I turned in a slow circle, looking for anything that might give me a clue about where I was or what was happening.

I was outside, in a place I’d never seen before—there were trees stretching overhead, but they did nothing to stop the rain from beating down on me. There were walls—walls?—dark boundaries of some sort, maybe stone or shrubs. It was too dark to see, until another shock of lightning turned everything briefly to daylight.

Shrubbery, the walls were shrubbery.

Under my tender, bare feet, a gravel path. To each side, a long swath of dirt.

Up ahead, there was something in the path. A small structure.

I should look for the exit, I should get back inside—I was thoroughly freaked out by the fact that I had no idea where I was or how I’d gotten here. But I also felt drawn to the structure. I wanted to know what it was. And it wasn’t very far away—

As I approached, my emotions grew heavier. Nothing good was tucked away in a walled-off dirt patch. Nothing good was outlined by a low iron gate, the size of a bed.

No, it wasn’t anything good—it was a grave.

This was a cemetery. Beyond this grave, there were more—the path wandered under the trees in an ambling circle, and I could see more low, tomblike structures.

I was close enough to see the white stone statue of an angel at the end of the gated enclosure, and I leaned in to see the text:

BEVERLY TURNER COPELAND

CHERISHED WIFE AND MOTHER

1946–1975

Was this Laura’s mother’s grave?

Thunder rolled and lightning flashed, and I realized that even though I didn’t know how I’d gotten here, I wanted very badly to leave, so I turned and followed the path toward what I hoped was the way out.

Oh God, I couldn’t spend the night in a cemetery. Not a night like this, with rain pounding the ground so hard that you couldn’t hear—so loud you’d never know if someone was coming up behind you and preparing to grab your shoulder—

Someone grabbed my shoulder.

I screamed, a bloodcurdling scream, and swung my arm, knocking the hand off my shoulder and managing to smack Barrett pretty sturdily up the side of the head. Which, I decided, as I panted madly, he deserved.

“What are you doing?” we both shouted at the exact same time.

His eyes were wide, his face and clothes soaked all the way through.

“Seriously, why did you do that?” I demanded.

“Why are you out here?” he shot back.

I wanted to continue yelling at him, but I had to draw in a breath of air. “I don’t know,” I said. “Why are you out here?”

“I followed you,” he said. “And before you accuse me of thinking you’re trying to steal something, I was worried about you.”