I look up, whirling round, heart pounding. Who called me? It sounded like they were right next to me, hissing in my ear, but I’m alone. It’s mid-afternoon, but with the trees arching up and over, blocking the weak sun, it could be night. The lane is unlit and the woods have faded, become part of the greater dark.

“Who’s there?” I say, my whisper sounding too loud. My neck prickles—someone’s out here, watching me, following me.

I close my eyes and there she is, clear in my mind: Bella stepping out from behind a tree in her tank top and jeans, a dark smudge I know is blood on her forehead.

Once upon a time, she says. Once upon a time, two girls went into the woods…

I can’t breathe. My heart pounds and I can’t take a breath. In the back of my mind, I hear shouting. Me, shouting at Bella, then another voice, tantalizingly familiar, a male hand pushing my tangled hair out of my eyes, wiping away a tear. What is it? When was this? It won’t come into focus.

Come on, she says, beckoning me into the trees. Come into the woods. Let’s finish the story.

I shake my head and back away, turning and running back toward the house. No, I can’t do it. Not the woods, not the woods, never the woods.

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Max and Lena have gone out shopping and Dad’s pottering around downstairs when I step into Julia’s room. I tiptoe in quietly in case she’s still sleeping, but she’s awake. More than awake: she’s up, buttoning a jade-green cardigan over her purple striped pajamas.

“Julia—you should be resting.”

She looks up and gives me a tired smile. “All I’ve done in the last two days is sleep. Right now I need to be up to greet my guests.” She holds out her arms. “Hello, Tess.”

I go over and hug her, careful not to squeeze because she feels so thin and fragile. Last time I saw her, in the hospital, she was bloated from the medication, given a fake bloom of health by the chemotherapy drugs. The fake bloom is all gone now and I have to work hard to hide my shock at how ill she looks. She hasn’t lost that bright shock of red hair, but even in the half-light, I see how much more gray is threaded through the red.

“Don’t,” she says, seeing me looking and touching her head. “I wanted to dye the roots before you came, but I can’t do the chemicals anymore.”

“I’m so sorry…” I begin, guilt heavy in my gut.