Or, his gut flipped again, a spy. An undercover agent. Someone sent to feel him out?

He needed to calm down. To think. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus past the fuzzy drunkenness of his thoughts. Play along. Pretend it’s her. Act the fool.

He took another deep breath and filled a water glass. Then he went back to the living room.

He handed the girl the glass of water. She lifted it awkwardly to her mouth, as if her hand didn’t know quite where her face was. She sucked the water down. He could hear it rush through her throat and gurgle as it hit her stomach.

When she’d finished the water, Mandy got up and walked to the kitchen, jerking her legs and swaying. She’d left a puddle on the couch where she’d sat, brackish water collected in the seams of the leather.

Karen looked to Tyler, hopelessness etched in her features. The sound of shattering glass made them both jump. Karen ran to the kitchen.

Tyler walked to the couch and dipped his finger in the icy water there. He felt more water soak though his socks where her feet had touched the floor. He pulled the curtain back and glanced out the window. No rain. Everything had been dry all week. A chill rolled up his spine.

This isn’t possible. That can’t be her. She wasn’t breathing anymore; I felt her heart stop; I watched her sink.

He shivered under a thick slime of perspiration. It wasn’t her. Mandy’s eyes were blue and clear; this girl’s eyes were dark, opaque. Someone was playing a trick. A mean, sick trick. But why would they? Do they know?

Bile rose in his throat. Someone out there must know, or they never would have staged this. They were trying to lure the truth out of him, frighten him into confessing—this was the mousetrap, but he wouldn’t take the bait. He’d play along. Act as though nothing had happened. He was the relieved stepfather, happy to have her home and angry at how she had worried her poor mother. He mustn’t ask too many questions. Act ignorant. And, most importantly, he mustn’t touch her.

***

Tyler leaned into the cloud of smoke, breathed deeply, and relaxed. He stirred the poker in the steel barrel, pushing his record book further into the burning pile of leaves. He was sad to see his records go, but it had been risky to keep them in the first place. If someone suspected him now, this book could be the death of him, so he watched it burn. He didn’t really need the list, anyway. He had the memories. He had to watch himself now. Flip the switch in his head and stifle his needs until suspicion moved on.

“Toasting marshmallows?”