CHAPTER ELEVEN

The police remain on the estate well into the morning. Eventually, the guests are allowed to leave. Most do, but Strauss, Veronica, Thomas and Hugo stay. Veronica is inconsolable. She clings to Thomas, and despite his attempts to extricate himself from her grasp, he eventually resigns himself to the situation and gently leads her away.

Strauss tries to speak to the children, but I step in between them and fix her with a baleful stare. "They've suffered enough tonight. They'll be ready to talk to you later."

Something flashes across Strauss's eyes. She lifts her gaze to me, and what I see behind her glasses tells me that she is absolutely capable of murder. But she only nods and excuses herself.

Hugo and Catherine depart next. Hugo appears genuinely mortified, but he isn't too mortified to escort the deceased's wife to her bedroom. Catherine at least has the decency to refuse his escort, leaving him to slink off to a guest room alone.

But she doesn't seem upset either. She doesn't seem to be in shock, just… not upset. Then again, sometimes shock manifests that way. Sometimes, people don't have a response at all, not even the flat effect typically associated with shock.

I can't wrap my head around this. Plenty of people are acting guilty. Hugo is eager to jump into bed with Catherine and almost flaunts that desire. Catherine doesn't seem to care that her husband of twenty years, the father of her two children, has been shot on their boat at a party with her children present at home. Strauss is a reptile, and I wouldn't put it past her to kill Frederick just to see his eyes go dim. Thomas doesn't behave as though he's guilty, but he knew that Frederick went to the boathouse. He might have been the last one to see Frederick alive. And Veronica may weep crocodile tears now, but she didn't seem very in love with Frederick when she was flirting with Thomas, the man she is certainly sharing a bed with now, even if they're not engaging in anything amorous.

It's just me, Sophie, and the children left now. We're sitting in the dining room. Olivia has stopped crying and now sits slumped in a chair, staring ahead at the wall. Ethan sits next to her, ramrod straight, his hands folded in his lap. His eyes are wide, and he too stares straight at the wall.

Sophie looks ten years older. Her hair hangs messily over her forehead, and dark bags hang under her bloodshot eyes. I am absolutely certain that I look the same.

It occurs to me that this is the first time I've seen a freshly killed body. I am in the home when my mother dies, but I am not in the room. I see the body of Lila Benson after George Baumann digs her up in Elizabeth Greenwood's geranium garden, but she is several years dead and little more than a skeleton with a few tatters of hair and clothing left.

That sight is horrific, but it pales in comparison to what I witness in the boathouse. Frederick and I are far from close, barely even acquaintances, but I knew him as a living man only a few hours ago. To have seen the immediate aftermath of his death…

She's not moving. She's not moving!

Sophie stands abruptly. "I'm making us some food. Orange juice for the children and coffee for you and I, Mary. I'm sure none of you are hungry, but you'll eat and drink anyway."

Her tone is kind but stern. I, for one, am grateful that she takes charge. I don't know that I have the strength right now.

With Sophie taking the lead, I am finally able to offer some comfort to the children. Not that any comfort I can offer means anything to them.

I try anyway. "Children, I am so sorry for what you're going through right now. There is nothing worse for a child to suffer than the death of their parent. I can't promise that anything will be the same, but I can promise you that it's possible to endure this pain. When you think of your father, think of the love he had for you. Hold onto that above all else."

They don't reply. Of course they don't. What should they say? "Wonderful speech, Mary. I feel much better about the fact that my father was shot through the skull, possibly by his own hand. I think I'll go shower and dress for bed. It's a school night, after all."

Rather than wallow in my sarcasm, I sit next to the children and put my arm around them. They don't protest, but they don't return my embrace.

The three of us sit there staring at the wall until Sophie returns with the juice and coffee. "Eggs, bacon and fried potatoes are coming up," she says. "Mary, I'll have you sit a chair over so the hot coffee doesn't spill on the children."

I release the children and scoot over. She sets the coffee in front of me, black. I feel an almost fierce gratitude for her. If only I'd had someone like her to comfort me after Annie disappeared. I might have avoided the unpleasantness with the mental hospital.

