Very little phased Marie Aubert. As the older sibling, she'd always hidden her parents' fights from Anjulie. She'd been the one to educate her sister on the ways of bitchy girls, to introduce her to the world of parties and substances, and to provide her with (disregarded) birth control advice when she'd realized her little sister had become sexually active. It wasn't that the Aubert girls' parents would've been opposed to such exploration and sisterly bonding; in fact, the complete opposite was true. Mr. and Ms. Aubert had been so laissez-faire in their approach toward raising their children that they hadn't set boundaries at all. While other parents kept their offspring from explicit music and revealing attire, frightening stories and adult television, the Auberts encouraged their daughters' near-complete independence in shaping their own childhoods. Perhaps their liberal approach to parenting had been merely an excuse for negligence, but it'd resulted in girls and women who'd always been able to fend for themselves. Even Anjulie, in her lowest moments, had never relied on anyone else to get back on her feet.

Well, that had changed. The Anjulie that showed up at the Inn somewhere between the hours of midnight and one AM was a complete wreck.

At least the children—Silas, that girl Juniper, and the baby—were in for the night. When Marie had gotten Silas's call, she'd locked up the Inn and left it unhosted (against her better judgment). The older children had been terribly anxious by the time she'd reached her sister's house, but Marie had by then spoken with her niece on the phone, and Bijou had confirmed she and a friend were out for the night and that all was well. After scolding Bijou for leaving Silas alone, dependable Aunt Marie had scooped up all the young ones, returned to the Inn, taken them next door to the attached rectory that served as her home, and left them all snuggled up on her bed, watching television. She'd been able to get enough information out of Juniper to realize that Anjulie was dealing with some sort of crisis, and after settling the children, Marie had at last managed to get ahold of her sister.

There'd been some sort of fire, and the police, and then Anjulie had said something about stopping by a park . . .

Knowing it'd be a long night, Marie put on a pot of coffee and, while she waited for it, served herself a generous pouring of scotch. Around ten, she shut down the kitchens, encouraging Hal to head out. The lobby and dining area contained a few stragglers having conversations, playing chess or (in one case) a heated game of Magic the Gathering. Marie tended to retreat to her quarters around eleven, but she kept herself busy cleaning, organizing, and scrolling through nonsense on her cell. By the time Anjulie arrived, disheveled as anything, Marie had mentally and emotionally prepared for whatever it was her sister would bring with her.

Anjulie's energy had never been one of agitation; neither of the women (even as girls) tended toward excitability. "Be like cats, not dogs," their mother had often told them. So even for as bedraggled and worn down as Anjulie was, she still exuded a sense of sophistication, as if whatever the world were throwing at her, she remained ever above it.

"Well?" Marie asked as her sister approached. By now, all the patrons of the Inn had retreated to their rooms. The lights had been put out save for a few wall sconces in the lobby and a lamp behind the front desk, creating shadows amongst the eaves, like saints and angels still crept about up there.

"I need a drink."

"I have coffee."

Anjulie gave her a look.

"With Bailey's," added Marie, understanding. "Lots of Bailey's. Let's go talk."

The women tread their usual path toward the Inn's kitchen, where Anjulie practically fell into a chair while Marie took care of the drinks. For a moment, Anjulie sat elbows on the table, one hand wrapped like a muzzle across her face. Her hair had been pulled up into a messy knot, her eye makeup smudged downward on her cheeks, and she smelled distinctly of char and smoke, and yet the younger of the two women couldn't have dispelled the allure of her dark, tragic beauty if she'd tried any harder. Anjulie had always drawn eyes and envy.

"You want to tell me what's going on?" Marie started. "And before you ask, the kids are asleep next door—Silas, Junie, and the baby—and Bijou is out with a friend. So that's all well. Now talk."

Anjulie's subsequent full-body sigh spoke loudly enough. She clasped her hands on the tabletop. "I, uh . . . there's a friend of mine. She's going to come by at some point."

"A friend? You?"

"Sort of. Someone I knew a long time ago. And thank you, Marie, for taking care of the kids."

The older woman nodded, pressed her lips into a thin line. "So . . . a fire, huh?"

"It's a long story."

Marie sat back in her chair, scrutinized her sister. She realized Anjulie wasn't exactly in the mood for conversation, but things had gone too far, gotten too heavy, and while the two of them had never been the tell-each-other-everything sort of siblings, they did care about one another. "Anj, I've had several hours to sit around here thinking," Marie began, her tone indicative of a trip down memory lane. "Do you remember a long time ago, right around when you got pregnant? Before that, actually?"

Anjulie shrugged, not connecting dots.

"When that classmate of yours died, back in middle school, that started something for you. We've never talked about it because when you were in it, I didn't see it, and for all these years after you moved past it, I never wanted to send you back to whatever scary place you were in, then. But I remember that for about a year after it happened and those other girls treated you like shit, you were paranoid. You did the grievance therapy and all that, right? And you self-medicated. But now . . . now I'm starting to think there was a lot more to it than just grief. I remember the way that girl died. Everybody talked about it. And when Emmett . . . when you found him, he was like that friend of yours, wasn't he? The—" Rather than mention guts or insides, Marie sort of waved a hand over her stomach. "And now all of a sudden these women are showing up to talk to you—they're those mean girls. I've been paying attention. I remember the names. After you got pregnant and Jamal became a complete dick, they were nasty to you, sent those messages about you being a whore and whatnot. You think I could forget that? So why are you talking to them, now? What's going on? Do I need to be worried? Because I can't take on a kid if you end up dead or in jail, Anjulie. Silas has had enough shit thrown at him in his short life. And Bijou needs you, too."

