Only two hours’ sleep last night. I’ve started making a note, part fear, part fascination. What happens when it’s no sleep at all? How long can a person live without any sleep at all? I’ve forgotten what I look like without the dark shadows, without the red-rimmed eyes and the pale skin. I take the unopened box of sleeping pills out of my bag. Why am I so afraid of taking them? A medicated sleep could take away the dreams, stop the sleepwalking—but what if it doesn’t? What if I end up trapped in sleep and the nightmares get stronger, pulling me out of my bed, wandering the woods…

I think Sophie was right. Being back here is not good for me. But what can I do? Not only would it look bad to the police if I suddenly leave, but how could I explain it to Dad? I see him looking at me as I make tea, worry on his face. I don’t want to add to it; he has enough to worry about watching his wife die, while the police hover with their questions and insinuations. I don’t talk about it, but it’s obvious—my insomnia makes itself known in my outward appearance during daylight hours as well as in the dead of night.

“Are you okay?” Dad asks for the hundredth time.

“It’s the quiet,” I say. “I’m not used to it anymore. I’m used to falling asleep to the sound of cars, and music and voices. Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’m fine.”

There’s a knock at the door and we look at each other. Dad gets up and goes to answer it. I hear voices, male, but not voices I immediately recognize. Dad’s frowning as he comes back in, the look of worry still on his face. He’s followed by two men in suits. Detective Levinson is one; the other is younger, shorter, with the same light brown hair as Max.

“Tess? The detectives—they want to talk to you.”

I put my teacup down and stand up. “To me? What about?”

Detective Levinson steps forward to talk. “Nothing to worry about—just a couple of things we want to clear up.” He looks at me and Dad, standing in front of him.

“Please,” he says. “Sit back down, have your tea. I know this is a difficult time and I’m sorry for disturbing you.” They both glance up as he speaks, Julia’s dying presence making itself known.

“Would you like tea or coffee?” Dad asks, and makes himself busy when they accept. I stare down into my own cup. I know why they’re here. So does Bella, existing only in my head, my dreams, but hovering unseen over there next to Dad anyway, face solemn, in her death clothes.

“Have you found something out?” I ask. “About Mr. Lewis?”