Morgan read the sentence until the words blurred.
Her.
Not it.
Not them.
Her.
Someone had been counting beneath the apple tree.
Someone Kiara had been afraid of.
Morgan looked at the childish drawing again.
Two girls.
One tree.
Thirteen red circles.
Apples, presumably.
Except Morgan was beginning to wonder whether the thirteen apples had ever been about apples at all.
Her phone vibrated.
DC.
Morgan answered immediately.
“Where are you?”
“Lantern Room. Where are you?”
“Grandma's.”
“You were coming here.”
“I got distracted by twenty-one years of missing memories.”
A pause.
“I'm going to need more than that.”
“I remember Kiara.”
“Who?”
Morgan closed her eyes.
Of course.
“Exactly.”
She told him.
The bracelets.
The photograph.
The recipe card.
The memory.
The note.
When she finished, DC had gone unusually quiet.
“Say something.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Think faster.”
“I don't remember a Kiara.”
“You wouldn't necessarily. We were seven.”
“If she was around enough to be at your grandmother's house, I probably would.”
Morgan looked at the drawing.
“That’s what worries me.”
“Bring everything here.”
“Why?”
“Because I found something too.”
Morgan straightened.
“What?”
“Something with Thomas Mercer's name on it.”
“I’m coming.”
She ended the call.
Morgan gathered the photograph, Kiara’s note, the golden leaf, and both bracelets.
She reached for the brass keys.
A sound came from the hallway.
Click.
Morgan stopped.
Another click followed.
Not knocking.
A latch.
She stepped into the hallway.
The cellar door stood open.
Morgan stared.
She had never opened it.
She had tried when she first arrived, but the old lock wouldn't turn and sorting the cellar had been nowhere near the top of her list.
Now the door rested several inches from the frame.
Darkness waited beyond it.
Morgan looked at the keys in her hand.
“No.”
She had learned at least one thing this week.
When mysterious doors opened themselves, she did not need to investigate.
Morgan grabbed her bag and headed for the front door.
Behind her, something rolled across the cellar floor.
Glass.
She stopped.
Another bottle rolled.
Then another.
Morgan looked toward the open cellar.
“Absolutely not.”
A bottle struck something below and shattered.
Morgan closed her eyes.
She should leave.
She knew she should leave.
Instead, she turned on her phone flashlight.
“Apparently I make terrible decisions now.”
She opened the cellar door.
The stairs creaked beneath her.
The air grew colder with every step.
Morgan's flashlight swept across stone walls, wooden shelves, and stacks of boxes as she descended.
Near the bottom, the beam caught an old camping lantern hanging from a hook beside the stairs.
Morgan recognized it immediately.
Her grandmother had kept lanterns anywhere the power had a habit of failing.
She switched it on.
Warm light spread across the cellar.
“Much better.”
Morgan turned off her phone flashlight and slipped the phone into her pocket.
Her grandmother's cellar smelled exactly as Morgan remembered.
Stone.
Wood.
Old cardboard.
Except beneath it was something sweeter.
Fruit.
Spice.
Cranberry.
Shelves covered the walls.
Most held ordinary things.
Holiday decorations.
Old dishes.
Canning jars.
Boxes her grandmother had probably forgotten existed.
Then Morgan's attention settled on the far wall.
Wine bottles.
Thirteen of them.
They stood in a perfect row.
Dust coated the glass.
Morgan approached.
Each bottle had a handwritten paper label.
She read the first.
MARGARET BELL
The second:
EVELYN BENNETT
Morgan's pulse quickened.
She knew these names.
She moved down the row, reading each label.
They matched the twelve names she had been able to read on the 1978 search record.
The twelve whose names remained. The twelve who had returned.
Morgan reached the final bottle.
She stopped.
Unlike the others, it wasn't dusty.
The glass was perfectly clean.
A deep red liquid filled it nearly to the neck.
Morgan stared at the label.
MORGAN BENNETT
Her stomach dropped.
“No.”
She hadn't been alive in 1978.
More importantly, she had seen her name before.
In the historical room.
For a few seconds, the erased thirteenth name on the search record had become hers.
Then it disappeared.
Morgan pulled out her phone and opened the camera.
Twelve bottles appeared on the screen.
She lowered it.
Thirteen.
Morgan raised the phone again.
