So Maggie was on her own. She read. She cleaned. She walked along the beach. She poked around the strip of woods and stood for a long time staring at a single oak in a stand of maples, wondering why the tree kept its copper leaves. And for some reason—maybe because of the episode at the party, which, however scary, she’d managed to survive, or maybe because of Linnie, who lingered in Maggie’s thoughts (sometimes like a sad cautionary tale and sometimes like a frank feminist)—by Friday night, she felt steady enough to tackle the Jane Cannon situation.

It’d been days since she even picked up her phone. In the loft, she checked her missed calls first. Almost all of them were from her parents. Maggie grimaced, remembering her most recent conversation with her mother. “It doesn’t make sense that I can only reach you on Wren’s landline, Mags,” her mom had said. “You do have a cell, you know.” Maggie had mumbled something about forgetting to turn it on, an excuse Mom had rejected with a sigh.

Maggie checked her texts to procrastinate a little longer. She had only a few of those. Mail, however: a ton. Feeling shaky but determined, she began to work her way through the emails, not opening them, but registering the subject headings and deleting as she went. Almost right away, however, she found a message from Jane Cannon—a new one.

This time, Maggie wasn’t surprised.

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through her mouth. In the windows over the bed, the night sky bloomed. The moon was the thinnest crescent, as slight as a nail clipping. The loft was dark, except for the glow from the phone.

She tapped the screen.

Jane Cannon

To: Margaret Arioli

Just me

October 28 at 10:53 PM

I hate it here. I’m frightened all the time. I wake up from nightmares every night. I want to believe it wasn’t a big deal, and I tell myself to get over it, but I can’t. I just can’t. And if I can’t forget it, how do I live with it?

“Oh, Jane,” Maggie whispered. She didn’t know how a person lived with it. She couldn’t figure that out for anyone, least of all herself.

She reread the message and, with a trembling hand, put down her phone. Then, swearing under her breath, she immediately picked it up again. Heart pounding, she hit REPLY.

Hi, Jane. I apologize for not writing back sooner. I’ve been avoiding my phone.

I’m really sorry about what happened to you. It’s good that you contacted me.

She stalled, suddenly overwhelmed, stuck in sadness, sympathy, futility, dread. How to proceed? How to help?