“We know the house is empty. We’ve been over every inch.” I aim for a reassuring tone, though whether that’s for her benefit or to quieten the cacophony inside me, I’m not sure. My first instinct when I stopped screaming was indeed to call the police, but Fiona was more practical. She organized us into checking every room, every cupboard, every crawl space in the house, to ensure whoever put the skull there wasn’t still in the house—all three of us together, none of us willing to venture anywhere alone. And once we knew the house was safe, the urgency to call the police had abated. Though since we’ve retreated to the kitchen, Fiona’s control of the situation has evaporated and she’s barely said a word. Even now her head is down, her eyes on her mug, as if she can’t hear the world around her, as if every ounce of herself is contained and focused within her own skin. “We’ve been through this—that thing could have been there for days. It’s not a room we’ve been using,” I continue. “It doesn’t seem like an emergency. I mean, it’s not like there’s any chance of resuscitation.” Carrie grimaces and pulls her dressing gown more tightly closed at her throat. When she burst out of her bedroom, she wasn’t wearing anything at all; she had to grab it before we made our rounds. Funny that she woke for my screams and not for the smoke alarm . . . “Did you have your earplugs in last night?”

She shakes her head. “Too much wine. I guess I forgot. I didn’t even take my makeup off.” Two empty wine bottles are still sitting on the table between us, underlining her point. “Why were you up? And why did you go into that room anyway?” she asks suddenly.

“Fiona woke me up.”

Fiona lifts her head at this and looks at me expressionlessly. “What?”

“You came into my room—don’t you remember?” She’s still looking at me. Not a flicker of emotion has crossed her face. “I don’t know why. But it woke me up.”

Carrie looks at Fiona. “Did you?” she asks hesitantly.

“I dinnae think so,” Fiona says thoughtfully. Her head is tipped, and her eyes are looking off to one side, as if she’s trying to remember. Or imagine. “But . . .” She shrugs. It’s the most expression I’ve seen from her since she stumbled onto the landing after my screaming. “I cannae think why I would have. Granted I’m never the most reliable on this stuff, but usually I actually have the memories, I just cannae tell when they’re from. Maybe with the wine, though—”