When we showed Gram what we’d found, she warned us to stay out of the woods.

I turned the page to an odd drawing: There was Sparrow Crest, but underneath it (or perhaps over it?) was a lighter pencil sketch of a much larger building, three stories tall with a wraparound porch. The Brandenburg Springs Hotel. The two buildings seemed intertwined, tangled together—one more solid, the other, a ghost.

At the bottom of the page, she’d written: The key to understanding the present is to look at the past. Then, some words she’d scribbled out beyond recognition, followed by a name she’d circled: Eliza Harding.

The rest of the book was drawings of the pool, my sister’s obsession laid out on paper.

It reminded me of Declan’s drawing of the dark swirling water, the monster fish. The swimmer being pulled under. Not just any swimmer, but me.

I closed my eyes, tasted the mineral tang of black water, felt it fill my mouth as I sank.

“Shit!” I said, coming up for air, back to reality. Declan!

I had to deal with his mother, check in with Karen. I’d call as soon as I went back downstairs.

I hurriedly flipped through the rest of Lexie’s drawings. She’d captured the pool so well that I could feel the cold water, smell the sharp mineral scent of it. In some of the drawings, I thought I could make out a face in the water, the flash of a pale arm or leg. The dark-haired woman again? Or someone else? In one, I was sure I saw my own face looking up.

I shut the sketchbook, shoved it to the back of the table, rummaged through the stacks of papers on the floor, photocopies and journal entries.

May 17

Gram didn’t leave Sparrow Crest, because she COULDN’T.

She knew it would kill her.

She knew and she went anyway.

She’d never been anywhere. And she wanted to see the desert.

An old leather album was buried under the papers.

I picked the album up and opened it. There were old, yellowed photographs of my great-grandparents in Sunday finery. He looked like a man on the verge of laughing; she looked fragile, and it was impossible to imagine that she would one day become the senile old woman in the attic who terrified my mother and Aunt Diane.

I looked at them on their wedding day. Honeymooning in Europe. I turned several pages and came to an old advertisement pasted into the album:

We invite you to the Brandenburg Springs Hotel and Resort—Vermont’s newest elite destination for the most discerning clientele tucked away in the idyllic Green Mountains. Come take the waters and experience the legendary restorative healing powers of our natural springs! Vermont’s own Fountain of Youth and Vitality! Our luxury hotel features 35 private rooms, each piped with water from the famous Brandenburg Springs. Dining room with world-class chef, sunroom, tennis courts, immaculate gardens. Open May through November. Do not delay! Book your room today!

The ad showed a drawing of a large white three-story hotel with a wraparound porch—an exact replica of the building in Lexie’s drawing. Behind it, a landscape I instantly recognized: Lord’s Hill and Devil’s Hill.

I’d never seen a picture of the old hotel before. It was all just stories growing up—not even entire stories, only fragments, rumors. But here, in this scrapbook, was solid evidence that once, long ago, a grand hotel had stood right where Sparrow Crest now was. It took my breath away.

“You still up here, Jax?” my father called up the stairs, startling me.

“Yeah,” I called down, my eyes still locked on the old advertisement, the picture of the hotel.

The key to understanding the present is to look at the past.

“Come on down. We’ve got company.”

I hurried down the stairs, still clutching the album. “Look what I found. It’s the old hotel.” I held out the album. “Did you ever see a picture of it?”

“No. Totally wild. Your mom told me there’d been a hotel here once, but I had no idea it was so big.”

He flipped the pages to a series of pictures of Sparrow Crest being built, but we saw nothing more about a hotel. He flipped back to the drawing of the hotel.

“Do you know what happened to it?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. All I really know is that the hotel was one of the many subjects off-limits with your grandmother.”

I nodded. Rita. The hotel. Old stories about the pool. All things we were warned not to bring up with her, things she didn’t want to discuss.

“Hello?” a voice called from downstairs.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” my father said. “Ryan’s here. And he brought us a bunch of goodies.”

* * *

Ryan was in the kitchen, a white paper box of scones and muffins on the kitchen table. He’d also brought a bag of espresso beans and a glass bottle of milk.

I gave him a hug, happy to feel how real and solid he felt. I looked beyond him, out the window at the pool. In the bright sunshine, it didn’t look frightening at all. I thought of telling Ryan and my father the story—The silliest thing happened last night. I freaked myself out big-time and thought there was something in the pool. I dropped a flashlight and thought it landed in the water. But obviously it must not have because it was right there on the edge. Isn’t it funny how the mind can play tricks on you?

I thought telling the story, making light of it, would make everything better. But I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.

“How are you guys doing today?” Ryan asked, looking at my father, a hint of worry in his eyes.

“Just fine, right, Jax? We’re right as rain.”

The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plains, sang some long-ago version of Lexie. I could see her so clearly, dancing around the house with an umbrella open, me chasing her, telling her it was bad luck, her singing, Rain in Spain, does rain make a stain, right as rain, hold on to the reins in the rain. Get it, Jax? Reins in the rain!

I nodded at my father, my head feeling heavy, my neck tight.

“Glad to hear it,” Ryan said, still looking at my father, as though waiting for him to say more—to bring up the incident in the pool, to say thank you, maybe. My father shifted back and forth on his feet like a nervous boy, not looking Ryan in the eye.

He grabbed a muffin and took a bite. “Best muffins on the planet, hands down,” he said, mouth full. “Now, if we could only figure out how to work Lexie’s rocket ship of an espresso machine, we’d be in business.”