How many times had I woken in the middle of the night from that same dream? The one I’d never told anyone about. Where I shoved Daphne, my hands making contact with her lace dress. The burst of anger. The gasp of her breath. The fear turning to surprise in her eyes. Her small frame falling back, disappearing before my eyes like a trick, an optical illusion.

Only it wasn’t a dream. It had really happened.

I could only hear my breath now, shallow and hard.

In my nightmare, I always tried to snatch Daphne back. My hand reached out, fingers stretching as she fell, snagging one thin scrap of bridal lace before it tore. Before she screamed. Before the blur of white became utter blackness.

We’d gotten the wrong babysitter.

FORTY-THREE

Theresa

Ellen’s hands were pressed up to her face in shock.

“I didn’t. I didn’t.”

She shook her head, backed up.

Then she ran. Across the bridge, to the far side, disappearing into the woods.

I had no time to worry about Ellen.

“Lily,” I yelled, rushing onto the platform. I was terrified to look down. The tears were blurring my face as I caught sight of her pale dress, standing out against the blackness.

But the white was closer than I expected, swaying back and forth, undulating like a strange flag.

Lily was hanging from the platform, clutching the metal bar that lipped the edge.

“Help me,” she said, just above a whisper, as if the force of speaking loudly might take her down.

“Hold on!” I knelt, grabbed her wrists. How small and delicate they seemed.

I didn’t have the strength to hoist her up. She was going to fall because of me. Fall to her death.

“You’re fine,” I said, searching for something to help. “You’re going to be fine.” But there was nothing. I kept hold of her wrists, worried her grip would loosen. Praying help would come.

Then she moved, letting go.

“No, Lily, no. Stop.”

But she was shimmying along the iron bar, like she was on the monkey bars on a playground, to get closer to the bridge. I had no idea how old the bar was. Or how well it would hold her weight. But if she could get closer to the bridge, she could use the side of it for leverage.

“That’s it, Lily. Use your foot,” I said. “Get a foothold.”

She kicked out. Somehow she dug her shoe into a gap in the concrete on the side of the bridge. She used it to push up, and I lay across the platform, reaching for her arms. I felt her lift, press into me.

“Good. Use me, climb me.” I gripped her upper arms.

Then her foot slipped. She fell from my grasp, screaming, but managed to hang on to the bar by one arm now.