Just before the last turn before the exit I stopped, my attention snagged by an open office. The nameplate on the door read M. Finley, and it was in surprisingly good order. On the wall to my immediate left was a classroom-sized chalkboard.

SHE KNOWS SHE WAS WRONG, it read.

The message made me uneasy. Surely it had been there for some time, drawn by teenage vandals. It meant nothing to me. Nothing at all.

Finley’s chair was pushed back away from the desk, and it sagged and smelled wet but it was in one piece. I nudged it aside with my foot. One desk drawer was on the floor, its contents damp and unidentifiable; but in another I found files with billing statements. Fortunately, these were filed by last names. My mother’s was easy to find. I pulled it out and set it inside the folder I already carried. I turned to leave.

Although I had heard no sound, and although I had looked away for only a few seconds, the chalkboard bore a new warning across its broad green slate.

SHES COMING BACK

I sucked in my breath so hard I almost gagged.

The heartbeat was coming close again, up from behind me, loud enough that I knew I was hearing it, and not imagining it. This time there would be no fooling myself. The exaggerated breathing had returned as well, panting as it approached. It was as if a chilled wind was rushing up against my back, and it grew colder and stronger every second I stood there. I read and reread the message and tried to figure how it must have gotten there.

One by one, without a noise, another series of letters offered me advice.

LEAVE!

I didn’t have to be told twice. Sideways I slid towards the door, never for a second considering that I should look over my shoulder. The mysterious S H E did not welcome me there, and she was not a harmless shade. I had made her angry merely by not being my mother, and it seems I’d made her angrier still by unintentionally misleading her.

I fled shakily to my car, too baffled and afraid to give it much thought.

The Death Nugget was where I’d left it, its dark, roundish shape keeping the bulldozers company. I dug my keys out of my front left jeans pocket and fumbled with them, stupidly shaking as I unlocked the door and dropped myself inside. I tossed the folder on the passenger seat and threw the car into gear, backing down the gravel trail as though—and just in case—I was being pursued.

II