“Martha was a real person once,” I said. “At least, I think so. A little girl named Martha Woodcock drowned in the springs back in 1929. Lexie had been doing all this research, learning about the history of the springs. I found a list she’d made of names of people who had drowned in them.”

“So the girls we saw both drowned in the springs.” Ryan rubbed his face hard. “Now I’m thinking about other things Lexie said. Other stuff that I wrote off—things I wasn’t ready to hear because I was too freaked out. She saw someone in the pool, too.”

“One of the girls?”

“No. A pale, dark-haired woman.”

The woman from Lexie’s sketchbook.

“Lexie said she came from the water. She said there were others down there, too. She’d seen them. But she thought maybe they were all one… thing.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“I know. Neither did I. She was talking so fast, one of those famous Lexie tangents. She said for every life it took, it just grew stronger. That’s what gave the pool its strength—to heal people and grant wishes and stuff. And the water, it used those people, kept hold of them somehow. Like everyone who drowned became a part of it. It sounded like such crazy nonsense to me at the time.” He shook his head.

“Ryan, all this is—” What? Impossible? Just another clear example of Lexie’s delusional thinking?

“Your father, when he put Lexie’s ashes in, he said she told him to, right?” He was talking fast, like things were clicking in his brain. “What if that’s true? But what if what he’s seeing isn’t Lexie, but some twisted version of her? Acting on behalf of whatever’s really down in that water?”

How many times had my sister gotten other people to go along on the magic carpet ride of her mania, against their better judgment? Even though she was dead, she was working on me now. Clearly Ryan was caught up in it, too.

He rubbed his face with his hands. “Crazy,” he said again, quieter this time. Then, “Jackie, whatever the truth is, it might not be safe for you to keep staying at Sparrow Crest.” He looked genuinely worried. Like the young Ryan who’d run away from the pool that day. “You and your dad should pack up and stay at Diane’s for the next couple days. Or you can come stay at my place. I’ve got a spare room. Get out of that house—away from that pool—as soon as possible.”

The acidic coffee felt like it was burning a hole in my stomach. I picked at my muffin but couldn’t bring myself to eat any. “I leave day after tomorrow. So does my father. I’m sure we’ll be all right at Sparrow Crest until then.”

When we said our goodbyes, Ryan hugged me extra tight. “Be careful,” he whispered. It came out sounding more like a threat than a warning.

* * *

“Folie à deux,” Barbara said.

I’d called her as soon as I’d left the bakery, and told her everything as I walked back through town and up the hill to Sparrow Crest. “I’m sorry?”

“Or more properly, folie à trois, or, if we include your father, folie à quatre.”

“I’m sorry, but my French is limited to please and thank you.”

“It’s a shared delusional disorder. Delusional beliefs and even hallucinations are passed on from one person to the next. Technically, I think yours is more a case of folie à familie.”

“I’m not feeling very comforted here,” I said. “Am I losing my mind or not?”

There was a long pause. Too long for my liking.

“You’re grieving, Jackie. You’ve been gutted by the unexpected loss of your only sister. You’re dealing with a lifetime’s worth of guilt and regrets and old memories. And you’ve thrown yourself into this project, this idea that if you go through your sister’s papers, you’ll be able to make sense of what happened in some way. All of this has made you very open to being caught up in all kinds of shared delusions, conspiracy theories, legends, what have you.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Keep your head, Jackie. Keep yourself safe. I think you should box up your sister’s papers and deal with them later, when you’re out of that house and the grief isn’t so raw and fresh. Come home on Sunday, and give yourself time and distance to heal.”

“Okay,” I said.

“And above all else,” she continued, “I think you should stay the hell away from that pool.”

* * *

I walked back to Sparrow Crest, and when I reached the driveway, I saw not only Diane’s car, but a little red Volkswagen Beetle. The gate to the pool was wide open. I steeled myself, thinking of Ryan’s and Barbara’s advice, and went to latch the door. The pool seemed to be waiting for me, perfectly still, black as onyx, the sun above reflecting off it like a mirror.

Someone was there, at the water’s edge. My heart jackhammered.

But no, this wasn’t Lexie or little Rita. This was no ghost.

Diane was crouched at the edge of the pool, leaning down, over it. She was talking. Saying something to herself—or to the water? Was she making a wish? I watched as she dipped a jar in. Then she looked up, saw me, and started.

“I didn’t know you were back,” she said. She was pale. There were dark circles under her eyes.

“What are you doing?” I asked. There were three big glass jars of water beside her. She put the one she’d just filled next to them.

“It’s for Terri.” Diane blushed a little. “Her symptoms have been better since she started drinking it and swimming in it. More than better, actually. She was in a wheelchair this time last year.”

“So you think the water’s… healing her?”

She thought a minute. “I think she believes it is, and maybe that’s enough.”

I looked at my aunt. “You and Terri—” I began.

I was so tired of all the secrets. Of everything we’d all been keeping from one another.

“Terri is one of my oldest, closest friends,” Diane said.

“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. I just feel like all of us, this family, we’re drowning in secrets. You were absolutely right yesterday when you said that’s what our family does.”