Anabel must have recognized him. Surely she'd seen him at the funeral, or in photographs. She drew a breath in sharply, her fingers clenching tight around mine.

"What's he doing here?" I breathed. But I knew. I had challenged him when we spoke earlier in the evening. I'd threatened him, almost.

And now my phone, and Ana's, and even Gran's, were all inside.

Royal stood next to his car for a moment, Porkie dancing around his feet with excitement, having transitioned from a vicious guard dog into a welcoming committee of one in an instant. He ignored her. It was such a surreal moment: none of us said a word for what felt like forever.

He broke the silence. "Tabitha. I just came by to check on you. And to talk."

I didn't respond.

"Who's your friend?"

Neither of us offered Anabel's name. "We're fine, Uncle Royal. We were just getting ready to turn in for the night. You should go home. We can talk in the morning."

He spread his hands, starting toward us over the gravel drive. I couldn't see him clearly enough in the dark to make out his expression, but I could see the shape of him, his silhouette slightly bowed, as if the weight of all his years were resting even now on his shoulders. "Oh, now, we can talk for just a minute, can't we?" he asked. "I came all this way. Your friend can wait inside for a minute. Family matters."

"Please go," I said. "I'm not asking."

Royal stopped at the edge of the driveway. I could feel his gaze upon me, sharp and calculating. I wondered if there was anybody else in the world, aside from my Gran, who knew just how crafty he was.

Then he reached into the pocket of the jacket he was wearing. Anabel breathed my name, and my heart plummeted into my stomach.

The shape of the gun in Royal's hand was unmistakable, back lit by the street light.

"Be reasonable," said Royal, "and let's go inside to talk."

***

I sat in the center of the dining room floor with my back against Anabel's, my hand folded over hers in an attempt to offer her some comfort. She was crying. I was just as terrified as she was, but I hadn't hit the tears stage, yet. I think I was too scared to cry. Is that possible?

Uncle Royal had forced us to sit there on the floor together, a distance from anything we might be able to grab—including Ana's phone and Gran's, which he had immediately put into the zippered pocket of his jacket. He had left Porkie outside. We could hear her occasional whine, the scrape of her toenails on the door, but it was a small comfort to know that she would be out of harm's way.

Royal hadn't come here to talk, just as he hadn't called to check up on me after he'd learned about Gran's diaries. He was wearing latex gloves. He had a gun. He had a plan, and I could guess what it was: kill me because of what I knew and make it look like some kind of accident. Maybe a home invasion, a robbery.

But he was sweating, as Gran would have said, like a stuck pig. Whatever it was he'd planned for tonight had not included Anabel. He was older than the two of us combined. I couldn't be sure, but that had to be part of what was making him so obviously nervous.

"Tell me where it is," he said.

He had no idea what the diary looked like. Could I buy us some time while I tried to figure out what to do? If I could just distract him, maybe Anabel and I could overpower him. "I'm not sure. I don't remember where I left it."

Royal raised his eyebrows at me, pointing at me with the gun. "Tabitha, I am not a fool. On the phone today, you implied that you had read some very troubling things. Am I to believe that you misplaced what you must consider a very important piece of evidence?"

I glared up at him.

"Tell me where it is!" Royal snapped.

"It's in the living room!" Anabel said, her voice thick with tears. "Somewhere in there, near the couch, maybe. It's a green notebook."

I closed my eyes, smothering my disappointment and my pain. She was scared. I was scared. I should be smarter. I should just let him take the notebook. But if he took it—and Gran's phone—he'd have all the evidence we had against him.

Did he plan to leave here with witnesses who knew his secret?

Royal kept the gun trained on us as he moved into the living room, flicking glances between us, the cluttered end tables, and the afghan-festooned furniture. Within seconds, he had found the notebook lying on the couch, and he returned to the dining room, looking relieved.

I hated him.

"What did you read in here?" he asked.

"You know what we read, or you wouldn't be here," I said.

He sighed. "I have no appetite for arguments," he muttered. "I am tired. You cannot understand how very tired I am. I need to put all this to rest."

"We won't tell anybody," Ana said. "I swear. Just don't hurt us."

He shook his head, cutting his gaze away from us, although the gun remained leveled in our direction. "I wish it could be different, but I'm afraid I have no choice."

"Like you had no choice but to kill the girl who loved you," I said, my voice brittle. "Like you had no choice but to murder Gran."

He looked at me with such surprise that even then, facing my own death, I felt a keen satisfaction. Then his face darkened, and he raised the gun.

There was a creak on the stair. Royal flinched, turning toward the sound.

There was a gunshot, ear-shattering inside the house. An unearthly force flooded over us. I pulled Anabel into my arms, folding myself around her and bending us down, straining to keep an eye on Royal, who had staggered back, the gun slipping from his fingers.

Behind him, I saw a shadow standing just outside the open doorway of Gran's bedroom. It was the same shadowy figure I'd glimpsed the first day I'd tried to enter that room. But it was still, a silent witness like we were, as whatever force had swept toward Royal moved once again through the dining room, stealing the air right from our lungs.

I caught my breath and released Ana, lunging for the gun. I dragged it back toward us across the floor with shaking hands, but I didn't have to fight for it. Royal was on his back on the floor, his spine arched, clutching at his chest, staring wild-eyed up at the ceiling.

"Ana, call 911," I said. "My phone's in the kitchen."

"I don't think I can. I think I'm hurt."

Jolted, I looked at her. I hadn't noticed in the chaos but I saw it now: from the knee down, her right leg was soaked with blood. "No. Oh, my God, no, no."

"It's okay." She looked more confused than alarmed.

"What happened?!" It was the first thing out of my mouth, although obviously—

"I think I got shot." Anabel stared at me, white-faced with shock and pain, her cheeks wet.

"You got shot?" I knelt over her, my hands overing over her wounded leg. I would not have thought it possible to be more afraid than I'd been before, but this terror was nearly an out-of-body experience. "Ana!"

She turned away, though, looking at Royal. I followed her gaze long enough to see that he was still on the floor, incapacitated. Then I touched her leg, and my fingertips came away slick with blood. "I have to call for help," I breathed. "Where's the phone?"

"Where's the gun?"

"Where's the—here. Here." I handed her the gun. I had no idea what I was doing with the weapon and I didn't think she would, either, but there was no time for thought—only for action. "Keep him there."

Clarity came to her expression suddenly. "Tabithadon'tplease—"

"I'll be right back, I promise. They're with you."

I shot to my feet and ran to the kitchen. The shadow was gone when I passed Gran's room. I dropped my phone as soon as I had it in hand. When I picked it up, the screen was cracked.

"Fuck. Fuck, please work."

It did.