Annie wondered if Georgia had ever married someone she’d once dreamed she’d grow old with. Which gave Annie an idea for her book—the couple browsing through the museum who find the skull could be gray-haired and retired; the man could be horrified, while the woman could be thrilled that a real-life murder mystery had brought excitement to their day.

Perfect, she thought. Turning on her computer again, she quickly started to type. Until she was suddenly aware that Georgia was standing, unmoving, in the bedroom doorway.

“She’s gone,” Georgia said.

Annie blinked. “What? Where? I’ve been right here. . . .”

Georgia crossed to where Annie sat and took her hand. “No, dear. I mean she’s gone. Donna has passed. My best guess is that it occurred sometime during the night.”

* * *

Annie sat as still as Georgia had been standing. A dull sensation squeezed her head tightly, as if her brain were doing something, though she didn’t know what. Was it shifting from reality to . . . disbelief? Or was it the other way around? Winnie had once said that fog was Moshup’s blanket, covering the earth and sea to give his people comfort. Was that why it was such a foggy day? And why hadn’t Annie been paying attention? She’d tiptoed through the bedroom and back again? While her mother lay there—dead?

She sucked in a loud breath. Her exhale was a cry. For help. For Georgia to say that she’d made a mistake, that Donna was still alive, still breathing in Annie’s bed.

“Would you like to see her?” Georgia asked.

Annie flinched.

“Usually, people are glad they did. Later.”

Annie supposed it was the right thing to do. So she stood, startled that the muscles in her legs were as numb as her mind had become. She shook her legs, willing the feeling to return. Then she moved into the bedroom.

Donna—her mother, yet a stranger—looked as though she were sleeping. In fact, she looked exactly as she had after she’d kissed Annie’s cheek the night before, then closed her eyes and smiled.

Annie sat beside her, took her hand; it was cool. She wanted to cry. But she could not. So she just sat there, staring at Donna, as if waiting for her to wake up.

Then Kevin was in the room. He sat on the other side of the bed and held Donna’s other hand.

Annie and Kevin did not speak. They did not have to. The silence was their communication.

The ambulance arrived, though Annie didn’t know how much time had elapsed. The faces were familiar; Taylor’s wasn’t among them. After all, it was far too late for the skills of an EMT.

Whoever the responders were, they strapped Donna to a gurney and took her away.