The tables around the breakfast spread were full of an odd menagerie of customers. Quite a few of them were young, darkly or eclectically dressed; one thirty-something man carried video camera equipment wherever he went as if afraid to miss something (though the most interesting thing going on at breakfast was an occasional swear when someone burned a tongue or dropped a muffin), and there was an eccentric old woman wearing a baggy patchwork romper, her braided gray hair down to her waist and the tattoos on her neck and bare arms peeking through her wrinkles. Marie Aubert moved table to table, refilled coffee, chatted with her patrons. She was dressed head-to-toe in black, had even painted her nails black and wore black lipstick; she'd always been a bit less daring in her attire than her younger sister, but the rise in business had convinced her to lean in a bit more. A grotesque unsolved mystery was the perfect amenity, and it'd come only at the cost of Emmett's life!

Marie didn't really feel that way. She was horrified by what'd happened to her almost brother-in-law. In fact, she was almost too freaked out to stay in her own building . . . almost. The promise of income overrode her fear, especially once the Friendship Room had been thoroughly cleaned.

At first, Marie and Anjulie had thought to close the room indefinitely, perhaps entirely rehab it, but even before the biohazard remediation team had finished its job, requests to stay in that room full of dolls began pouring in. Marie didn't want to say no to the patronage, yet she deferred to her sister out of respect; had Anjulie been opposed, Marie would've relented. Anjulie hadn't, though—in fact, she'd been rather insistent that it wasn't the room itself that had harmed Emmett, that they should use the publicity to their benefit. Marie hadn't vacillated after that. She'd begun filling requests. Still, she required guests to sign a waiver before inhabiting the room, freeing herself and her sister of any responsibility should something happen.

As far as meals went, up until recently, Hal had taken orders, but with every room full every day, the Inn had changed how it provided sustenance, adding a small buffet with the option for self-service. This morning's breakfast still felt like something of a test run. Hal continued to fill the chafing dishes with scrambled eggs, bacon, and sausage, and the table also held an assortment of yogurts, fruit, and pastries. For those desiring waffles or pancakes or omelets, the cook would head back into his kitchen and make them fresh.

The coffee was always fresh, as well, the best local bean in town, and Anjulie sure as hell needed seconds. Making sure no one was watching, the woman left her position at reception and made a beeline for the kitchen, where she refilled her large mug. She'd been surviving off little more than black coffee and whiskey for the past couple of weeks. Her sister had made remarks about her clothing looking too large, but Anjulie was unsure how to eat when her stomach was in a constant knot, when every time her mind wandered to the image of Emmett on the ground bile rose in her throat.

"You all right?" Hal croaked over the waffle iron he was turning.

Anjulie forced her lips into a poor semblance of a grin and left the kitchen to return to her post at the front. A pang of guilt struck her again as she recalled missing another night at home with Silas. The poor boy had faced such trauma, and she couldn't even be home with him. Normally, Anjulie would've trusted Bijou to show the boy some love, but lately, her daughter had been something of a hot mess, coming and going at weird hours of the night, probably getting drunk or high or who-knew-what—oh, God. Anjulie bent over the reception desk, heaved a big breath. Bijou's getting into trouble, she thought, just like I did. She needs to find a purpose!

The woman tapped her fingers impatiently across the wood desk. She'd wanted to get them all together—her and Joanna and Danielle and Helen—but not like this. Each of them wanted to see her, but separately. The whole thing was so irritating. If the four of them could just sit down and talk about what'd happened, see if they could work through what was happening now, they might figure something out! But they'd never seemed capable of facing one another. That'd been understandable when they were terrified teens, but they weren't those teens anymore. The worst of it was not knowing the goal, what Kitty wanted. Anjulie was fairly sure it'd killed Emmett to torment her, to remind her of what had been and what might be. That was why she'd convinced Marie to let the room: Kitty wasn't after strangers. All of its haunting had pointed to Anjulie. She was sure it was messing with the others, as well, and when Helen had reached out to her, that confirmation had almost been a relief for Anjulie, to know it hadn't singled her out.

Her phone chimed, and Anjulie glanced at the text to find a message from the very woman she'd been thinking about. Just parked. Bringing Junie.

Why Helen had felt inclined to text about arriving was beyond Anjulie, but she had little time to think of it before the front door opened and in walked a woman she hadn't seen in nearly two decades yet immediately recognized. Helen hadn't changed much, only aged. Still the mousy brown hair (though now it was cut into a flattering bob), the curvaceous figure (which was now dressed in stylish clothing more suited to her than a Catholic girls' uniform), and that cheerful-cheeked face that, in spite of the unfortunate circumstances, couldn't help but offer Anjulie a perfunctory grin. Helen wasn't what anyone would call gorgeous, but she had a confidence about her as she approached the desk that she most certainly hadn't had in eighth grade, and that confidence produced an appeal of its own. Behind her trailed a morose young girl who resembled her mother at that age except for her large, nearly-black eyes, thick-lashed, their shape emanating an inescapable melancholy.

"It's been forever," Helen chirped, more positive than seemed fitting. Then, much to Anjulie's shock, the woman reached over the reception desk and wrapped her in a hug.

"Helen, hey. It's—good to see you again." Anjulie could hardly deliver the words as she pulled out of the embrace. None of this was good. Not really. Turning to the dining area, she caught her sister's eye, nodded. Marie headed over.

