The pool will give you wishes.

My head pounded. The pain behind my left eye was so bad that I felt tears streaming down.

Air. I needed air, but the kitchen door was still sealed shut. I left the kitchen, went down the hall and through the front door. The sun was blindingly bright. I shut my eyes.

When I opened them, I was on my knees beside the pool.

What was I doing here? I tried to remember coming through the gate, walking up to the edge, but my head hurt too badly. Between the headache and the tequila, my thoughts were running together, blurred and distorted like a chalk drawing in the rain.

The pool will give you wishes.

And what would I wish for, if I believed in such things? What did I want most in the world?

I looked at my wavering reflection in the dark pool, imagined my sister under the water, holding her breath.

I touched the water, putting a hand through my own reflection.

“I want her back,” I whispered to the water. “Please. I just want Lexie back.”

I thought, for half a second, that there was a second reflection there, along with mine; one overlapping the other. I held my breath, leaned closer. Almost said her name out loud.

Lexie?

Yes, Jax. I’m right here.

“You’re not thinking of going for a swim, are you?”

I jumped. Ryan was behind me.

“Because that’s what’s going to happen if you get any closer.” He eyed the water warily, like an old enemy he hadn’t seen in a while. He reached out his hand to me, and I took it in mine, standing up, staggering a little. “What do you say to going for a little walk?” he asked.

His hand still in mine, we walked out the gate and turned toward the garden. It was even more breathtaking than I remembered. The path leading into it was lined with yellow and orange daylilies tucked behind an edge of perfectly symmetrical fist-sized white rocks. Moon rocks, Lexie had called them when we were kids. The garden itself was laid out in concentric circles, with paths and a small gazebo at the center walled with rose trellises. Lexie always said the shape of the garden reminded her of a spiderweb. The garden was overgrown: The roses needed pruning and deadheading; weeds grew up along the edges of the path and in the flower beds. The green leaves and flowers were full of bug holes. But in spite of the neglect, the garden seemed to be flourishing. I remembered, as we walked, the afternoons Lexie and I spent out in the garden with our grandmother, how she’d rattle off the names of each rose: Aurora, Snow Queen, Maiden’s Blush. “Most of these roses,” she’d say, “are older than I am. They were planted back when the hotel first opened.” And it seemed so strange and fascinating to me then, as a girl: rosebushes older than Gram, older than Sparrow Crest.

Ryan headed for the gazebo, and we sat down on benches opposite each other, the way we had when we were kids. The air was cool and sweet. I wanted to hide out there for the rest of the afternoon.

“How are you holding up?” Ryan asked, his face full of concern.

“It’s surreal. I can’t believe she’s gone. And today I’m learning all these things about her that I had no idea about. My own sister.”

Someone closed a car door and drove off.

“I fucked up, Ry. I cut her out of my life. I missed out on so many things. Even her strawberry jam.” I started crying, which made the pain in my head more piercing. “She was doing so well for a year, and I missed it—”

“You have to stop being so hard on yourself. Lexie would have forgiven you,” he said. “You know that, right?” I nodded. He was right. My sister wasn’t big on grudges.

“It’s weird as hell to be back in that house,” he said.

“The last time you were here was the day you and Lexie had the contest to see who could hold their breath longer. And you said something grabbed you.”

He started, as if being grabbed all over again.

“You never came back in the house after that,” I said. “You’d come to the front door and wait for us outside.”

Ryan was quiet. So quiet and still that I was sure he was holding his breath.

“Jackie?” Aunt Diane was calling from the front yard. “You out here?”

“In the garden,” I called, jumping up. We met Diane on the path. She looked at me coolly, eyes reminding me that she’d caught me spying on her. Did she wonder if I’d been telling Ryan what I’d seen? “Marcy’s here,” she said. “She’s looking for you.”

“Marcy?” I said, the name not clicking.

“Marcy Deegan. She runs the art guild here in town.”

I nodded. “I’ll go see if I can find her.”

“I should check on my mother,” Ryan said. “See if she’s getting tired.”

“I think she’s out by the pool,” Diane said.

* * *

I didn’t have to look hard for Marcy. I found her in the front hall, right in front of the cross-stitch I’d rehung—To err is human, to forgive, divine—holding something wrapped in a white sheet.

“Hello,” I said. “Thank you so much for coming.” I touched her arm gently as she turned to face me. “We’ve got food in the kitchen, drinks in the dining room.”

“I have the painting,” she said, offering what she was holding to me. “I want you to have it. I think it belongs with you.”

“I can’t,” I protested. “Though I would love to take a peek—”

“I insist you keep it,” she said. “It’s what Lexie would have wanted.”

“This means so much to me,” I said. Carefully, I peeled back the folds of the sheet. It was like lifting the edges of a ghost costume, wondering who or what might be hiding underneath.

My sister looked back at me. I was so startled I nearly dropped the gift.

It was a self-portrait of Lexie’s own reflection in the water, about twelve by sixteen inches. Not just any water, but the pool. She had captured herself perfectly: her blond hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, the smattering of freckles over her nose, her eyes. I had no idea my sister could paint like this. She doodled elaborately when we were kids. In college she’d taken a painting class, but I’d never seen any of her work.

“I thought on my way here, perhaps this image might be… too much so soon?” Marcy said anxiously. “But this was my favorite. And they were all similar, part of a series. Of the pool. Sometimes with her reflection in it, sometimes someone else’s.”