Jeffrey clasped his hands behind his back. “Annette wasn’t close with her family. I don’t think any of them have been in touch for years. This cottage, which belongs to her mother, is really their only connection. Annette spent summers here, when she was away from Gottfried.”

By my grandfather’s foot was a shard of pottery. He picked it up and tossed it into a nearby dustpan, which contained the remains of a broken vase. “Remind me, what was her mother’s name?”

“Henriette LaBarge. She’s been living in a nursing home for twelve years.” Jeffrey reached for a tin kettle steaming on the stove. It was dented and was missing its lid. “Can I offer you tea?”

We nodded, and he took out two chipped mugs from the cabinet and dropped tea bags inside. When he opened the refrigerator for milk, he winced at the smell.

This didn’t seem like Miss LaBarge at all. Where were her books? Her photographs and tapestries and figurines? Her teacups?

“Twelve years?” my grandfather said. “That’s quite a bit of time. I hope you won’t take offense, but I was surprised to receive your message, especially since I’ve never heard about you before.”

Jeffrey smiled. “With Annette gone, there’s no one left to take care of the house, which is why I came. I contacted you first because Annette had your number listed as her emergency contact, though under the name of Lydia Winters.”

I nearly dropped my mug at the mention of my mother’s name. My grandfather frowned. “I see.”

“I only arrived this morning, and barely had to time to make the front rooms presentable again. The police have come and gone, so feel free to touch what you wish.”

“I appreciate that. We’ll be out of your way soon.”

I followed my grandfather down the hallway. He opened doors here and there. A dining room. A bathroom. A coat closet. The ceilings were low and the rooms were small and dark. Still, this part of the house seemed far more welcoming than the front. There were pictures on the walls: watercolors, needlepoints, and photographs of Miss LaBarge as a child, jumping through a sprinkler or sitting in the garden playing with a shovel. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to smile or cry.

“Pay attention, Renée,” my grandfather said over his shoulder.

I frowned. “I am paying attention.”

“Do you notice anything?” he said, his voice low.

“Not really,” I murmured, shoving my hands into my pockets.

He turned around. “You’re not even trying.”

I let my arms drop to my sides in frustration. “Trying to do what?” I asked. I was trying as hard as I could to keep myself together, to appear normal.

“Don’t you want to learn from her death?”

“Why does everything have to be a learning experience? Why does everything have to lead to something else? Why can’t I just be?” I knew I sounded childish, but I couldn’t help it.

Glancing down the hall, my grandfather took me by the arm and pulled me aside. Lowering his voice, he growled, “Who do you think broke into this cottage? Who do you think rooted through all of Annette’s things?” His jowls shook. When I didn’t respond, he answered his own question. “The Undead. Don’t you want to find the Undead who killed a Monitor and then invaded her home? Don’t you want to bury the Undead who would do a thing like that? If we don’t, any of us could be next. You could be next.”

I rolled my eyes. “Why would I be next—”

My grandfather cut me off. “Renée, you can keep fooling yourself into thinking you’re a normal teenager. The truth is, you’re not. You’re a Monitor now. Start thinking like one.”

I wriggled out of his grip.

“Now, what do you see?” he asked.

I crossed my arms and glanced at the decorations. It almost felt like I was in the creaky corridor in Horace Hall that led to Miss LaBarge’s office. “There are more of her things here. It feels more like her.”

My grandfather nodded and began walking. “Why do you think that is?”

I followed him until we reached the end of the hallway, where there stood a single door. On the floor was a mat identical to the one in Miss LaBarge’s office at Gottfried. It said: WELCOME FRIENDS. I stepped before it, wishing that she would open the door, a plate of cookies in one hand, a book in the other. Only Miss LaBarge would have a welcome mat in the middle of her house. My grandfather stepped across it and opened the door. The room beyond was pitch black.

FRIENDS. I touched the word with my foot and then gazed at the walls. It was dark in this part of the house because there were no windows, and there were no windows because the back half of the cottage was nestled into the hillside.

“Because we’re underground,” I said with wonder, realizing that some people couldn’t enter this part of the house. The Undead. “She was protecting her things. Or herself.”

“My thoughts exactly,” my grandfather said from within the room, and turned on the lights. “Oh, my.”

