“I wondered where you’d got to, then I dozed off. Next thing I knew it was nearly midnight. How’d the meeting go?”

Lizzy put the kettle on to heat, then fetched the tea canister from the cupboard. She really did need to get some coffee in the house. “It went just like everyone said it would. I didn’t get past the front door.”

“And how was supper?”

Lizzy willed her face to remain blank. She didn’t want to think about last night’s conversation with Andrew. “Supper?”

“You said you ate with Andrew.”

“Oh, right. It was just a spur-of-the-moment thing. We had a kind of picnic on the floor. Did you know he’s remodeling? He’s put a new deck on, replaced all the windows, and is redoing the entire kitchen. I actually helped him pick the granite last time I was there.”

Evvie’s gaze slid to Lizzy’s. “That right?”

Lizzy was spared a response when the kettle began to shriek. Evvie snapped off the burner. “I’ll do the tea. You go get my paper off the stoop.”

Lizzy did as she was told and headed for the foyer. A draft of morning air greeted her as she stepped out onto the front steps. The birds were up, warbling in the treetops. She stood there, in the shade of the sprawling ash boughs, relishing the chorus of bright, sweet notes. Chickadees, siskins, pine warblers. Althea had taught her to pick out their songs.

She was about to bend down for the paper when she spotted something hanging from one of the lower branches. Curious, she left the Chronicle on the step and padded barefoot across the grass to peer up into the tree. Her stomach dropped when she realized what she was looking at—a crude straw doll wearing a black dress and pointy hat, dangling from a length of filthy rope.

She gave the rope a tug. It came free more easily than she expected, tumbling limply into her arms. She stared at the note pinned to the doll’s throat.

Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

She knew the quote—all the Moons did—from the book of Exodus.

A shiver crawled up Lizzy’s spine as she stared at the scrap of white paper. It was heavy and slightly slick, the kind of paper that came on large rolls and was sometimes used by restaurants to cover tables, or by preschool teachers for finger painting. The verse was scrawled in rough red letters, in what looked to be crayon. She peered over her shoulder, scanning the yard, the street, but there was no sign of the culprit. Not that there was likely to be.

Halloween—Samhain—had been a particular favorite for the local children. Althea had always taken it in stride, even managing to chuckle at some of the more imaginative pranks. She’d found the toilet paper pentagram in the front yard particularly amusing. But that was years ago. Was it starting again? Or was this something else? Something more sinister?

“I wondered where you’d gotten to.” Evvie stood in the doorway, untying her apron and tossing it over her shoulder. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

“Nothing,” Lizzy said, shoving the hideous straw doll behind her back. “A prank, probably.”

Evvie’s eyes narrowed. “Let me see that.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Well then, there’s no need to hide it. Give it here.”

Lizzy stared at Evvie’s outstretched hand. There’d be no slipping past her, that much was clear. “It’s probably nothing,” she said again, wanting to believe her own words as she handed the doll over. “It used to happen all the time after the murders. One time someone carved a pentagram into the hood of Althea’s car. Another time we found a dead cat on the back stoop. But nothing ever came of it. This was just somebody trying to be cute.”

Evvie’s jaw hardened as she held up the doll, giving it a shake for emphasis. “This doll is not cute, little girl. This note is not cute.”

She turned then and headed back into the house, leaving Lizzy on the steps.

Lizzy sighed, following her inside. “Please don’t make this a bigger deal than it is.”

“A bigger deal?” Evvie jabbed a finger at the scrawled note. “What do you think this means? Coming the day after you paid that man a visit? I’ll tell you what it means. It means someone isn’t happy about you coming back here and dredging up the past. This wasn’t some young’un from down the street. This was someone grown. Someone dangerous.”

“Or maybe it’s just someone who wants us to think they’re dangerous.” Lizzy paused for a deep breath, groping for some way to talk Evvie off the ledge—and maybe herself too. “Look, I know how scary this must look—”

“Do you?” Evvie parked her hands on her hips, eyes flashing. “Because where I come from, we take nooses pretty seriously.”

Lizzy dropped her head, properly chastened. “Yes, of course you do. But this isn’t that, Evvie. No one’s planning a lynching.”

“We don’t know what anyone’s planning, and we’re not going to find out. You need to call the police.”

“Evvie, the last thing I need right now is the police involved in this. At the moment only a handful of people even know I’m back. The minute I pick up the phone and tell them about that note, it’ll be all over town. And there goes any chance I have of getting anyone to talk to me. Please don’t say anything. At least not yet.” She reached for Evvie’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Please?”

“Fine.” Evvie pushed the doll back into Lizzy’s hands. “But get rid of it. Like my mama used to say, we don’t need no bad juju hangin’ around. And say what you want, but that right there is some bad juju.”

Lizzy breathed a sigh of relief as she carried the doll to the mudroom, where she wouldn’t have to look at it again until she decided what to do with it. For now, she was grateful that she’d managed to buy herself some time with Evvie. It was entirely possible that the thing had been intended as a prank. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. But she wasn’t ready to rule out the possibility that someone—Fred Gilman, perhaps—was behind the hideous straw effigy.

Lizzy squinted at the power bar on her cell phone. Sixteen percent remaining. She reached for her charger, plugged it in, scrubbed at her eyes, and kept scrolling. Researching old newspaper articles on a three-by-five screen was far from optimal, but given Althea’s distrust of technology—including the internet—she hadn’t seen much point in bringing her laptop.

She’d hoped something might jump out at her, something everyone had missed eight years ago, that might point her in a new direction, including where Susan Gilman might have gone when she left Salem Creek. But three hours of exhaustive searching had turned up nothing. There’d been no shortage of material, articles sourced from the local paper as well as out-of-state publications, each headline more gruesome than the last: Parents Beg for Safe Return of Missing Daughters. Grisly Scene at Moon Girl Farm. Bodies of Missing Girls Recovered from Local Pond. Double Homicide Rocks Quiet New England Town. Still No Arrest as Gilman Girls Are Laid to Rest.

But harder to take than the headlines was the endless barrage of photos, grainy black-and-white images carefully placed to tug at readers’ emotions. There was the idyllic family portrait—mother and father in back, daughters in front, dressed in what appeared to be Easter outfits—as well as several shots of the girls when they were older.

The sisters were strikingly similar in appearance, pretty in the way most girls are pretty in their teens, fresh-faced and free of concern. But there were differences too. Darcy had wide eyes and a winning set of dimples. Heather had the same eyes, but the dimples were missing. Probably because she wasn’t smiling in any of the photos. And there was something else about Heather that was different: a flinty sort of defiance peering back at the camera, in stark contrast to her younger sister’s wide-open gaze.

There were photos of the parents as well, most of them taken during press conferences or interviews. Susan Gilman looked virtually catatonic in all of them, as if sleepwalking through a nightmare, which she had been. And there was Fred, the grieving father, glaring straight at the camera. He looked washed-out and gaunt, but with the same hard edges she’d seen in him yesterday.

She studied his face, the pinched lips and flared nostrils, the almost palpable anger staring back at her from the photo. Was it the face of a grieving father, or a man capable of harming his own daughters? Was it possible to be both? And if so, how could she prove it?

The question continued to nag as Lizzy closed the browser and set her phone aside. She’d spent the entire morning online, with zero to show for her efforts, when she should have been calling Realtors or going through the attic. But both options left her cold. She needed to move her body, to clear her head and work off some energy. Perhaps she’d go back to the wildflower garden for an hour, and do some weeding.