Twelve.
She lowered it.
Thirteen.
The bottle bearing her name did not appear on the screen.
Morgan put the phone away.
Something moved behind her.
She spun around.
Nothing.
Then she heard breathing.
Soft.
Uneven.
From behind the shelves.
“Hello?”
The breathing stopped.
Morgan lifted the lantern from its hook and carried it toward the sound.
Warm light moved across the far wall.
A narrow gap separated two shelving units.
Something yellow showed through it.
Morgan froze.
“Kiara?”
No answer.
She stepped closer.
The yellow disappeared.
Morgan set the lantern on a nearby crate and pushed against the shelving unit.
It shifted.
Behind it was a door.
Red.
Her entire body went cold.
The paint was old and peeling.
There was no knob.
Only a brass keyhole.
Morgan reached into her pocket.
Two keys.
Her grandmother's warning came back immediately.
Whatever you do, do not unlock the red door.
Then the words on the jacket:
YOU ALREADY DID.
Morgan stepped away.
“No.”
A child began crying on the other side.
Morgan stopped.
Quiet at first.
Then louder.
“Morgan?”
Her blood went cold.
The voice was young.
“Kiara?”
“Morgan, please.”
She moved toward the door before catching herself.
“No.”
“It's dark.”
Morgan closed her eyes.
The memory of Kiara came back.
Yellow jacket.
Kettle corn.
Cornbread at the kitchen table.
If I forget you, you have to remember me.
“Morgan?”
Morgan reached into her pocket and closed her fingers around the key marked MORGAN.
Then stopped.
There were two keys in her hand.
Hers.
Thomas’.
Which one had opened the red door twenty-one years ago?
The crying continued.
“Please.”
Morgan tightened her fist around both keys.
“Tell me something.”
The crying stopped.
“What?”
“If you're Kiara, tell me something only she would know.”
Silence.
Then:
“Your piece was bigger.”
Morgan's breath caught.
The cornbread.
“You said mine was taller.”
A tiny laugh came through the door.
For one terrible second, Morgan was seven again.
Then another voice whispered from behind her.
“Don't.”
Morgan spun around.
A little girl stood at the bottom of the stairs.
Yellow jacket.
Dark hair.
Exactly as Morgan remembered her.
Kiara.
Morgan couldn't move.
The child stared at the red door.
The voice behind it spoke again.
“Morgan?”
Kiara looked up at her.
Her face was terrified.
“That isn't me.”
The cellar went silent.
Morgan looked toward the red door.
Something struck it from the other side.
Once.
The child beside her flinched.
Another impact shook the frame.
Morgan backed toward the stairs.
The bottles began trembling on the shelf.
Twelve dusty bottles rattled against one another.
The clean bottle bearing Morgan's name remained perfectly still.
Kiara grabbed Morgan's hand.
Her fingers were ice cold.
“Run.”
Morgan ran.
She didn't stop until she reached the kitchen.
The cellar door slammed shut behind her.
Morgan twisted the lock.
Her hands shook.
She looked beside her.
Kiara was gone.
Morgan stood alone.
Her phone rang.
She jumped.
DC.
Morgan answered.
“What?”
“Where are you?”
“Still at Grandma's.”
“I thought you were coming here.”
“I found the red door.”
Silence.
Then DC said:
“Don't open it.”
“I didn't.”
“Good.”
Morgan leaned against the wall.
“DC, I saw Kiara.”
“What?”
“She was in the cellar.”
“The girl from your memories?”
“Yes.”
“You actually saw her?”
“Yes.”
Morgan looked toward the cellar door.
“And something else pretended to be her.”
DC went quiet.
Morgan heard paper moving on his end.
“What did you find?”
“That's why I called.”
“Tell me.”
“My dad kept some of the Lantern Room's old records.”
“So?”
“I found the ledger from 1978.”
Morgan waited.
“Thomas Mercer was here on October seventeenth.”
“At the Lantern Room?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“His tab opened at 6:12.”
“And?”
“It never closed.”
Morgan frowned.
“So he left without paying?”
“No.”
DC's voice changed.
“The bartender kept notes beside unpaid tabs.”
Morgan waited.
“What does Thomas' say?”
DC didn't answer immediately.
“DC.”
He finally spoke.
“Went to find the thirteenth.”