The coffee is strong and rich and hot. The tension in my body relaxes, and the dull ache behind my eyes recedes. Perhaps most importantly, my stomach rumbles, and when Sophie returns with a heaping plate of scrambled eggs, fried potatoes and thick strips of bacon, I eat heartily.

The children eat less heartily, but with some coaxing from Sophie, they eventually finish their meal. Then we resume sitting and staring.

Once more, it is Sophie who breaks through the malaise. "I'm going to get some rest. I know it's hard, but the three of you should do the same. Things won't get better from sitting and staring, and they won't get worse from sleeping." She stands and addresses the children – "Stay strong, you two. It's what your father would want."

The children don't reply. Sophie gives me a tired attempt at a smile, then heads for bed. I wait until her footsteps fade, then stand and take the children's hands. "Come, children. Sophie is right. You need rest."

They follow as though in a trance. Perhaps that's the best way to describe it. When Annie disappeared, I feel the same disconnection from reality. I always thought that those who know what happened to their loved ones have it easier than I do, but seeing the shock on the children's faces, the recognition lingering just behind that shock that nothing will ever be the same, I wonder if I have that reversed.

We reach Ethan's room first. He allows me to lead him to bed but doesn't close his eyes.

"You need to sleep, Ethan," I encourage him.

He doesn't respond. He continues to lay with his eyes open, staring unfocused at the ceiling. I decide not to press him.

I lead Olivia to her room. We enter, and the difference between the siblings is immediately apparent. Where Ethan's room is painstakingly organized and spotless, hers is messy and, while not entirely disgusting, is not what I would call tidy. Her walls are covered in drawings, most of them of witches and, fairies and other mythical creatures.

One picture in particular attracts my attention. It's a picture of a forest path. The trees surrounding the path form an archway of darkness, but the path itself is suffused with a soft gray glow.

Standing some distance from the perspective of the viewer is a tall, pale woman clad in a white dress. Her long hair, blonde but nearly white as it would be in such light, hangs straight down the middle of her back. I don't need to see the woman from the front to know that empty black holes exist where her eyes should be.

I feel Olivia's hand leave mine and realized that I've stood stock still in the middle of the room. I snap myself out of my funk and cross to her bedside. "Would you like me to stay with you?" I ask.

I don't know why I make this offer to Olivia but not to Ethan. Perhaps the sight of my sister's… of the portrait of the pale woman unnerves me. Perhaps it draws me. Either way, I feel a touch of disappointment when Olivia shakes her head and turns away to stare at her wall.

I remain for a moment longer. The rest of the room is filled with similar paintings, all with the same eerie aesthetic as the portrait of the pale woman. Bookshelves contain replicas of certain tropes associated with witchcraft: pentagrams, crows, skulls, candles.

My thoughts turn to the moment when I caught Olivia in her father's study, walking paces around the globe with her candle. The action and the décor in this room are childish, silly things that have as much to do with real pagan practice as storks have to do with pregnancy.

But that picture…

I look back at it to make sure I'm not imagining it. It's not just the fact that I've seen this exact image in nightmares several times. I've seen that exact image in the form of a painting at the Ashford House when I worked there. Cecilia denied the painting exists, and I put it off as the first of my nightmares featuring the pale woman, but it can't be coincidence that I'm seeing the same exact image now as a pencil drawing created by a teenage girl halfway around the world from the painting.

I make myself stand and leave the room. As I navigate to my own room, I convince myself that I'm mistaken. That picture can't be what I believe it to be. It only looks familiar. It's a common theme, after all: the ghostly creature standing ahead in a dim forested path. I could do an internet search and pull up hundreds of similar images. I have done an internet search and pulled up hundreds of similar images.

But not that image. Not that exact image that I see in my dreams. Not the image of my sister's accusing ghost.

I reach my room and try to sleep, but like the children, my eyes refuse to close. I fear that when they do, I will once more see the tall woman with her black hole eyes accusing me of abandoning her to her fate.