That’s where I find Kris sitting on a fallen tree.

The river flows silver and placid in front of him, the land around so forested that it feels like we’re in an unspoiled wilderness rather than six blocks from the edge of town.

“Hey,” I call. I don’t want to startle him.

He doesn’t respond, so I say it louder. “Kris!”

“Yeah,” he says. “I heard you.”

I step closer, wading through the tall vegetation. “Mind if I join you?”

“It’s a free log.”

I drop down beside him. He’s wearing the same jeans and India print shirt as the night before, his face more lined in the bright sunlight than I’d noticed.

“Don’t suppose you have that Siesta Key postcard on you?” I ask.

He yanks it from his back pocket. I take it, running my fingers along the weathered edges. “Are you okay? Were you hurt last night?”

“You mean when I was kicked out of your house? I’ve been treated worse.”

I hand the postcard back to him. “Why were you flirting with me?”

“Would you believe it’s because you’re cute?” He runs his fingers through his hair. I can see the start of a smile in the lines around his eyes.

“No,” I say. But I like the warmth between us. I like everything now that I know Deck and I are leaving Lilydale. I was fine in Minneapolis, just fine. It’s small towns that are the problem, just like my mom said.

He chuckles. “Maybe it’s that I like to live dangerously, then.”

I want to ask him what that means, but I spot a flash of metal across the water. A wristwatch catching the sun?

I stand, putting distance between Kris and me. Am I being watched again? My pulse is jittering unpleasantly. “I want to talk more about your time here. When you were Paulie.”

He’s staring across the river at the same spot. “I’ve told you everything I remember.”

“All the same,” I say, “I have a few more questions for you. For later.” When we’re in public, with witnesses. When I won’t get in trouble.

“Then I guess I’ll catch you on the flip side,” he says.

Same way Benjamin signed off only an hour ago.

I back away. The flash has not repeated.

I make my way to the library. I’m jittery, as if my behavior will decide whether Deck and I get to leave. Nobody seems to be openly staring at me today, though. I want to keep it that way. The inside of the library is approximately the size of a postage stamp. The only person inside is the librarian, who informs me that if I want to research the Aandeg case, the newspaper office houses the only records.

I’m not surprised.

I make my way to the Gazette. Dennis is out. When I ask his wife to see the archives, she tells me they’re still not accessible.

“But you said they’d be fixed.”

She shrugs. Guess I was wrong. “What’d you want to look up?”

I don’t feel like tipping my hand (my hand that consists of one dinky card: the Paulie Aandeg story), so I keep it neutral, even though I’m growing frustrated at how impossible it is to get any new information about this case. “When I saw Dr. Krause, he mentioned that there was a Minnesota Health Department survey coming through. I thought maybe I would see if there was any history of them visiting here before.”

She claps her hands. “That sounds like a wonderful article!”

Is she a little too excited that I appear to be laying off the Paulie story?

It doesn’t matter. I’m getting out of Lilydale either way.

I come to this time with a yell.

It’s fury (the Furies) fighting on my side, finally, and it raises me up, off the bathroom floor, my legs trembling only slightly this time. I hardly even need to lean on the sink. Once upright, I slowly, delicately make my way from the bathroom into the lemon-walled bedroom. Oh yes, I recognize this room.

Finally, I remember where I am.

The Furies redouble.

I cock my ear. It’s early evening now. I hear them outside, know what they’re doing. I smell the meat they’re roasting, hear the brittle bubbles of their laughter popping in the humid night air and releasing blurts of joy.

They’re demons.

But I know exactly what to do.

Have been planning for this.

I gingerly, haltingly return to the bathroom, remove my bloody, crusty clothes, and step into the shower. The water runs red, and then pink, and then clear. I express milk from both breasts, the relief exquisite. I towel off, and below the sink, I locate thick belted pads for my underpants and thinner ones for my brassiere.

In the top drawer of the oak dresser, I discover loose, clean clothes. The basic comfort of standing, of cleaning and clothing my body, of having fresh pads to soak up my blood, is so overwhelming it nearly brings me to tears.

But there isn’t time.

Clarity is returning by the second. I remember the bottle of Geritol and the strawberry Pop-Tarts I hid in the rear of the closet, inside a musty box of children’s clothes. I rip the tinfoil and eat two so fast I hardly taste them. Screwing off the Geritol cap, I take two deep swallows. The salty, slimy metallic taste almost brings the Pop-Tarts back up, but I force my gut to accept it. I need the iron to make it through what I must do.

The next package of Pop-Tarts I take to the bathroom, where I chew slowly, drinking water from the faucet between bites, reveling in the returning focus.

Because it’s not just the Geritol and Pop-Tarts I’ve hidden.

A smile (maybe a grimace, maybe the mask of war) stretches across my face.

I have prepared for this.

They are going to pay.

I am Joan Harken. I will take back my baby.

CHAPTER 40

Knowing that I’ll be moving back to Minneapolis soon has me antsy. I can’t talk to Kris at the moment, not if someone is spying on us. It might jeopardize my escape. Regina doesn’t know anything about what happened in Lilydale in 1944. The microfiche machine is down. No one on Mill Street will tell me the truth. The two classmates who might have seen something, Quill Brody and Aramis Bauer, are out of my range of contact.

I walk, mulling things over. No way can I wander into businesses and start asking the workers if they remember Paulie or Virginia Aandeg. When I think about my goodwill mission here just a week ago, I’m embarrassed at my naivete. I thought I was making friends. More likely, I was creating informants.

I’m glad I stole the pineapple brooch. And the locket full of Lily dirt that thank god I never opened.

I can’t go door to door, either, knocking, asking people what they know.

What does that leave?

I find myself in front of Dr. Krause’s. He isn’t originally from around here and so wouldn’t be a help even if he were the obliging sort, but I spot my answer across the street: the Lilydale Nursing Home. Surely someone inside remembers Virginia and Paulie Aandeg.

I walk in like I know what I’m here for. I ignore the unsettling, overpowering smell of antiseptic and stride to the front desk. I assume my mildest expression.

“Hello, how are you?” I ask.

The older woman behind the desk glances up, her eyes narrowing. She’s nondescript. Brown hair under a nurse’s bonnet, brown eyes, crisp white uniform. “I’m good, Mrs. Schmidt. What can I do for you?”