He was standing in an office cluttered with books and papers. In the corner of the room was a desk, and above it was a map of the world, marked up with scribbles and circles. Tacked up next to the map was an assortment of newspaper clippings. Almost immediately, my grandfather and I were there, pushing aside the desk lamp and stacks of files to get a better look.

I felt my pulse flutter. On the map, Lake Erie, along with several other lakes, had been circled. I scanned the clippings. All of the articles had been published within the last year, but the stories varied. Some of them were about deaths, others about disappearances, and still others about strange sightings. The Loch Ness Monster. Bodies floating in the water. Two women mysteriously murdered in Utah. A woman vanishing from a bridge in Amsterdam. Judging from the way the papers were torn, it looked like some of the clippings had been taped and then moved around and retaped to new locations on the wall.

My grandfather was leaning so close to the wall that his nose almost touched it, but he seemed just as baffled as I felt. “What were you up to, Annette?” he murmured.

I wondered the same thing.

On the far side of the room was a set of French doors that led to a bedroom. While my grandfather tried to piece together the wall of clippings, I slipped inside.

It was a cozy room, with tiny white lights strung around the ceiling, a heavy quilt on the bed, and a collection of Russian nesting dolls on the dresser. I went to pick one up, when I noticed a photograph leaning on the wall behind them. It was of a teenage Annette, sitting on a braided rug, hugging her knees beside two other girls. One was a slender blonde; the other a defiant-looking girl with a face just like mine. My mother. The girls stared into the camera, their eyes wide like deer, as if the photographer had caught them doing something in secret.

My mother’s expression haunted me as I touched the edge of her lips, which were pursed in an O. The blonde beside her looked tall, like a ballerina, and familiar, incredibly familiar. Where had I seen her before? I reached for the frame to get a better look, but when I lifted it, something slid out the back onto the floor. It was a letter.

August 1, 2009

My Annette,

It was so comforting to hear news from Gottfried. It feels like ages since I’ve been back there, so long that I can’t believe the world you described was once my life. I’ve been spending almost all of my time traveling in France, searching for the lost girl.

Half of the places I’ve been to were dead ends, but I think I’ve finally found something that might put us in the right direction. I found it on my last trip to Europe, though I was certain someone was following me. Robert thinks I’m insane from jet lag. He can’t imagine how we’re on anyone’s radar, and I suppose he’s right. We’ve been living out west for so long that even the idea of other Monitors has become a part of our distant past….Regardless, it serves as a reminder that we have to be careful. Anyway, I probably shouldn’t write any more here. You understand.

It’s been difficult having to keep it from Renée; I hate lying to her….I don’t think she suspects anything yet, though every time I look at her I have to suppress the urge to tell her everything about who she is and what we’re doing. Once it’s safe, I’ll tell her everything.

Are you still planning to visit us later this month? The day you said you’d arrive is Renée’s sixteenth birthday, and although I can’t promise she’ll remember you from the last time you visited, I’m sure you’d be a welcome surprise. We were thinking we could pick you up and go to that quaint coffee shop we went to the last time you were here. The sandwiches are the best in northern California, and it’s very private. It’s also just outside the redwood forest, which is beautiful this time of year.

Until then,

Lydia

Lydia. The name dripped down the page in a long watery streak, and I realized I was crying.

Sitting down on the edge of Miss LaBarge’s bed, I tried to read the letter again, but couldn’t, knowing that I was looking at my mother’s handwriting. She had written these words. I could see the smudges in the margins from her palm. It was almost like she was still alive, speaking to me, except that the same phrases kept standing out. Traveling. Searching for the lost girl. California. My birthday. The redwood forest. This letter was probably the last one my mother sent before she was killed.

How come I hadn’t even realized what was going on? We lived in the same house for sixteen years. We ate all of our meals together, we used the same computer, the same telephone. How could I not have even noticed that my mom had been traveling all over the world, looking for something? How could I not have known?

“Renée?” my grandfather called out.

“I—I found something.”

Bounding in from the other room, my grandfather took the letter from me, muttering to himself as he read.

“What is it?” I asked, staring at the letter as if it were a strange relic.

The creases on my grandfather’s face tightened. “I don’t know yet.”