name. As a storm brews offshore, she begins having nightmares that feel hauntingly real. Terrified, Zoe enlists the help of mystery writer Dylan Winters and, over the course of the week, races to uncover the shocking truth of what happened in the hotel one hundred years ago almost to the day.
1905 ‘Iliahi Baldwin’s life changes the moment she lands a job at the Moana. Newly hired and reeling from a tragic loss, she strikes up an unlikely friendship with the formidable Jane Stanford upon her arrival, which leaves young ‘Ili devastated when the unthinkable happens. ‘Ili knows things, but there are powerful people who need the truth to remain hidden, and to cross them could prove disastrous.
Inspired by the incredible true story of one of America’s most mysterious deaths, this is an unforgettable tale of betrayal and secrets that still echoes through the years.
A CURIOUS INCIDENT
Jane
January 14, 1905
The January cold bit savagely into her, gnawing on her old bones like a pack of winter wolves. Jane was alone and yet not alone in the sprawling mansion on Nob Hill that more resembled a palace than a house. Fifty rooms and just one member of the Stanford family in residence. Husband and son, Leland and Leland Jr., both long gone. But still close by—always close by. When she closed her eyes, she could see that thin-lipped smile on her son’s soft face. Or those red-topped boots he loved so much he had worn them to bed more than once. And feel her husband’s warm breath skimming her neck as he whispered in her ear, My dearest Jennie—his nickname for her.
They took turns visiting her, their spirits filling her with contentment and advising her in all matters of life. Some people thought she was not of sound mind, but that was their concern, not hers.
Now, although Ah Wing and the servants were supposed to keep all the doors closed tight, Jane swore she felt an icy breeze scraping against her cheek. At precisely 8:00 p.m., she walked down the hallway, checking the windows on the second floor to be sure. She was already sick with a cold. Catching a chill in this dreadful weather would be the death of her. But she wasn’t ready yet. At only seventy-six, she still had plenty of work to do in the world.
The university needed her, and there was no one else who could run it like she could. No one who could protect it like she could. The Farm needed her—Farm being the affectionate nickname of the university, though quite honestly Jane was not a big fan of the term. Everyone wanted a piece of the Farm, it seemed—some to line their pockets, others for the heady power that came with a tenured position, and others for their own personal glory. But these men—yes, they were all men—had lost sight of Jane and Leland’s original mission: forming an institution to meet the challenges of a new world, and turning out useful men and women who would positively influence humanity.
Jane was the voice of the place. The voice of her late husband now too. Voice of God, even. And that didn’t sit well with some. Starting a school had been her husband’s idea—to honor their departed son. In the beginning, Jane had gone along with it as a dutiful wife, as she’d done with his mercantile business, his stint as governor of California, and his role as head of the Central Pacific Railroad Company. But this time felt different, as though a new life’s mission was unfolding. She could still remember standing under an oak tree with Harvard’s president as he offhandedly mentioned they would likely need five million dollars to start, and it was probably a better idea to support established schools. She and Leland exchanged a look, and Leland told him, Not a problem, we’ll manage.
That was the moment Jane realized the project had gotten under her skin. For the first time, she and Leland were on equal footing, building a university from the ground up, on dusty farmlands in Palo Alto. The thought titillated her now as it had then. Because the sad truth was, even when Leland Jr. had been around, Jane’s life had lacked any purpose. She’d been fat and bored and pathetic, and then with the school, she became a woman on a mission. A brighter version of herself.
The door to the sewing room adjacent her opened, and her maid, Eliza, stuck her head out. “Is everything all right, Mrs. Stanford?”
“It’s colder than the Arctic in here, and I was just checking the window at the end of the hall.”
There was an echo in her own head, as though she had placed cotton balls in her ears.
“I wish you had asked me. I could have done it.”
“It’s fine. Nothing was amiss.”
Eliza pulled her robe tight around her neck. “Shall I bring you more blankets? A cup of hot tea?”
Lately, Jane had been spending most of her time in Palo Alto, closer to the university, in the less damp air. “Perhaps I just forgot how chilly it is here this time of year. I’ll be fine. Good night, Eliza.”
Eliza nodded. “Good night, Mrs. Stanford.”
