ANNIE’S HOUSE SMELLED LIKE CINNAMON AND SUGAR cookies. It was a small yellow bungalow tucked into the wooded edge of the Shadow Grove estate.
The interior was airy, with wooden floors and simple braided rugs. Many knickknacks and jars of herbs lined the shelves. Gretchen was surprised to see there were no creepy old photographs at all—just some snapshots of smiling kids stuck to the refrigerator with magnets. It seemed like a perfectly normal place. Annie made a large pot of peppermint tea and put it on the table.
“Now,” she said. “What’s going on?” She had a very wise face and a lovely melodic voice, and Gretchen was mortified that she’d talked to her so disrespectfully earlier.
If Esther was really possessing her, and it seemed pretty true at this point, given the periodic nicotine withdrawal and urges to use foul language she was experiencing, she wished she could control it. But there was really no knowing when Esther would show up or why. If this was indeed why Esther had called her and asked her to come, she hoped it would all start to make more sense. The dizzy heady feeling of thinking another person’s thoughts—especially if that person was an angry alcoholic genius—was pretty exhausting.
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Hope said. “It seems there’s an increase in activities over at the mansion.”
Annie nodded gravely. “There’s only one Axton left. Only one chance to find a solution—to help those poor souls move on. I know Esther thought she could do it by photographing all of them. By making sure each one was accounted for, that their story was told. But your mothers were trying to do something different.”
Hope and Gretchen exchanged a look.
“And now I think Esther is finally on the same page,” Annie said.
Hope nodded slowly. “Accountability,” she said. “We concentrated on the names of the victims, instead of the killers. We just think of the killers as a natural part of history—that they have no individual responsibility, that their families have no responsibility.”
“I don’t know if that matters to the dead,” Annie said. “But it sure as hell matters to the living.”
“Can you tell us what really happened on the land all those years ago?” Hope asked Annie.
“I’m a medium,” Annie said. “A sensitive, a clairaudient. I hear their voices. It doesn’t mean I know what’s going on—especially if they’re confused themselves. Which they are. Very. Believe me, I would like nothing more than for Fidelia to move on from here. I have been listening to her lament the death of her daughter and her marriage and the horror of the fire for more than twenty years of my life now. And all those men and women. I hear their voices too. So many of them. Like an invisible choir.” She looked weary. “I don’t know how we’ll ever reconcile those things.”
“Why do they choose you?” Gretchen asked. “I mean, why does Fidelia speak through you?”
“And you,” Annie said, looking at her seriously. “Esther has chosen you.”
Gretchen felt suddenly exhausted at her words, she wanted to go curl up in a ball.
“I know how you feel,” Annie said, reaching out to touch her arm. “It can take a lot out of you. I can’t give you any definitive answer. But I do know this. Some ghosts have unfinished business. Some have died in accidents, or their bodies become frail or weak or give out before they can do what they wanted in this world.”
“Esther killed herself,” Gretchen said. “It seems she wanted to be finished.”
Annie nodded. “Or she wanted to have her old vitality back, and thought the two of you would be a good team. She had work to do and couldn’t do it in her own body. She needed your help, didn’t have time to explain everything. Through you she’s united the living Axtons with the dead.”
“But why doesn’t she just tell me exactly what to do or what’s going on?”
“You said it yourself earlier when you were yelling down by the pavilion—or Esther did—just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you have that much more information. You have some. But not all.”
“Can we ask Fidelia questions?” Hope said.
Annie nodded. “She’s been here a lot lately. The anniversary . . .” This time she put her head down and rested it on the table, closed her eyes. Gretchen and Hope exchanged a look. The woman was clearly troubled by this terrible gift she had.
When she raised her head from the table it was a completely different look than the one she’d had on stage in the pavilion. Whatever happened there had been partly a performance. This was stranger. Darker.
“The day,” Annie said. “That day. It was to be a celebration. Rebecca and Celia were going to get Communion in the church.” Her voice took on a harder sharper edge. She was somehow more articulate. “Valerie and I were so proud of our daughters.”