instead Dr. Weber’s preferred term. “If these are imaginings, why is Maggie so afraid of them?”
“Children have dark thoughts, too,” Dr. Weber said. “Just like adults. They’re also good listeners. They pick up a lot more than we think they do. When problems like this occur, it’s because the child is having a hard time processing what they’ve heard. Something bad happened in your home. Something tragic. Maggie knows that, but she doesn’t know how to grapple with it.”
“So what should we do?” I said.
“My advice? Be honest with her. Explain—in terms that she can understand—what happened, how it was a sad thing, and how that won’t ever happen again.”
* * *
• • •
That night, we took Dr. Weber’s advice and sat Maggie down at the kitchen table, armed with some of her favorite treats. Hot chocolate. Sugar cookies. A pack of sour gummy worms.
Also on the table, at a slight remove from everything else, was the Gazette article about Curtis and Katie Carver I’d photocopied at the library.
“Before we moved in,” Jess said, “something happened in this house. Something bad. And very sad.”
“I know,” Maggie said. “Hannah told me.”
I groaned. Of course.
“Did she tell you exactly what happened?” I said.
“A mean man killed his daughter and then killed himself.”
Hearing those words come out of my daughter’s mouth almost broke my heart. I looked across the table to Jess, who gave me a small nod of support. It wasn’t much, but it meant everything to me. It told me that, despite our recent clashes, we were still in this together.
“That’s right,” I said. “It was terrible and made everyone very sad. Bad things happen sometimes. But not all the time. Not often at all, in fact. But we know that what happened might scare you, and we want you to understand that it’s all in the past. Nothing like that is going to happen while we’re here.”
“Promise?” Maggie said.
“I promise,” I replied.
Jess reached across the table for our hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. “We promise.”
“If you have any questions about what happened, don’t be afraid to ask,” I told Maggie. “We can talk about it anytime you want. In fact, I have a newspaper article about it, if you want to see it.”
I waited until Maggie nodded before sliding the article in front of her. Since her reading skills were still limited, her gaze immediately went to the photograph.
“Hey,” she said, pressing a finger to the photocopied face of Katie Carver. “That’s the girl.”
I tensed. “What girl, honey?”
“The one I play with sometimes.”
“Hannah?” Jess said hopefully.
Maggie shook her head. “The girl who can’t leave my room.”
She then looked to the other side of the photo and Curtis Carver’s scowling face. Immediately, she began to whimper.
“It’s him,” she said, climbing into my lap and pressing her face against my chest.
“Who?”
Maggie shot one last, frightened look at Curtis Carver.
“Him,” she said. “He’s Mister Shadow.”
Sixteen
The reporters return bright and early. I know because I’ve been awake all night. Sometimes pacing the great room. Other times checking the front door and all the windows, making sure for the second, third, fourth time that they’re secure. Most of the night, though, was spent in the parlor, sitting at attention with the knife in my hand, waiting for more weirdness.
That nothing happened didn’t make it any less nerve-racking. Every shadow on the wall sent my pulse galloping. Each creak of the house prompted a startled jump. At one point, while pacing the room, I caught sight of myself in the secretary desk’s mirror, startled not by my sudden presence there but by how crazed I looked.
I’d always assumed I was nothing like the fearful child in my father’s book. Turns out it was me the whole time.
Now I’m at the third-floor windows, peeking through the trees at the line of news vans arriving at the front gate. I wonder how long they’ll be there before giving up. I hope it’s just another few hours and not days.
Because I need to leave again, and this time going through the broken stone wall won’t cut it. For this journey, I need a car.
I consider the idea of simply hopping into my truck and driving it right into the crowd, casualties be damned. But the thought is more revenge fantasy than actual plan. One, I’ll need to get out of the truck to unlock and open the gate—giving Brian Prince and his ilk ample time to pounce. Second, even if I can drive away in peace, there’s