I walked toward Dean, overcome with the uncanny sense that I knew what the sign was going to say. Poison garden. Those were the words I expected to see.

“Apothecary garden,” I read instead.

“Apothecary,” Sloane said, coming to stand next to us. “From the Latin word meaning repository or storehouse. Historically, the term was used to refer to both the historic version of a pharmacy and to the historic version of a pharmacist.”

Without waiting for a reply, Sloane bopped past the gates. Lia followed her.

Dean slid his gaze over to me. “What do you think the chances are that it’s a coincidence that Nightshade grew up in a town with an apothecary garden and”—Dean jerked his head toward the building next door—“an apothecary museum?”

A chill spread slowly down my spine. Nightshade’s weapon of choice had been poison. There was a thin line between knowing the medicinal properties of plants and knowing how to use them to kill.

“I can sense this is a romantic moment for the two of you,” Michael said facetiously, patting us each on the shoulder. “Far be it from me to ruin it.” He strolled past us into the garden, but the way he glanced back tipped me off to the fact that he recognized the unsettled feeling twisting in my gut.

“If you folks think that garden’s something,” a voice called out, “you should venture inside.”

An older man—my guess put his age in the neighborhood of seventy—came to the door of the apothecary museum. He was small and compact, with round spectacles and a voice at odds with his appearance: deep and scratchy and utterly uninviting.

A much younger guy came to stand behind the old man. He looked to be nineteen or twenty and wore his white-blond hair combed back, accenting a widow’s peak hairline.

“The garden is free for all to enjoy,” Widow’s Peak said tersely. “Visitors to the museum are asked to make a donation.”

He may as well have stuck a giant NO TRESPASSING sign over the building’s entrance.

Agent Sterling moved to stand beside me. “I think we’re fine with the garden for now,” she told Widow’s Peak.

“Figures,” the boy muttered, retreating into the building. There was something about him that gave me the same unsettled feeling that had coated my body the moment I’d seen the wrought-iron gates.

“You folks stay cool,” the old man advised us, his gaze lingering on Sterling. “Even in spring, Gaither heat has a way of sneaking up on you.” Without another word, he followed Widow’s Peak back into the museum.

Agent Sterling preempted any comment from Dean or me. “Walk through the garden, pretend you’re enjoying this lovely spring day, and think about what you’ve learned,” she advised.

You want us to take this slow. To avoid tipping our hand.

I did as instructed. St. John’s wort. Yarrow. The alder tree. Hawthorne. As I passed each labeled plant in the garden, I parsed my first impressions. My gut said that the older man had lived in Gaither all of his life. Widow’s Peak was protective of him—and of the museum.

You don’t like tourists, but you work in a museum. That spoke of either a contradictory personality or a lack of employment options.

I turned on the path, following the loop back to the iron gates. As I reached them, I got that same sense of déjà vu I’d had when I saw the garden for the first time.

I’m missing something.

As I scanned the surrounding street, I pegged a pair of tourists, then turned my attention to a local walking her dog. She turned around a corner and disappeared. I didn’t mean to do more than follow her around the corner to see what was on the next block, but once I started walking, I couldn’t stop.

I’m missing something.

I’m missing—

Dean caught up to me. The others weren’t far behind. I caught sight of our protection detail out of the corner of my eyes.

“Where are we going?” Dean asked.

I wasn’t following the dog walker anymore. She’d gone one way, I’d gone another. Gaither’s historical charm had melted away blocks back. Now there were houses—most of them on the small side and in need of repairs.

“Cassie,” Dean repeated, “where are we going?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

Lia fell in beside us. “Lie.”

I hadn’t realized that I was lying, but now that Lia had called me out, it was clear. I do know where I’m going. I know exactly where I’m going.

The niggling feeling of déjà vu, the deeply unsettling something that had fallen over me the moment we’d stepped foot in this town, solidified into something more concrete.

“I know this place,” I said. I hadn’t been sensing something off about Gaither. I’d been sensing something familiar.

I know, my mom whispered in my memory. You liked the town and the house and our little front yard—

There had been so many houses over the years, so many moves. But as I came to a stop in front of a quaint house with blue siding and a massive oak tree that cast shade over the entire lawn, I felt like someone had tossed ice-cold water directly into my face. I could see myself standing on the front porch, laughing as my mom attempted to throw a rope over a branch on the oak tree.

I made my way to the tree and fingered the tattered rope swing that hung there. “I’ve been here before,” I said hoarsely, turning back to the others. “I lived here. With my mother.”

Nightshade had been born in Gaither. Decades later, my mother had lived here. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

Hyperaware of the blood rushing through my veins, I forced myself into the Masters’ perspective. Each of you chooses your own apprentice. Who chooses the Pythia? I took a step toward the house, my heartbeat drowning out all other sounds.

“Nightshade wasn’t the one who selected your mother.” Dean’s voice broke through the cacophony inside my head. “If he had…if I had,” Dean said, shifting from third person to first, “I wouldn’t have waited until Lorelai’s daughter joined the Naturals program to introduce myself.”

Frozen halfway between a memory and a nightmare, I thought of Nightshade—of the way his shoulders had shaken with laughter when I’d interrogated him, of his still, gray corpse. If you didn’t choose my mother, there’s a good chance that the same person chose you both.