I imagined it because I was under tremendous stress—grieving, sleep deprived, guilty—just like Ted.

Then, as I stood in the dark looking at the black water, it came back to me. I remembered the girl I’d seen the night Lexie dared me to night swim. She was treading water in the middle of the pool. Younger than me, seven or eight maybe, with hair so pale and blond that it seemed to glow like moonlight. I was sure then, in my ten-year-old brain, that I knew exactly who I was looking at. I’d seen enough drawings of her to know. This was Martha, Rita’s imaginary friend. “Come swimming,” she’d said. I shook my head. It was against Gram’s rules. She giggled, then went under. I waited, holding my breath, counting the seconds. One minute went by. Then two. No air bubbles. No sign of movement. Behind me in the house, the light came on in Lexie’s bedroom. I turned and saw her looking out the window, watching me. I ran into the house, and she slapped me on the back, congratulating me for not being a total wimp. I never told her what I’d seen. I never told anyone. Over the years, I convinced myself it had never happened. That it was just something I imagined or dreamed.

From the front end of the pool, a dim glow blinked under the water once, twice, three times, then went out. The flashlight must be short-circuiting in the water.

“Jackie?” I heard the rusty squeak of the gate being opened and turned. Diane came through and saw me standing with the measuring tape and weight swinging from my clenched hand. “What on earth are you doing?”

Great question. “I couldn’t sleep,” I explained, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “So I thought I’d come out and… measure the pool.”

“I’m sorry, what? You’re measuring the pool at midnight? That’s totally normal and not in the least bit concerning.”

“That’s what Lexie was doing,” I said. “The notes she left were coordinates and measurements—she was using this tape to measure the depth of the pool at different points. I was curious to know if what she wrote down was accurate—”

“Come on back into the house,” Diane ordered, her jocular tone gone. She stood by the gate, holding it open, waiting for me.

“Let me just put this back,” I said, and coiled the tape up, brought it back over to the raft.

“We’ve got to replace the lights out here,” she said as she waited. “And maybe get a lock for the gate. We don’t want any kids fooling around in here when no one’s around. It’s not safe. Especially at night.”

“Good idea,” I called back.

I made my way along the edge of the pool, stopping when I noticed something right by A3. I leaned down to pick it up. “What the—”

“Everything okay, Jackie?” Diane called, taking a few steps toward me. “You’re not going to pull a Ted and end up in the water, are you?”

The dazed, removed feeling from the booze and codeine was replaced by a surge of adrenaline. Suddenly I was very awake and sober and terrified. “Everything’s fine,” I said, frozen, my heart jackhammering.

Things weren’t fine. They weren’t fine at all. Because what I was seeing just wasn’t possible.

It was the flashlight—the same flashlight that had sunk into the pool not five minutes ago. I picked it up. It was cold and wet. I flicked the switch. It turned on instantly.

There were two possible explanations for this, and standing there, holding the light in my trembling hand, I couldn’t decide which one was more terrible: Either I was losing my mind completely, or there was someone down in that water.

chapter twenty

February 11, 1930

Lanesborough, New Hampshire

There is nothing quiet, clean, or easy about childbirth. It is like being cracked open like an egg. No one warned me about the pain. I have never known such pain.

Margaret Joy surprised us by coming three weeks early. She was born in our bedroom at seven-nineteen this morning. She is a tiny thing, like a little doll. Five pounds, three ounces.

I am Mrs. Monroe and I am a mother now.

* * *

I was home alone yesterday watching the sky grow darker and darker as a storm gathered. The clouds were thick and tinged with orange, and the very air had a weight to it. I spent the day cleaning the house, scrubbing the floors, filled with an odd nervous energy. I was vibrating like a tuning fork. It was the coming storm making me feel that way, I imagined. And then, in the late afternoon, a fog rolled in. I have never seen such a fog before. It crept up from the river and seemed to blanket the whole town. It curled around the windows, seemed to drift in through the cracks, filling the house with damp, making my bones ache. I had a sense, silly I know, that it had come for me; that there was no way I could hide from it.

I stuffed towels in the cracks along windowsills and the threshold of the front and back doors.

I turned up the lamps and was at the kitchen sink washing vegetables for dinner when there was a terrible crash against the window. Then another. I looked to see that birds, lost in the fog, were crashing into the windows of the house. There must have been a flock of them, because one after another smashed against the windowpanes, then fell to the ground. I raced around the house putting out all the lights, thinking that was what was drawing them in. When the birds stopped falling at last, the snow and sleet began.

Will arrived home soaked to find me sitting in the dark, crying over the birds. He’d had to leave the car across town at his office—the roads were impassable already, so he’d walked home.

I didn’t eat dinner. Just didn’t have an appetite. Around seven my water broke and the contractions began.

“It’s too early,” I said.

“Babies come when they’re ready to come,” Will said. “And little Brunhilda is eager to meet us.” He smiled and began making preparations to deliver her at home.

“I’ve delivered many, many babies,” he said, kissing my head. “Trust me, darling wife. We’re going to be just fine.”

After twelve hours of labor, I pushed her out into the world. I was exhausted and delirious when Will put her in my arms.

“She’s so delicate,” I said to Will. “Like a tiny little bird.” I kissed her damp, downy head. “A sparrow. My little sparrow child.”

She is tiny, but perfect. Her skin is porcelain white. Her hair is dark as a raven. And her eyes are like a stormy sea. She has such a serious, almost worried-looking face—so odd to see on such a tiny baby. I see no resemblance to either myself or Will. She is a creature all her own.