I felt something on my arm—and I realized she had wrapped her hand around my wrist.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said. “Good night.”

Her eyes shut.

I was back in my own bed, feeling wired, when suddenly my door opened.

Laura stood against the dark.

“That was such an adventure,” she said quietly. “I thought you might like some tea to help you calm down.”

She set the teacup down on my nightstand.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Do you want me to sit with you?”

“No,” I said. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”

“All right. Just checking.”

She backed out of the room and closed the door.

I stared down at the tea, then picked it up and took a sip.

I’m not sick.

Of course, she could have just been saying that, but . . .

If she needed that medicine, shouldn’t Laura have given her more?

As I thought about this, I sipped my tea. And I began to feel relaxed.

Then I had a thought. I set the teacup down and crossed the room to my dresser, where I opened the bottom drawer and took out Lily’s journal. I hadn’t had a chance to read it yet.

I carried it back to my bed and turned on the flashlight on my phone, then aimed it at the notebook. I was beginning to have trouble keeping my eyes open—my head felt heavy and wobbly.

I set the book down and aimed the light at it. Then I opened it to the first page:

My name is Lily Copeland.

I’m being locked in a room in my house.

They keep giving me medicine.

But I’M NOT SICK.

CHAPTER

25

I WOKE UP groggy. My phone was pressed up against my arm, which was numb, and there was something hard under my shoulder blade.

As I sat up and saw the journal, the previous night came flooding back—Agatha had said my name. She had told me to go. She had told me she wasn’t sick.

And Lily hadn’t been sick, either.

My head felt fuzzy and slow. I looked down at my teacup, then picked it up and sniffed. The smell made me draw back—it was sharp, cloying, and it made me feel a little dizzy.

I needed to read more of the journal. Was this true? Any of it? Was Agatha really not sick? I’d seen last night that she was capable of speaking, of understanding and making sense.

And Lily . . . if she wasn’t sick, what had killed her?

Or . . . who?

THERE WAS A light rap on my door, and I just managed to put the notebook under my pillow before Laura opened it.

“Hello, sleepyhead!” she said cheerfully. “It’s almost ten thirty.”

“Oh,” I said, sitting up. “Wow.”

“Agatha’s downstairs . . . would you like to get up and around and then cut some flowers for the breakfast room?”