Anjulie snorted. "Bijou has never needed me."

Blinking in disbelief, Marie waited for her sister to say more, but her wait was in vain. "That's all you're going to say, after my whole speech?"

"I am so, so tired, Marie." Anjulie pressed her palms against her eyes. "There's just too much happening, and I can't go backward; I don't want to talk about the past."

"I don't want to say you owe me an explanation, Anj, but from a business standpoint, I need you to be reliable. I can't run this place with an erratic partner. So if you aren't going to talk to me as your sister, then talk to me as your co-worker. If this keeps up, I'm going to have to find someone else."

Anjulie slapped her hands on the table. "Really? Is that really what you care about right now?"

"No!" Marie reached across the table and took hold of her sister's fingers. "Of course not. I care about you and your kids. And if I can help, I need to know how. What the hell is going on?"

A world of unease revealed itself in Anjulie's drooping mouth, her trembling jaw, her tightened shoulders. "The truth is," she quietly replied, acquiescing at last in spite of her weariness, "that I don't know. Everything is caving in around me. Ever since . . . since Emmett—" She snapped her eyes up toward Marie. "And you said Bijou is all right? With a friend?"

Marie nodded. "Her friend Liz."

"Oh, thank God. Liz is a good girl. That's a relief. I was beginning to think . . . but nevermind. Let her have her fun. After today, she needs to be with a friend, not her mother."

"So tell me, then—what happened today?"

"You won't believe it."

"After what I saw of Emmett? Anjulie, really? Try me."

"All right. Remember that weird old woman that came here, all that jewelry and the funky outfit?" Marie listened intently as her sister described what had happened to that old woman and how she and the others had tried to hide it by setting Danielle's parents' house on fire. The "why" behind it all wasn't exactly something Anjulie wanted to get into; she begged her sister to accept the explanation that she and her old friends believed they were being haunted, and Marie graciously declined to insist on more information. "I don't know what to do, now," Anjulie at length admitted. "Everything's such a mess. My other old friends? Joanna as far as I know got arrested tonight. She ran off after the old lady died, and then she called me to look for her kid, but when I went to the park she told me to go to, I couldn't find him. She told me to kill him, Marie! To kill her own child! I hope he's all right somewhere and not with her. And Helen—oh, God. Poor Helen! Her daughter's here, right? I have no idea how to tell her about her mom. Helen went into the burning house to look for Juniper because she thought she'd gone inside, and when the firemen pulled her out, she was absolutely insane. She was screaming at them and fighting, and—Jesus. Marie, I don't think it was the fire . . . it looked more like she'd tried to rip her own face off. She was hardly recognizable. They've taken her to the hospital. I have no idea what's going to happen with her or Joanna."

"What about the other one? The worst one? What was her name—Denise?"

"Danielle. She's . . . well, she's crazy, too, but hopefully sane enough to follow through. She's supposed to come over here after the police finish questioning her about the fire."

"And do what?"

Anjulie chewed her tongue, rolled her eyes somewhere toward the heavens. "I have no idea." She dropped her head into her hands, shoved quivering fingers up her pale forehead. For a few moments, she sat that way, neither she nor her sister knowing what to say, but then Anjulie admitted without looking up, "It's like it's after each of us, for what we did. A long time ago it was Emily, and then Joanna, and Helen . . . Danielle and me—we'll be next."

"Don't you think it already got to you? With Emmett?"

"No." Anjulie lifted her face to meet her sister's gaze. "In a weird way, as sad as it was for him to die, that was some kind of favor. I don't think I actually wanted to marry Emmett. I'm not even sure I loved him." A sob welled up in her. "I don't think I'm capable of loving anyone."

"You love Bijou. As much as you two argue, you love your daughter."

"That's true."

"You don't give yourself enough credit. You're the most selfless person I know, Anj. You've never wanted anything for yourself; all you've ever wanted was for your daughter to end up stronger than you."

"I just want her to have a path . . . something to look forward to, to live for. I don't want her to have to rely on a man or to let men walk all over her like I did."

Marie smiled kindly. "No worries, there. Bijou is a lot stronger than you realize." The sisters exchanged meaningful expressions. Then Marie squared up her shoulders. "Now, tell me how this started. When did this thing—the ghost or whatever—when did it start bothering you?"

"Twenty-something years ago, when we were in eighth grade. It was some sort of game we played, the night Emily died."

"A game?"

"Like, a Bloody Mary type thing."

Marie nodded. "All right. There's a whole lot there that I won't ask about, but if you brought it into the world with a game, maybe that's how you get it out."

Something glittered in Anjulie's eyes. "Do it again, you mean?"

"If what you say is true," Marie confirmed, "then you can't make it worse. Whatever you did back then, reverse it."

For the first time in weeks, a ray of hope shone through the storm. "But it was—it was all fake, Marie! I made it up!"

"Then fake it again, Anj. If faking it made it happen then, it can make it happen now. So just . . . fake it."