"Did she call you yet? Fucking ignore her. Don't answer."

"She left a message."

"So she did call? What is she trying to do? Damnit, Joanna, I don't know what her game is, but we have to ignore her! Thank God Helen didn't answer, either. As far as I can tell, none of us actually talked to her. You'd better be telling me the truth."

Joanna realized she was chewing on two of her fingernails and irritatedly tore her hand from her mouth. "I haven't talked to any of you in forever, Danielle, especially not Anjulie. I don't think she'd call us if it wasn't important. I mean, did you hear what she said?"

"No. I blocked her."

"She said her financé—"

"I know, all right?" Danielle's voice oozed disdain. "Helen told me what she said. So the guy she was about to marry died. What does that have to do with us?"

"But . . ." Joanna paused, all of what she'd always felt around Danielle rushing back.

"What? Just spit it out already. Just fucking say it."

Taking a deep breath, reminding herself she was a grown woman, now, with a handsome husband and an adorable child and a home she ran and decorated herself, Joanna attempted to imbue her response with confidence: "The way of it all . . . it was the same as . . . as with her."

"You mean Emily."

Joanna cringed at the name.

"So what? So it's Anjulie lying or being a bitch, trying to get back at us for the way we cold-shouldered her. I don't believe her for a minute."

"Well I . . . I might not either, except it's been on the news, here. Not the details, but just that . . . oh, people talk. There was definitely something really horrible and weird about the whole thing."

Danielle scoffed on the other end. "Probably did it to himself. Anjulie was a total freak. I can't imagine anyone being able to put up with her for long. Hell, for all we know, she killed him. I wouldn't put it past her, after everything she put us through."

The clock in the kitchen was chiming eight. It'd been a long day, and Joanna was quickly tiring of this conversation. Danielle had always been capable of sucking the energy out of her with a few words, a withering glance—at least this was a phone call, no evil eyes or curling lips to send her into a corner. "Listen, I have to go. My husband will be home soon, and I . . . I need to get dinner on the table."

"It's a little late for dinner, isn't it? Are you just trying to get rid of me?"

"Um . . . no. Egon comes home late most nights. His summer hours, they're just . . . he's adjunct at two schools. He works a lot."

"He's cheating on you."

"What? No, no. It's his commute—"

"He's cheating! They always are."

Joanna's ire rose. She forgot to whom she was speaking. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Danielle, but as far as I know you have never even dated a man let alone been married to one! You have no idea what it's like to be—I mean—you don't know Egon, and frankly, you don't know me anymore, either! So just—just shut up!" She pulled the phone from her face and ended the call before Danielle could say anything else. Her hands were shaking; her whole body was shaking. And yet a triumphant grin nearly took over her trembling chin until she recalled the nagging that had played at her heart for the past six weeks, some sensitive spot Danielle had touched.

But she wasn't going to think of that. It did no good to sit and worry about Egon; she had enough stress just thinking about Ben.

Feeling a sudden weakness in her legs, Joanna grabbed a nearby kitchen chair and pulled it out, sat on it. She placed an elbow on the table, her face in her hand. Danielle didn't understand because she'd never given anyone else a chance to explain themselves, ever; she'd always bulldozed her way over every conversation. If she'd let Joanna talk . . . if she'd just given Anjulie's concerns a little thought . . .

Withdrawing her hand from her face, Joanna entered the code on her phone and swiped to the brief text Helen had sent her earlier that morning:

Anjulie's right. It's back. It's doing something to my daughter. I don't know who else to talk to—please meet with me.

And then a place, and a date and time. Two days out. Nearby. Helen must be desperate if she were going to drive the two hours just to talk.

Joanna had never left town; neither had Anjulie. They'd both stayed put, even after all that had happened, their lives never quite pulling them from the magnetism of the trauma they'd lived. Joanna had attended a local university, obtained a decent degree in communications, and then ended up working at a convention center in the city. She lived with her husband and child in the very same suburb where she'd grown up, though her parents had moved to Florida years ago. Anjulie, as far as Joanna knew through surreptitious social media use, owned a weird bed and breakfast downtown, one of those themed places. She'd taken a look at its website once or twice, seen a couple pictures of Anjulie (envied her continued coolness, her Goth-girl-grown-up vibe), and yet managed in the last ten years or so never to run into her. It was a big city, and Joanna seldom had reason to be downtown or in any subdivision beyond her own. Her world was small, now. Or perhaps it had always been small; the walls around it had always been there, but she'd never quite felt them so much as she did now.

The hairs at her nape prickled unexpectedly, and Joanna turned to see a ghostly figure staring at her in the doorway. She gasped briefly and then realized it was her son. He'd been doing that a lot, lately—sneaking up. She didn't think he did it with the intention of frightening her, but there was something about his silence, his ability to appear as if out of nowhere, that deeply unsettled her.

"Ben! You startled me. What—do you need something . . . s-sweetheart?" She hated that she struggled to say the last word.

