She had come to Riddlesville for answers, but there was still so much she didn’t know, things she’d never gotten around to asking. Was she really willing to go back to Sweetwater without knowing all of it? And if so, why had she bothered to come at all? The question continued to churn long after she had slipped between the thin hotel sheets and switched off the light.

The water is icy, a million needles prickling at her skin. And murky. Like tea or dirty dishwater. There is a light in the distance—no, a pair of lights—dismal points in the watery gloom. Lying lifeless along the bottom is a hulk of cold bent metal. A face looms behind a square of glass, blue-white and familiar, pale hair fanned out around her head like a halo. She floats there with eyes closed, a grisly mermaid, the sunken place at her temple strangely bloodless. And then suddenly, her eyes are not closed. They’re wide and glassy, vivid violet through all that water. And then the blue-tinged lips begin to move. It’s a strange thing to be aware that you’re dreaming, to know what’s coming and not be able to wake yourself or at least look away. A surreal and terrible déjà vu. Except tonight the dream is different. There’s a new face peering out at her through the glass, a tiny face with vivid violet eyes—a small, bright echo of the other. She does not speak at first. Her mouth is closed, silent. And then she begins to cry, a miserable wail through all that water—Nonny! Her face is suddenly filled with terror, her hands splayed in panic against the glass. It’s too much to see, too much to hear. And then, with lungs near bursting, she is swimming away from the tiny face, the terrible wail growing fainter as she claws her way madly toward the surface.

Christy-Lynn sat bolt upright in bed, drenched and gulping for air, the echo of Iris’s pale face still fresh in her mind. Please God, not the child too. Her heart battered her ribs as she dragged her eyes to the clock on the nightstand, the numbers glowing blue in the unfamiliar dark: 11:15.

Kicking off the sheets, she padded to the bathroom, sponged her face and neck with cold water, then stripped off her sweat-drenched clothes and climbed back into bed. She was about to reach for the TV remote when she spied her phone charging next to the bed. She pulled up Missy’s number, then peered at the clock again. It was long past the boys’ bedtime, which meant Missy was probably already passed out, exhausted after a day at the inn, followed by an evening of baths and homework. On impulse she scrolled down to Wade’s number. He’d put it there, after all, in case she needed to talk. And she did.

He picked up after a single ring. “Please tell me you’re not driving.”

Christy-Lynn dragged the sheet up reflexively at the sound of his voice, covering her bare breasts. “No, I’m not driving.” There was a pause. He was waiting for her to say more, except she didn’t really have any new information since the last time they’d spoken. “I ate,” she said lamely.

“Good. But why aren’t you asleep?”

“I’m sorry. It’s late. I shouldn’t have called.”

“I didn’t mean that. I just meant I was hoping you’d get some rest.”

“Not going to happen, I’m afraid.”

“Can’t sleep?”

“Ghosts,” she said quietly. “She showed up in the dream tonight too.”

“The little girl?”

“Iris,” she told him softly. “Her name is Iris. And yes. I can’t stop thinking about her. There’s so much I don’t know, things I never got the chance to ask.”

“At the risk of sounding heartless, why would you want to know anything else?”

Christy-Lynn raked a hand through her bangs. How did she make him understand when she didn’t understand herself? “Honestly, I’m not sure I do. But I’m here now, so I was thinking . . .”

“Oh, God . . .”

“I was thinking about going back. If Rhetta will still talk to me after the way I walked out. I’m just not sure I can handle seeing Iris again.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe it’s time to just let this go and come home like you said you were going to.”

“I don’t think I can. Not until I know the rest of it.”

“The rest of what, Christy-Lynn? They had an affair. What else is there?”

“What else is there?” she echoed, aware that she sounded faintly hysterical. “There’s a child. One Stephen never told anyone about and never bothered to provide for. Never once did he bring up the idea of us having a baby. Not once in eight years. But he had a daughter with Honey. Did the child mean anything to him, or was she just a mistake, an accident he wasn’t willing to own?”

Another sigh, softer this time. “Why are you doing this, Christy-Lynn? Torturing yourself like this? It’s over.”

Christy-Lynn closed her eyes, knees hugged to her chest. “I know you don’t understand. You couldn’t. And you don’t need to. But there are reasons I need to know what happened and why, things I need to figure out. So for me, it isn’t over. Why do you care anyway?”

“Because it’s what he did—what he always did. He swooped in, took what he wanted, and then made it someone else’s fault. And now I see you falling right into it, taking the blame because he was a snake. You deserve better than that.”

The remark took Christy-Lynn by surprise. “How do you know?”