On the surface, there was nothing spectacular about this room. It was just a bedroom. In the light of day, I could see that it looked rather lived-in—the furniture was all slightly shabby, and the bedspread had the limp, pilled look of having been laundered regularly. It was a perfectly fine room, if a little less fancy than I’d come to expect from Copeland Hall.

But still . . . there was something about it that made me feel almost ill. A bad vibe, you could say.

I stepped into the attached bathroom and turned on the light. I was surprised to see that this bathroom, like the one Agatha used, had been modified to accommodate a person with disabilities. What had once been a bathtub had been replaced by a shower. The shower curtain was pushed off to the side—thin ivory rubber, like something you’d find in a cheap motel room.

The whole thing looked and felt weirdly clinical. Someone had obviously spent a good deal of time in here, but it wasn’t personalized at all.

My nerves were vibrating, wanting to cut and run, but I forced myself to be rational. I looked around, and my eyes settled on the tall wooden wardrobe cabinet in the corner of the room. I walked over and tried to open it, but it was locked. So I gave the handles a sharp yank, and to my shock the doors swung open.

It was mostly empty—the bar held an assortment of hangers in various sizes and colors, and on the shelf there was a single pair of bedroom slippers and a folded hand towel. Leaning against the back wall, facing away, was a large picture frame.

Under that was a small drawer. I pulled it out and found a black, fabric-covered box, the size you’d use when giving someone a fancy shirt as a present.

I sat down and put the box on the floor in front of me.

And, well aware that I shouldn’t, I removed the lid.

It was full of papers—stuff like medical forms and school letters.

And each one had the same name listed:

LILY COPELAND

I felt shaky, so I leaned back against the bed. As I did, there was a thunk from inside the wardrobe. I looked up to see that the picture frame was now nearly falling out, held up only by an inch or so of overlap with the side of the structure. I hurried over to stabilize it, and then I figured . . . I might as well take a peek, right? When I pulled it out, I saw that it was an oil painting, a portrait of a man and two teenage girls.