The grass was overgrown. The deep pool lined with stones looked the same as it had when we visited. I wondered what had happened to the peacocks as I looked down into the black water and thought of Eliza Harding drowning there.

I held my breath as I watched the water, half believing that Eliza might surface—that she’d come up from the depths and swim as she had when Myrtle had seen her.

“It’s bottomless,” the boy said now. “My daddy, he says you shouldn’t even touch that water. Poison, he says.” He looked around at the water, the sun falling behind the hills, casting us in deep shadows. “Reckon you can find your own way back,” he said. Then he scurried off like a frightened rabbit.

I watched him, thinking, Could we? Could we find our own way back? Or would we be lost here forever?

I got down on my knees, laid the baby on the ground. She squirmed, her breathing fast and hard like a chugging train.

“Please,” I said to the water, to God, to Eliza Harding maybe, to whoever was listening. “Please save my baby girl.”

I scooped up some icy black water, dabbed it on her lips, put some in her tiny mouth. She opened her eyes wide, looking at me. I rubbed it into her skin, on her hands and feet.

“Do you think we should bathe her?” I asked.

“The cold will kill her,” Will said, eyes steely. He stepped away, studying the burned-out timbers, kicking at the ashes. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he was frightened.

I gave Margaret a sponge bath with the water, cooing to her, promising that the water would make her well. “This water is magic,” I whispered when Will was far enough off not to hear us. “It’s the reason you’re here. And I think that maybe, it may help keep you with us. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, little sparrow? To stay here with us?” She made a sweet cooing sound as if to answer: Yes, Mama. Yes!

Then, I wrapped her back up. Before leaving, I filled four large canning jars that I’d brought along in a satchel. We began the long walk back to the trees that blocked the road. Will took out the flashlight to help guide us. I kept thinking I heard something behind us: footsteps, the sucking sound of shoes moving through mud. But when I turned, I saw nothing, only shadows.

“Should we look for a hotel?” I asked once we were back at the car at last.

“I don’t think there is one anywhere nearby. Let’s drive back.”

The drive home was slow and tedious. There were no other cars on the road.

The canning jars full of water clanked together in the backseat. Margaret, breathing easier now, squirmed on my lap, making contented little sounds.

We arrived back in Lanesborough near midnight. I brought Margaret in and undressed her, got her ready for bed. Her hands and feet were pink, her breathing was normal. And she was hungry.

“Good to see she’s got her appetite back,” Will said.

“It’s not just her appetite,” I said. “Look at her, Will—she’s all better. The water has cured her.”

Will tightened his jaw and nodded. And for an instant, it wasn’t just wonder or disbelief that clouded his eyes, but the faint glimmer of fear. I was sure I saw it there, flickering like a tiny fire starting to catch hold.

chapter twenty-five

June 20, 2019

Ryan dropped me off at nine thirty. Diane texted to say she was running late but would be by with pizza and wine soon.

I walked through the door to find my father cooking again. The air smelled spicy and sweet. “Ted?” I called, walking back toward the kitchen. All the lights in the house were out.

I heard him say something. He was talking to someone. Diane? But I hadn’t seen her car.

“Ted?” I said again as I stepped into the chaos of the kitchen, trying to make out what was happening. I flipped on the lights. The floor was littered with empty grocery bags. There were pots on every burner. The counters were covered with flour, sugar, canned goods, mixing bowls, measuring cups and spoons. The kitchen table held plates and bowls of chocolate chip pancakes, cheeseburgers, grilled cheese sandwiches. The door to the broom closet was open, and the cat was in there, cowered in the shadows, watching.

“What’s going on?” I asked my father, who stood in front of the stove flipping bacon. I tried to keep the panic out of my voice, tried to sound calm and matter-of-fact. But this was a Lexie-style mess. I’d never seen my father do anything like this.

He didn’t respond. I walked up to him slowly, put a hand on his shoulder. “Ted? You okay?”

“She’s hungry,” he said, still not looking me, poking frantically at the bacon, then at a pot of creamed corn. “She’s hungry, but she won’t eat.”

“Who’s hungry, Ted?”

He turned, looked at me. “Lexie,” he said. His pupils looked huge, his face pale and sweaty. I turned off the burners, took his hand. It was cool and clammy.

“She was here,” he insisted. “She wanted food! I kept making her things, but she wouldn’t eat. She pushed them all away.” He looked so miserable, so agonized.

“Come sit down with me.” I led him over to the table. He shuffled forward in a daze, like a sleepwalker. We sat at the table, covered with all of Lexie’s favorites.

“She was here,” he said. “She sat right where you’re sitting. Look!” he said, scrambling through the mess, knocking a cheeseburger off the table, pulling a sketchbook out from underneath a plate. He flipped it open, shoved it at me. “Proof!” he said.

I held the sketchbook in my hands. It was a series of quick pencil sketches: Lexie in the kitchen. Lexie sitting in the chair I was sitting in right now. I struggled to keep my breathing even and level. In the drawings, my sister’s eyes were wild, and her hair looked wet.

“She said she could come back to stay. That we could help her do that,” he said.

“Ted,” I said in my calmest social worker voice, “I don’t think—”

The front door banged open, and I jumped. My father looked at me, eyes wide and excited. “She’s come back,” he whispered. “You’ll see.”

I dropped the sketchbook, tried to stand, but couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

I was underwater, holding my breath, playing the Dead Game with my sister. You move you lose, Jax.

“Honey, I’m home!” called Diane from the front hall.