Downstairs, the waffle iron slammed shut.
Morgan flinched.
The woman in the hallway didn't.
She still looked exactly like Evelyn.
Same cardigan.
Same gray hair.
Same familiar face Morgan had spent twenty-eight years knowing.
But her grandmother would have known the answer.
Morgan backed toward the bed.
“You're not her.”
The woman's smile remained.
“I remembered you.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I waited a long time.”
“For what?”
“For you to come home.”
Morgan's hand tightened around her phone.
“Why?”
The woman tilted her head.
“You already know.”
“No. I know everyone in this town apparently enjoys answering questions with riddles.”
The woman's smile widened.
For one brief second, there were too many teeth.
Morgan's stomach turned.
Then Evelyn's face was normal again.
“Your grandmother made a promise.”
“What promise?”
“She said she would give it back.”
“Give what back?”
The woman looked toward the floor.
Morgan followed her gaze.
Evelyn's letter.
The final unfinished sentence had changed.
Black letters slowly appeared beneath the last line.
DO NOT LET HER TAKE YOU TO THE ORCHARD.
Morgan looked up.
The hallway was empty.
She stared.
“No.”
Footsteps sounded downstairs.
Slow.
Measured.
Morgan grabbed the letter and shoved it into her pocket.
Another step.
Then another.
The front door opened.
Morgan heard it close.
Silence.
She waited.
Nothing.
Then her phone rang.
Mrs. Bell.
Morgan answered.
“Please tell me you're at home.”
“I’m at home.”
“Good. Stay there.”
Morgan looked at the empty hallway.
“That might be a problem.”
“What happened?”
“I saw Grandma.”
Mrs. Bell went silent.
“Mrs. Bell?”
“Did she speak to you?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“That she remembered me.”
Nothing.
Morgan stepped into the hallway.
“Mrs. Bell.”
“Leave the house.”
“Already planning on it.”
“Come to the orchard.”
Morgan stopped.
Her hand went slowly to the letter in her pocket.
DO NOT LET HER TAKE YOU TO THE ORCHARD.
“Why?”
“I found something.”
“What?”
“Not over the phone.”
Morgan said nothing.
“Morgan?”
“Where are you?”
“At the orchard.”
Morgan's grip tightened around the phone.
“Can you see the old apple tree?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“How many apples are underneath it?”
Silence.
“Morgan, what are you doing?”
“Answer me.”
“I don't know. I'm not standing beside it.”
“Then go look.”
Another pause.
“No.”
Morgan's skin prickled.
Mrs. Bell had counted those apples herself before.
She had been the one who insisted there were thirteen.
“Why not?”
“I told you. I found something. Just come here.”
Morgan slowly walked downstairs.
“What's my grandmother's first name?”
Another pause.
“Evelyn.”
Easy.
“What did she tell you when I was seven?”
“Morgan.”
“Answer me.”
Silence.
Then Mrs. Bell sighed.
“She told me to keep the markers away from you.”
Correct.
Morgan reached the bottom of the stairs.
Maybe it really was Mrs. Bell.
Then the voice said:
“Hurry. I'm waiting by the western gate.”
Morgan stopped.
There was no western gate.
There had been once.
It had been removed when Morgan was a teenager after a storm knocked half the fence down.
Mrs. Bell would know that.
Morgan lowered the phone.
The call remained connected.
“Morgan?”
She didn't answer.
“Morgan Bennett.”
Morgan ended the call.
Immediately, the phone rang again.
Mrs. Bell.
Morgan stared at the screen.
She let it ring.
A text appeared.
MARGARET BELL:
DO NOT ANSWER YOUR PHONE.
Morgan's blood went cold.
Another message.
I'm coming to your house.
Then:
Whatever calls you, do not answer.
Morgan typed quickly.
Something already did.
The typing bubble appeared.
Stopped.
Appeared again.
Then:
Lock the doors.
Morgan looked toward the front door.
It stood open.
Morgan locked it.
Then the back door.
Then every window she could reach.
She called DC.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
She sent him a message.
CALL ME.
The house was silent.
Morgan took both brass keys from her pocket and placed them on the kitchen table.
Her key.
Thomas' key.
The pear marker beside them.
Three objects.
Three pieces of a story she still didn't understand.
Something struck the kitchen window.
Morgan jumped.
An apple rolled down the glass.
Then another.
Morgan stared.
Another apple hit.
Then another.
Not thrown.
Falling.
Except there was no apple tree beside the kitchen.
Morgan approached the window.
An apple dropped past it.
Black.
Another followed.
Black.
Morgan looked upward.
Nothing above the window.
Still, apples continued falling.
One after another.
They landed in the yard without making a sound.
Morgan stepped away.
Her phone vibrated.
Mrs. Bell.
A text.
I'm outside.
Morgan looked toward the front of the house.
She didn't move.
Another message appeared.
Don't open the door until you see me.
Good.
At least the real Mrs. Bell understood the rules.
Morgan walked into the living room.
Through the window, she saw Mrs. Bell standing beside her car.
Morgan opened the door.
Mrs. Bell hurried inside.
“You saw me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Morgan locked the door behind her.
Mrs. Bell looked toward the kitchen.
“What happened?”
“Something called pretending to be you.”
Mrs. Bell's expression tightened.
“What did it want?”
“For me to go to the orchard.”
Mrs. Bell went still.
Morgan noticed.
“What?”
“That's where I was coming from.”