Helen drew back. "I was so, so sorry to hear about your fiancé."

"Right. Thank you."

"You haven't been sleeping, have you?"

The question threw Anjulie a bit; she'd made a real effort to put on some makeup and decent clothes today.

"Neither have I," Helen went on, inclining her head toward the girl at her back. She turned sharply and snapped, "Junie, go sit in that chair by the windows, there. See the bookshelf? Take a look." Without a word, the girl ambled toward her assigned destination at the same moment Marie reached the desk.

Anjulie re-introduced her sister and Helen, who barely remembered one another, and then took her break, leading her old peer to a card table far enough away from everyone else that they'd be able to speak more freely. The two of them slipped into wingback chairs, Anjulie setting her coffee on the table though not taking her hands from it. Sunlight beamed in through the stained glass, casting pale golden and green splotches across the women's faces and shoulders. The image of the window in the Friendship Room flashed through Anjulie's thoughts, the way it splayed its red across the carpeting and bed; she recalled the large talking doll. Thank God Marie had taken over doing everything in that room—cleaning it, recording the messages for the guests, checking people into and out of it. In fact, she'd taken that entire side of rooms, leaving the opposite four to Anjulie.

"It knows we killed Emily," Helen suddenly blurted, cutting through the gentle, sunny ambience.

Anjulie ground her teeth as she considered how to respond. Helen was blunt, but at least she was ready to talk. "We didn't kill Emily."

"Kitty called it murder. What else would you call it? It's about time someone said it out loud. If it has to be me, well, fine. I'm going to do whatever it takes for Junie, and I'm just getting really tired of people not taking me seriously!"

"Hold on, Helen!" Anjulie lost her breath just listening to the woman get worked up. "I'm the one that asked you here, remember? I am taking you seriously. But just back up a minute. What did you mean when you said . . . you said"—she lowered her voice considerably—"Kitty called it murder? Did it talk to you?"

Helen shook her head, looking suddenly quite miserable, as if she'd let out her steam and couldn't build up to boiling again. She sighed. "Junie said it."

Anjulie darted a glance at the girl, who appeared entirely innocuous if not bored. "Your daughter?"

"Yes. She's been talking to herself for a while. I thought it was just a weird psychological thing, but then I . . . after I tried to take her to someone, well, it didn't work. And when she told me the murder thing, it wasn't her talking. Does that make sense? Just the way she looked at me . . . I knew. The thing was talking through her."

"Like—like it possessed her?" Anjulie's frown lengthened as her thoughts shifted. When Helen reluctantly nodded, Anjulie became pensive. "It's never done that before . . . has it? I don't remember it getting . . . inside anyone, none of us . . . do you?"

"No!" Helen cried a little too loudly. Junie raised her head as if listening, then lowered it once her mother calmed herself. "Joanna's boy, he's behaving weird, too. She's told me. He's not himself. She thinks he's hurting people, or some other kid, anyway."

No wonder Helen appeared so on edge, Anjulie realized; she was living in fear of her own child.

"What about you?" Helen wearily asked.

"Me?"

"Yes."

"My fiancé got his guts sucked out of him like he was some inflatable toy," Anjulie snarked. "You don't think that was enough?"

Helen huffed. "No, I know that. But, I mean, with the kids. You have a daughter, right?"

Anjulie wanted to maintain her flippancy, for some reason, but her attention was instead arrested by the geometric pattern on Helen's bag. For a moment, she just sort of stared, chewed her lower lip. "Yes," she said at length. "Bijou."

"Okaaaay . . . have you noticed anything weird with her?"

"I . . ." Anjulie's immediate inclination was to say no, and yet, hadn't she literally just been wondering about her daughter's behavior? The absences at night, Bijou's seeming lack of memory about where she'd been, her disinterest in arguing (that'd been a big one) . . . "I don't know," was all she could honestly answer. Her stomach felt hollow, suddenly. She pulled at the neckline of her black tee, wanted to be alone for a moment. "You need a drink?"

Helen was startled. "A-a drink? Like, a drink drink? It's nine in the—"

"Good. Me too." Without waiting for the inevitable rebuff, Anjulie hurried through the lobby, past Marie and her querying, and into the kitchen, where, indifferent to Hal's concern, she poured herself a half-tumbler of whiskey and downed it.

How had she missed it? How had she so carelessly attributed Bijou's conduct to typical young adult rebellion? If her daughter were in some sort of danger from that thing and the whole while she'd been frittering away the days feeling concerned for three women who'd not spoken to her in years . . . oh, Anjulie would never forgive herself.

She had to call Bijou. She'd left the girl alone all night with Silas again.

Sloppily dumping more whiskey into the glass, Anjulie scooped it up and swung out of the back door with the intention of making the call from the tiny rectangular courtyard beyond; she hadn't anticipated someone would be out there already, rising from one of the two benches at the sight of her.

Exasperated, Anjulie muttered a brief apology and would've spun back into the building had not the quirky old woman spoken.

"Are you in need of an exorcist, my child?"

Stopping so quickly the amber liquid sloshed from the top of her tumbler, Anjulie gaped. "What?"

The woman in her weird patchwork romper took a few steps closer. "There's an evil spirit in your life, isn't there, dear?"

Anjulie could only shake her head in bewilderment.

"I know your struggles," the woman added, near enough to put her hand on Anjulie's arm, "and I can help."