"Who were you talking to?" The boy's fingers curled around the wooden doorframe. Joanna noted how white the knuckles were.

"Just an old friend."

Ben remained expressionless. "You sounded angry."

Joanna bit her lip, forced a weak smile, and rose. "No, no. Just a—a spirited conversation. About old things. But you should be getting ready for bed. Have . . . have you showered?"

Rather than respond, the boy turned into the dark hallway and left, heading back upstairs. His mother felt immediate relief, though she was ashamed of the fact. She was beginning to despise being alone with the child, and she hated herself for feeling it, but something was going on with him, whether Egon refused to consider it serious or not. Why, that event at the pool should've convinced him, but instead of questioning and punishing their child, Egon had accused the pool staff of negligence, of false accusation, of misinterpretation of the situation, of anything he could think of. He'd wanted to know the name of the women who'd claimed his boy had misbehaved, but of course, that request hadn't been fulfilled, even after he'd threatened to bring in his lawyer. Only when Joanna had intervened, told him she hated that pool anyway, that they could easily use the nearby country club's amenities if they paid a certain fee, had Egon relented. His wife knew her husband would appreciate that extra sense of exclusivity and elitism that leaving the public pool for a private pool would offer.

Still, all of it had been humiliating. More than that, Joanna was sure her son's accusers hadn't been lying. What she'd sensed in the boy—the looks, the reticence, the skulking—pointed to something very wrong within him. She hadn't taken him out around other children since that afternoon at the pool; they'd spent much time indoors. The few times his friend had come by, Joanna had sent Tommy away. But she couldn't keep Ben isolated forever. She just wished she knew what to do.

So Helen's text about her own daughter had given her some form of hope. Well, not quite hope, but a lifeline of sorts. It'd also terrified her. If the thing were back . . .

Oh, God. She didn't want to consider it. Not after what they'd been through.

Joanna had spent the better part of the last fifteen years trying to convince herself that none of it had actually happened the way it had, that the police reports had been accurate, that everything with Emily had been a terrible, terrible freak accident. As horrible as that would've been, it was far preferable to what Joanna and the others knew had happened. What had really gone on that night.

And Emily—oh, why had it been her? Joanna was weak. She'd always been. Back then, they'd blamed Anjulie out loud, but Joanna had always internally believed Danielle to be the instigator; now, though, especially after speaking to Danielle once again, Joanna knew she'd been at fault as much as (maybe even more than) anyone else.

She'd hated Emily, too.

This was payback. If the thing were here, again, it was as punishment. Perhaps Joanna had always known that whatever they'd started wasn't over. It claims five souls—that's what Anjulie had made up fifteen years earlier; whether or not it was true, whether it would do what Anjulie had said, was unclear, but if it did intend to take five people, it had taken only one, as far as they knew. Maybe Anjulie's fiancé was a second? Joanna hoped so. The man held no value for her. Maybe the thing would just pester Anjulie.

But Helen had said something about her daughter, and Benny was being strange, that was for sure . . .

She definitely needed to meet with Helen. Danielle had made her position quite clear, and Joanna was hesitant to connect with Anjulie just yet. Helen had always annoyed them all with her holier-than-thou-ness, but Joanna knew Helen at least wouldn't berate or mock her. Even if Helen had turned into an absolutely obnoxious hypocrite after what'd happened with Emily, she was the most level-headed, least judgmental of them to speak with now.

Joanna felt suddenly ill. She bent over the table and took a few deep breaths. The silence was close to comforting, but the intrusive thoughts, images, words—she couldn't stop them. Emily's parents, their faces . . . her sister's choked sobbing . . . the bitter, bitter cold . . . the nightmare become reality . . .

The front door slammed. Joanna bolted upright. Momentarily forgetting the swamp of her memories, she left the kitchen and hurried down the hall. Opening the door, she caught sight of two boys biking down the road, disappearing into the dusk. One was surely Ben. Where he was headed was anyone's guess, and his mother was uncertain whether she should worry or not. Surely this was nothing to concern the police about, especially considering the recent pool issue. Benny would be fine . . . probably . . . just a couple of boys being mischievous in the summer evening, packing in as much play as possible before school resumed in several weeks.

Staring outside into the gloaming, shapes and shadows hovering between worlds, the woman wished her husband were home. Egon would know what to do. He'd be annoyed if she called, though; he always was.

She slowly tore her eyes from the world beyond her walls and closed the door, moved through the gloomy house in a state of internal conflict. On returning to the brightly lit kitchen, though, Joanna startled to see every one of the fifteen upper and lower cabinet doors wide open, revealing their inner shelves and artifacts. Her breath quickened; a strange fizzling tingled in her fingers and toes and along her scalp. And then, before she could even process what was happening, the cabinets all at once slammed shut, and Joanna, crying out, ran from the house, grabbing her car keys as she went.

She had to find Benny before any irreparable damage could occur.