Alexa dreamed that she was inside the Pink House. She had passed this house on the way to Plum Island a million times, as a passenger, as a driver, on a bike, once on foot, but she had given very little thought to it. All she knew was that it was widely rumored to be a spite house, built in the 1920s by a man for his ex-wife who demanded a replica of their home as part of their divorce settlement. He put it in the middle of a salt marsh—that was the spite part.

Wasn’t it just like a guy, to do something like that for no freaking reason other than that he could?

As far as Alexa was aware, nobody she knew had ever been inside the Pink House, though people had speculated far and wide about what the interior looked like.

The dream was shot like a movie, so that first she saw the outside of the Pink House, with the narrow stone path leading up to it. The camera zoomed in on a close-up of the chipped pink paint, the sign that said government property—no trespassing! Birds nested in the cupola.

Then the dream Google-earthed her into the center of the house, and up a rickety staircase to a bedroom. The bedroom was decorated with an ornate armoire, a dusty oval full-length mirror and a four-poster bed. There was a woman lying in bed, or a girl. She was dressed in a cobwebby wedding dress. Miss Havisham?

The camera cut again, and now Alexa was looking down at the wedding dress. She was Miss Havisham. Left at the altar? She fingered the heavy silk. She looked at her arms, which were covered by lace. This couldn’t really be happening. Alexa would never, ever choose a long-sleeved wedding dress.

Also, who would leave Alexa Thornhill at the altar? Please.

There came a gentle rapping on the door to the bedroom, and before Alexa could say, “Come in,” the door opened and a face poked around the doorway. It was Cam. He surveyed the room, grinning. He said, “I need to get you out of here, Alexa. This place is lousy with asbestos, you know.”

“How do you know that?” asked Alexa.

“It’s what I wrote my college essay about,” said Cam. “It’s what got me into St. Mike’s.”

“This house?”

“Yes. This house is iconic. This house has inspired the imaginations of so many people.”

In the dream, this all seemed completely plausible. In the dream, this was an acceptable topic for a college essay.