Then the figure began to move almost frantically, bending and twisting. I held my breath, trying to figure out what I was seeing.

And that was when the fear began to seep through my skin. It started at the top of my head, and the coldness of it slid down my face, my neck, my shoulders, my back . . . but it was more than fear. I also felt a ferocious need to know what I was seeing. Was it Lily’s ghost?

I wrenched my hand free and darted to the next closer tree. I glanced back over my shoulder at Agatha, who stared at me, appalled by my lack of caution.

But I was glad I’d moved closer, because from this distance, I realized that I wasn’t seeing a ghost.

I was seeing . . . Laura?

And she was . . . digging up the flowers?

She grabbed them by the fistful and yanked, and even from this far away I could sense the violence and anger behind her movements.

But why?

We stood and watched in silence as Laura manically but methodically worked to unearth the entire blanket of lilies.

I felt hypnotized by the scene, and Agatha must have known she was going to startle me no matter what—which is why, when Laura was nearly finished, Agatha slapped her hand over my mouth before grabbing my arm. (Good thing, too. I definitely would have screamed.)

Once she saw that I was going to behave and stay quiet, she moved her hand and then pulled me away.

Standing still had made my feet go numb and my thoughts go small and hyperfocused. I swayed a bit, and Agatha propped me up and then got me moving. As we walked, I felt better.

After we passed through the iron gate, she let go of me, and then we walked together back to the house. There was so much I wanted to ask her—but I didn’t know where to start. And I knew I wouldn’t get answers, anyway.

So I settled for just one question:

“Do you know about Lily?”

She shot me a sharp look, her eyes shockingly bright.

I sighed. By now we were inside the house, headed up to our room. Agatha seemed to have lost interest in me, and I was feeling exhausted and cold and dizzy. Plus my feet were sore from running through the gravel and along the rough dirt path without shoes.

She slid back into her bed as I closed the door, and then I went into my own room. The delicately flowered teacup on the nightstand seemed ominous and stern, like it was judging me.

That doesn’t make sense, I thought. A teacup can’t judge you.

But I still moved it to the dresser.

Then I climbed into bed and reached for the switch to shut the light off—

And I saw, written on the back of the door, in streaky black:

GO