Marie looked thoughtful. “What if I told you it was for my own good?”

My skin pricked up. A primal, instinctive fear draped itself around me, much the same way it had when I’d been alone with her in her house. “I might believe you if you said that.”

“Okay then,” she said. “It’s for my own good.”

She gestured toward the cemetery. The graveyard was fenced in by wrought iron that was badly in need of repair. The main gate looked like it had come off its hinges ages ago, and the spiky pickets sat at odd angles between the trees.

Marie slipped her hand into mine and a nervous flutter invaded my stomach. Nyx stayed by the car as Marie pulled me through the cemetery gates.

The place might have been tranquil once, but now bits of pale marble headstones stuck out of the overgrown foliage like broken, jagged teeth. It was so quiet all I could hear was the beat of my heart, which sped up every time Marie readjusted her grip.

My phone rang and Karter’s name flashed on the screen. Marie paused. I tried to silence it, but accidentally declined his call.

“Making friends already?” Marie asked.

“It’s a guy I met at the bookstore. The one on Market Street. He’s my friend. Just my friend.” I wanted to make that really, really clear.

She didn’t even try to hide how happy that made her.

“Market Street?” she asked. “The used-book place?”

“Yeah. You know it?”

“It’s new. Opened a few months ago.”

“Oh.” I thought Karter had mentioned working there longer than that. As I tried to remember what he’d said, I noticed that the overgrown grass was leaning toward me. Marie turned and glanced at the ground. I stepped back, letting go of her hand and swatting at the grass, trying to make it stop reaching for me.

“I’m not surprised by much,” Marie said. “But that ability, that gift you share with the people who have come before you—it never fails to amaze me. It’s nice to see it again after all these years.”

Part of me understood that she knew about me. But hearing her say that and moving on like it was no big deal made me feel like I’d put down a heavy burden.

The fiery evening sky was quickly swallowed by the starry night. In the dying light, ancient-looking oaks twisted in the darkness. As we moved by, they creaked and groaned.

“Most people who’ve died in the last thirty years are buried over in Grasmere Cemetery,” Marie said. “This place is much, much older and holds the remains of families whose lineages stretch back generations.”

A granite tombstone with a sculpted angel draped over it, mourning, sat among a gathering of gnarled trees. The name and date carved on its face read Beekman 1623–1707.