When she was done, she made her way slowly up to the family house. A trail of blood led up the pool steps and over the driveway; the sand had soaked up the liquid to form little red pellets. She shuddered, unable to stop replaying the scene: Aurelia flying back in slow motion, the sound her head made as it hit the post. Torn flesh under matted black hair, and a dark mass of rising bruises that seemed to cover her entire scalp. It had been bad … but not that bad. Not enough to warrant keening worthy of an Irish funeral.

And if it was that bad, then why refuse to take her to the hospital? If the injury was serious, wouldn’t that be the first place you’d go? She thought again about the bathroom cabinet and wondered just how much Nina believed she could handle on her own. Emily had to see if Aurelia was okay, if she could do anything to help.

The blood led to the open door of the family house. There was a smear on the frame, and a series of drops traveled up the stone steps and across the floorboards like a line of ants. She moved farther inside, following the ruby-red bread crumbs to the kitchen. The trail ended, inexplicably, in the butler’s pantry.

Emily poked her head in. The pantry was empty, but there were more red dots all over the floor and another smear on the counter, just in front of the microwave.

Emily was about to turn back and look elsewhere when she noticed something odd about the shelves that lined the back wall. They were standing at an angle, as if they didn’t quite connect with the adjoining shelves or the countertop. She reached out to touch them, and a whole section wobbled. Then she grabbed the edge and pulled. The shelves swung out in one heavy block.

A door.

And behind the door, stairs, leading down, a fat splash of blood on each one.

What the hell…?

There was a muffled grating noise from somewhere below, and she hesitated, suddenly afraid. What was she doing, creeping around uninvited for a fourth time? She was asking for trouble; but there was a low light coming from the bottom of the secret staircase, and Emily wanted so badly to find out what was down there, to get an answer to at least one of her many mounting questions.

Carefully and quietly, she edged her way onto the top step and tiptoed down.

The first thing she noticed was the smell. The faint rotten odor that pervaded the whole house was strong in here, and grew more intense the farther down she went. The air, too, was stuffy and damp.

At the bottom of the staircase was a square of floor space the size of a small lift. It was a dead end; the whole thing had been walled off. At least, that’s what it looked like at first, but as Emily’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she realized that the “wall” was made up of cardboard boxes, several stacks of them reaching almost to the ceiling. Looking around, she saw more of them: great piles of boxes, crates, and storage tubs, stretching back into what seemed to be, in fact, quite a large room.

Emily gagged. The smell was awful.

She stared at the nearest box. There seemed to be something written on it, but she couldn’t make it out; everything was thrown into shadow by a flat, gray glow coming from somewhere near the back of the room. There was a voice, too. Nina, speaking in a hushed but urgent tone.

Covering her nose and mouth with her hand, Emily inched forward, squeezing through the gaps between the stacks, being careful to stay hidden.

At the far end, beyond all the boxes, was a thick door, standing half-open. The gray light was coming from inside, flickering and changing at short intervals. There were shapes behind the door. Emily squinted. She could just about identify the edge of a chair and the legs of a table or desk. What was this, an office? A warehouse? Maybe Nina was running some sort of packing business from down here.

Suddenly, there was a flash of movement from the doorway, and Emily flattened herself against a crate. Nina appeared, pacing up and down with a phone held against her ear. She was panting like she’d just finished a sprint. Pausing, she pushed the door open a fraction farther and looked out at the boxes. “I can’t,” she said in a hoarse voice, and Emily jumped, thinking for one pulse-shattering moment that she’d been spotted. But then Nina spoke again. “I did. I cleaned and dressed it.” She walked away and her voice faded.

Emily tried to slow her breathing. Where was Aurelia?

A pause, and then Nina was back: “Please, just give him whatever he wants.”

Emily felt light-headed. What if Nina saw her? Why hadn’t she gone straight back to her room to mind her own business?

Because this is my business. Because there’s something weird going on. Because Nina is hiding out in an underground bunker. Because she’s lying to me.

