She felt cold inside. Afraid. Afraid there was someone out there who’d threatened her friend. Maybe the same guy who’d attacked Aunt Emma?
She shivered violently, then breathed in and out, in and out, in and out, calming herself down.
But what if it was a prank? A stupid, terrible prank, but still a prank? That was way better, but still really bad. Marissa had called 911 and Mr. Haynes, the police detective, had gotten involved. Marissa had poked a hornet’s nest and the boys could be in real trouble.... Greer could be in real trouble.
She chewed her lower lip. She didn’t want that to happen.
Maybe she would just keep the information that the boys were there to herself.
Marissa had texted don’t say anything
An excellent plan.
But as she fell asleep, her mind hooked on the scars on Aunt Emma’s back that she’d caught a glimpse of one day when she’d inadvertently opened the bathroom door as she was getting in the shower. Big, jagged scars along her shoulder blade, faded now, but the first thing you noticed against her smooth, white skin.
* * *
Jamie arose around four a.m., unable to sleep. She kept thinking of what Cooper had said: that a figure in a ski mask had come at Marissa with a knife. Each time she’d dozed off, her brain had slipped an image of the attacker into her dreams and she’d woken with a start, heart racing, gasping for air.
She took a shower and washed her hair, then stood under the spray. She needed to wake up, and even though she knew she was going to feel dull and out of sorts all day, she couldn’t stay in bed one more minute.
Why had the intruder come after Marissa? Was it something to do with Teddy Ryerson, or the Ryerson family as a whole? Was it something to do with there being a babysitter? That made no sense at all, but these two bookended crimes over twenty years apart couldn’t be completely random, could they?
No. They were too similar. A knife wielded against a babysitter at the very same house. There had to be a connection. But what? Why?
Poor Marissa . . . lucky Marissa, actually, that things weren’t worse. She’d escaped physical harm, and though God knew what kind of mental distress she was now under, she hadn’t suffered the same fate as Emma.
Emma . . . Jamie had wrestled all night over whether she should alert her sister to what had happened. Emma had already mentioned that she didn’t like the Ryersons. She still seemed slightly bemused by the fact that Teddy and Serena were grown and that Teddy had twins of his own.
Her gut told her not to tell Emma anything that had happened last night. But on the other hand, if Emma found out from some other source, someone who might not know her full history . . . Jamie had a vision of Emma yelling, “It’s his eyes . . . his eyes!” and inwardly shuddered. She didn’t want to hurt her sister, and bringing up the attack would surely do just that, but the chance of someone else bringing it up first . . . that just couldn’t happen.
Two hours later, while Jamie was seated at the table, Emma came downstairs, once again wearing her Scottie dog pajamas. She eyed Jamie, who’d lifted her cup of black coffee to her lips.
“Mornin’,” Jamie greeted her.
“Where is Harley?”
“Still in bed. It’s Sunday. I wouldn’t expect her till noon.”
“The Thrift Shop’s closed on Sundays.” Emma walked to the drop-in range top and arranged the spices that were lined behind it against the back wall, placing the salt and pepper at the end of the row.
Jamie looked away from her sister, fretting over how much to tell her.
Emma asked, “Are we getting the dog today?”
“The dog?”
“Harley wants a dog,” Emma reminded her. “Mom is in the garden. We can get a dog now.”
Jamie started to respond, then stopped herself. After the events of the night before, the idea of a dog had new merit. It had been Emma who’d insisted they couldn’t have a dog because “Mom” wouldn’t allow it. Clearly, she wasn’t feeling that way any longer.
“When Harley gets up, let’s talk about it.”
“That will be at noon.”
“Or thereabouts,” Jamie corrected. “Could even be earlier.” Emma pulled out a box of Cheerios and set about getting herself breakfast. Jamie was starting to feel hungry as well.
“Want me to make bacon and eggs?” she asked.
“Pancakes,” Emma said. She’d been about to pour milk on her cereal, but now she hesitated.
“I could make pancakes,” Jamie agreed.
“Mom made pancakes on Sundays.”
“Then let’s do that.”
Twenty minutes later, Jamie was just setting a plate in front of Emma, who’d brought out both maple and boysenberry syrups from the pantry, when Harley stumbled into the kitchen in a gray sweatshirt and a pair of gray-and-white-striped pajama pants. Her hair was sticking up in spots, and Jamie watched as Emma’s gaze swiveled toward Harley and glued on her hair. As Harley sat down, she wasn’t surprised to see Emma get up, go to Harley, and press her hands to Harley’s crown, trying to tame the errant locks. Harley locked eyes with Jamie, and there was something in her gaze that made Jamie say a tad sharply, “Emma. Let’s let Harley wake up.”
“Her hair is not good,” said Emma.
“It’s all right,” Harley responded.
After another minute of failed ministrations, Emma went to the sink, washed her hands and returned to her seat.
“Pancakes?” Jamie asked her daughter.
Harley started to shake her head, then stopped and said, “Yeah. Sounds great.”
Emma poured boysenberry syrup in a circle on her pancake, followed by a circle of maple syrup. She cut into the pancake with the edge of her fork and took a bite, slowly spinning the plate as she worked her way around the pancake.
Harley watched her in silence. Jamie wondered what she was thinking, but she wouldn’t meet her eyes again. After a long minute, she tucked