Back in her room, she washed up and then poured herself a glass from the Poland Spring water bottle that had been uncorked and placed by her bed, as it was every evening. Her doctor swore by it as a cure for everything from dyspepsia to foul humors to peculiar fancies of the mind. And with all the undue pressures of late with the university, she was happy to try whatever means to keep herself sane and healthy. Her aging body, while kept strong from walking, had grown more prone to catching colds and other ailments.
A few gulps in, she noticed a bitter taste. The inside of her mouth began to burn, and the water came flying back up. She spit it out onto the carpet. Something was gravely amiss.
Without another thought, she stuck her finger to the back of her throat and forced herself to vomit up more of the fluid she had just imbibed. She ran to the bathroom and flushed out her mouth with tap water, spitting and gagging.
“Eliza!” she called, the stirrings of panic flapping in her chest.
A moment later, Eliza rushed in. “What is it?”
“There’s something wrong with my water,” Jane said.
Eliza looked down at the sink.
“Not that water, my Poland Spring. It’s overly bitter and tastes off. Go tell Thelma at once and bring her here. She’ll know what to do.”
While she waited, Jane half stumbled back to her bedside table, opened the green bottle and sniffed. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but there was no noticeable odor to the water. Her mind ran down the possibilities. Could this be a tainted batch? Had something happened to it along the way from the factory in Maine? Or could someone have added something? The last thought cast a cold shadow on her heart.
A few minutes later, Thelma rushed in barefoot, thick hair down and wearing a rather flimsy nightgown. The outline of her ample breasts was unmistakable. These periodic lapses in judgment confounded Jane. There were men in the house, and it was not proper.
Eliza called in as she passed. “I’ll fetch some hot water.”
“Tell me at once what has happened, Mrs. Stanford!” Thelma said.
“Taste the water and tell me if I’m wrong, but there is something foul about it. Just a drop worth, though.”
Thelma dabbed some onto her finger and touched it to her tongue. Jane watched her face pucker up. “You are not wrong. Something is definitely queer with it. How much did you drink?”
Jane nodded to the half-empty glass. “A good deal, but I made myself vomit.” Her neck began to heat up, and her eyes burned. Not uncommon when hysteria began to knock its way around her insides. But now she began to really fret. “Do you think someone has tampered with my water?”
Thelma grabbed hold of her wrist. “Doubtful, but just in case, we should try for another round of vomiting.”
Jane didn’t budge. “I have nothing left to spit up.” Every last drop of bile had already made its way out.
“We’ll wait for Eliza with the hot water, then.”
When Eliza returned, Jane gulped down the large cupful of warm water, and the three of them went into the bathroom as a team. Thelma held Jane’s hair as Jane leaned over the sink and unceremoniously stuck her finger down her throat yet again. Only a tiny bit of thin, clear fluid came up.
Jane stood, trembling and lightheaded, though it was hard to tell if whatever was in that bottle had gotten into her system.
“Get the bottle and hold it up to the light.”
Thelma did as instructed. Under the glow of the washstand light, there appeared to be particles suspended in the water.
“Would you look at that,” Eliza said.
Jane coughed. “What do you mean?”
Her eyes were not what they used to be.
“There’s not just water in there.”
Thelma shrugged. “Perhaps the glass was not cleaned?”
“The glass was clean,” Jane said.
“Could it be salt?” Eliza asked.
Jane smacked her mouth, then took in some more tap water and spit it out. “Dear, I know what salt tastes like.”
That something untoward was going on nudged at her, burrowing into her skin and causing even more unease than she already felt.
“Perhaps the spring water was tainted,” Eliza said.
“We should get this bottle to Wakelee’s. Have them check it,” Jane said.
“For what?” Thelma asked, her hand shaking slightly, causing the particles to look like a flurry of snow.
“Quinine, perhaps?” Jane said. It was all she could imagine, and readily available in the medicine cabinet.
There was a moment of silence. Then Eliza nodded. “I’ll go first thing in the morning.”
That would simply not do. “Not in the morning. Now, dear.”
Excerpted from THE GUEST IN ROOM 120 by Sara Ackerman. Copyright © 2025 by Sara Ackerman. Published by MIRA, an imprint of HarperCollins.