“As soon as possible,” said Nina. Reaching for the door, she pulled it closed and the room was plunged into darkness.

Quietly, cautiously, Emily felt her way back through the maze of boxes. Then she crept up the staircase and out of the house.

* * *

Five minutes later, she stood in the middle of her bedroom, chewing her nails and trying to explain away what she’d seen. Well, obviously, Nina is a compulsive shopper. The room is just a study, and the weird light was coming from a computer. It’s just retail therapy; that’s how she gets her kicks. Nothing weird about that.

Except somewhere down there, Aurelia was bleeding, probably concussed, and nowhere near a hospital. Nina was freaking out. And the room hadn’t looked like a study. It had looked more like a dungeon or a laboratory.

Emily stared out the window at the family house. Its lights winked at her through the branches of a tree.

Just after eleven thirty, she heard the faraway whirr of the gate, and a car appeared, gliding down the driveway with its headlights switched off. She moved her head from side to side, but the tree was blocking her view—and then a security light picked out the white of Yves’s truck. It came to a stop outside the family house, and for a few moments nothing happened; the car just sat there, its windows dark and impenetrable. Then the driver’s door opened with a soft clunk, and Yves got out. He went to the passenger side and pulled open the door.

Yves was not alone. A man got out of the car: short, bald, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He carried a gym bag with short straps. Yves ushered the man into the house, and the front door closed behind them.

Emily drummed her fingers on the windowsill. After a while, she left her bedroom and hurried downstairs, switching off the lights so she could peer through the windows undetected.

Exactly twenty-six minutes later, the front door of the family house opened again. Yves stepped out, followed by the bald man with the bag. Emily strained to get a look at his face, but it was dark and they were both moving fast. They scurried to the car with their heads down. The bald man went to the passenger-side door and got in. Yves opened the driver’s side, but just as he was about to slide in behind the wheel, he stopped. Emily’s heart skipped and scuttered. It was difficult to tell from such a distance, but she could have sworn he was looking right at the guesthouse. At her.

Hiding in the shadows of what she had come to think of as her own home, she was suddenly filled with anger—or was it jealousy? She hated that Nina had shared secrets with Yves and not with her. It was like being left out of a game in the schoolyard. You can’t play. We won’t let you.

Yves stood, one foot in the car, one hand up on the top of the door, staring in Emily’s direction, his huge frame rigid with tension, and it struck Emily how little she knew him. She’d taken his presence for granted—just the handyman, the landscaper, the “heavy lifting” guy. Harmless. But who was he, really? A stranger. An outsider. She realized then that she’d never known him, and she’d never trusted him.

Without stopping to think, Emily opened the front door and ran out onto the porch, triggering the sensor light. She threw herself into its spotlight, and Yves moved like he’d been poked by a cattle prod. Jerking backward, his hands flew out as if steadying himself. The air between them seemed to solidify. And then he yanked open the car door and was inside before Emily knew what was happening.

“Wait!” she managed. “Stop!” But her voice was drowned out by the engine as Yves turned the car around and drove off toward the gate.

I grip the silver packet between my fingers and push out the pill with my thumb. It looks like a little blue eyeball; not my usual medication but near enough. At least, that’s what the website said. Amazing, really, what you can get online these days. I’m surprised anyone goes to the doctor anymore.

I pop the eyeball into my mouth and turn on the tap.

I am drinking directly from the faucet when the doorbell rings—two sharp blasts of the bell. For a few seconds, I can’t move. Water drips down my chin. Then I open the bathroom door and cross to the bedroom window. Looking down, I see a delivery van rumbling in the road and a woman standing on my doorstep.

Shaking, I go downstairs and open the front door, just a crack. “Yes?” I say.

The woman is short. She has graying hair and wears a high-visibility jacket. “Where’d you want ’em, love?” she says.

“What?”

“Your shopping. Where’d you want me to put the bags?” She is craning her neck, trying to see past me into the house.

“On the doorstep, please,” I say, careful not to open the door any wider.

“You sure? I can bring ’em inside if you like, give you a hand.”