“Why?”
Mrs. Bell looked at her.
“The trees.”
They drove separately.
Morgan insisted.
Mrs. Bell didn't argue.
DC finally called while Morgan was pulling into the orchard.
“Where have you been?”
“Working.”
“You own a phone.”
“I was downstairs.”
Morgan paused.
“The downstairs downstairs?”
“The Lantern Room cellar, yes.”
“What were you doing?”
“Looking for records.”
“Find anything?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I'll tell you when I get there.”
“I'm at the orchard.”
Silence.
“Morgan.”
“I know.”
“Why are you at the orchard?”
“Because apparently I'm committed to making every warning in Grandma's letter nervous.”
“I'll be there in ten.”
He hung up.
Morgan got out of the car.
Mrs. Bell was already standing near the first row of trees.
Morgan followed her gaze.
Every apple was black.
Not rotten.
Black.
Glossy skins reflected the afternoon light.
Hundreds of them.
Morgan approached the nearest tree.
“Were they like this earlier?”
“No.”
“When?”
“About an hour ago.”
Morgan looked deeper into the orchard.
Every tree was the same.
Except one.
The old tree.
The tree that had dropped thirteen apples.
Its branches were green.
Its fruit was red.
Perfect.
Untouched.
Morgan and Mrs. Bell walked toward it.
Morgan stopped several feet away.
“No apples on the ground.”
Mrs. Bell nodded.
“I noticed.”
“Did you count what's on the tree?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Mrs. Bell looked at her.
“I do learn occasionally.”
Morgan almost smiled.
Then she saw something beneath the tree.
A man.
He stood on the opposite side of the trunk.
Still.
Watching them.
Morgan grabbed Mrs. Bell's arm.
“Do you see him?”
Mrs. Bell followed her gaze.
Her face changed.
“Oh.”
Morgan looked at her.
“You know him.”
Mrs. Bell didn't answer.
The man stepped around the tree.
He appeared to be in his late twenties.
Dark coat.
Brown hair.
Clothes that belonged to another decade.
Morgan knew his face.
She had seen it folded through in an old photograph.
“Thomas?”
Mrs. Bell whispered his name before Morgan could.
Thomas Mercer looked at her.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then he smiled.
“Margaret.”
Mrs. Bell staggered backward.
Morgan caught her.
Thomas looked exactly as he had in the photograph from 1978.
Not a day older.
Mrs. Bell's eyes filled.
“No.”
Thomas' smile faded.
“You got old.”
Mrs. Bell made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“You didn't.”
Thomas looked down at himself.
“I suppose not.”
Morgan stepped forward.
“Are you Thomas Mercer?”
His eyes moved to her.
The moment they did, his expression changed.
He stared.
“You.”
Morgan stopped.
“You know me?”
Thomas walked closer.
Mrs. Bell caught Morgan's arm.
Thomas stopped several feet away.
“You came back.”
Morgan's pulse quickened.
“Apparently everyone was expecting me.”
Thomas looked toward the orchard.
“No.”
His expression darkened.
“Not everyone.”
The black apples began dropping.
One.
Then another.
Then dozens.
They struck the ground around them.
Morgan refused to count.
Thomas looked toward the western woods.
“We need to leave.”
Morgan didn't move.
“I have questions.”
“You can ask them somewhere else.”
“You disappeared forty-eight years ago.”
“I know.”
“You went looking for the thirteenth.”
Thomas looked at her sharply.
“Who told you that?”
“The Lantern Room ledger.”
His expression changed.
“What else did you find?”
“Your note.”
Thomas went pale.
“Did you read it?”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“It wasn't finished at first.”
Thomas stared at her.
Morgan continued.
“It told me not to finish counting.”
His eyes dropped to her.
“What did you count?”
Morgan said nothing.
Thomas stepped closer.
“What did you count?”
“Fingers.”
“How many?”
Mrs. Bell interrupted.
“Thomas.”
He ignored her.
“How many, Morgan?”
She hesitated.
“Thirteen.”
Thomas closed his eyes.
“No.”
“What?”
He opened them.
“We have to go.”
“Why?”
“Because you finished.”
“I gathered that was bad.”
“You don't understand.”
“No. Nobody tells me anything until after I do it.”
Thomas looked toward the old tree.
A single apple dropped.
Red.
It landed between them.
Thomas stared at it.
“Don't touch that.”
Morgan wasn't planning to.
The apple split open.
There were no seeds inside.
There was a key.
Brass.
Morgan stared.
She already had two.
Thomas looked at the key.
Then at Morgan.
His face changed.
“That's impossible.”
Morgan crouched without touching it.
“What?”
Thomas whispered:
“There were only ever two.”
The key slowly turned black.
Behind them, someone laughed.
A child's laugh.
Morgan turned.
Kiara stood between the trees.
Yellow jacket.
Dark hair.
Seven years old.
“Kiara?”
Thomas looked at the child.
He went completely still.
Morgan saw recognition cross his face.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
“You know her.”
Thomas didn't answer.
Kiara smiled.
Then she looked directly at him.
“Hi, Thomas.”
Mrs. Bell grabbed Morgan's hand.
Thomas backed away.
“No.”
Kiara tilted her head.
“You found me.”
Thomas stared at her.
“No.”
Her smile widened.
“You always do.”
Morgan looked between them.
“What does that mean?”
Thomas' eyes never left Kiara.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.
“That's not Kiara.”
