She knew.

She’d known all along that there was still a third terrible thing hanging in the ether for her, but her desire to provide Trey with the life that she believed he deserved outweighed her fear. And ultimately, he paid the price for her hope that he’d one day be welcomed into the Simmons family. As soon as he officially was, the rule of three claimed him.

On some level, I’d known too. Maybe I’d just been in denial because I wanted so desperately for it to not happen the way I dreaded it would. But in hindsight, I realized the chanting that I’d heard the day we dug up the rosebush and burned its roots had not been tree, tree, tree.

It had been three, three, three. Jennie had been warning me as best she could, and I’d refused to believe that I might ever lose Trey.

Many weeks after I’d returned to school in Tampa, when I was still dazing off in classes and wandering the hallways bleary-eyed with grief, Ernesto approached me after calculus and handed me a small envelope with my first name written on it in looping, curly cursive. It was dime-store stationery with little red cardinals on it, and I knew immediately that it was a note from his grandmother.

“My mom and I were cleaning out my grandmother’s room and found this,” he said.

I’d been formally fired from my job at Oscawana Pavilion for taking time off so close to the Easter weekend, and then not returning when I’d promised I would. The last few times I’d called Mrs. Robinson’s room, Ernesto’s mom had answered the phone and hadn’t let me speak with her. I had feared that she’d been on her way to the next world. But having my suspicion confirmed by Ernesto felt like a punch in the gut.

“Thank you,” I said. I wasn’t aware how close I was to tears until I heard my voice crack.

Ernesto nodded. “She liked you a lot. She said you two had important business.”

“We did.”

I waited until I was on the bus home to open the letter.

Dear McK,

Your sister’s still in that dark place, but now she’s not alone. She’s working hard to keep whatever’s there with her from escaping. You’ll hear from her again.

Let your bright light shine for others.

Your friend,

Cherie

Although I hadn’t been able to communicate with Jennie directly since the day at the Simmons house, she’d found other ways to reach me. Every month, a few days before the new moon, I’d come home to find something—a pencil, a tissue—levitating in my bedroom, and I would know what I’d have to do. Online, I’d find a recent obituary from someone nearby in Florida, and leave that web page open on my phone for Jennie to observe. Then I’d burn some sage in my bedroom, call Mischa, and tell us both the story of how I died by falling off the roof at Violet’s house in April.