That said, alone in this barren bedroom, I feel a great emptiness. Anne is my little sister. In all those years we lived here together, we never went at each other this way. Granted, what happened twenty years ago fractured us. Granted, my life is light years removed from Anne’s. I’m a different person now. Apparently, she is, too. She resents me. Deeply.

What to do? She is angry. She doesn’t mean what she said—well, maybe she does mean the words, but certainly not the hatred I felt receiving them. And if I take her advice and leave tonight? My father won’t know the difference. He’ll forget I was here. I’ve seen the house, and it’s not falling down, as Jack implied, and he has seen me, too. I came, I saw, I checked off that box.

But is Dad a murderer? Is he a danger to Anne or Jack or some other innocent in town?

What to do? I’m still standing in the guest bedroom, not knowing where my steps should lead, when I hear faint strains of the piano drifting up the stairs, around the turret, and along the hall. Crossing to the door, I lean against the jamb and listen to Joy, who is tentative at first, then more confident. She is playing by heart—no, no prodigy, but she does have an ear for music. I recognize Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” though there is a slight deviation in the usual rhythm. Joy is being Joy, either simply feeling the music or knowing that I need soothing. I listen, breathe deeply and feel calmer.

We’ll stay here, of course. She would be crushed if I dragged her away from something she has just discovered and so badly wants. She has just as much a right to this place as I do, and if Anne doesn’t like it, that’s her problem.

Actually, it’s my problem. By the time dinner is done, I realize that. I try to make conversation with Dad—ask how his wrist feels, whether he’s read anything good, whether he’ll take me to Sunny Side Up for breakfast tomorrow—but he answers each with a yes or a no. When nothing follows, I try to make conversation with Anne—ask whether she hires more help for the summer, mention that I saw Deanna Smith and Joey DiMinico and a blonde-haired woman, girl actually, who looked so much like Elizabeth MacKay that I got the chills. Dad doesn’t react to the Elizabeth mention, and my sister simply says that her name is Lily and that she works at the shop.

“Lily?” I ask, startled. I realize that this must be the woman Dad stares at. “Short for Elizabeth?” The coincidence would be too much.

“Short for Amelia,” Anne states. “Amelia Ackerman from Boise, Idaho.” Her stare tells me that she knows what I’m thinking and am wrong.