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I instinctively found the shape of the locket watch beneath my shirt, squeezing it so hard that its edges bit into my palm. I wasn’t sure anymore what we were talking about, and it didn’t matter how long I stared at her face, I still couldn’t read it.

“Why are you asking me that?” My voice was unsteady now.

She lifted a hand, reaching for the picture of my mother on the table beside her, but it stopped midair, like she was reluctant to touch it. Then it was almost as if she couldn’t help herself. All at once, it came to me. Whatever all of this was, whatever it meant, Birdie knew.

“She said you’d come asking questions.” She spoke softly.

I straightened. “Who?”

“Margaret.”

As soon as she spoke my grandmother’s name, a sinking feeling woke inside me. I was suddenly terrified of whatever Birdie was about to say. That warmth in her voice and that sparkle in her eyes looked different to me now, as if I could feel at my very center that what was about to happen would destroy everything.

Her mouth twisted, deepening the wrinkles on her face, and her eyes shined, taking on a shade of blue that was clearer and brighter.

“Who is the woman in that photo, Birdie?” I whispered.

Her eyes flitted up to meet mine, and she suddenly looked like a little girl to me. Like someone caught with something they shouldn’t have. “I have a feeling you’ve worked that out for yourself.”

“Who is it?” The words sharpened to a point.

“It’s Nathaniel Rutherford. And your mother.”

Susanna.MySusanna, I thought. But what did that even mean? There was never a time when my mother had truly been mine.

I shook my head. “That’s not possible.”

It was true. But wasn’t that the exact conclusion I’d already beencoming to? Wasn’t that precisely the thought that had haunted me through the long, silent hours of the night? Now that she was saying it, I desperately wanted to be wrong.

“Just breathe, June.” Her hand was suddenly on my arm, her touch like ice.

I flinched, pulling away from her. “What is happening?”

“How much have you put together?”

Put together? Like I’d been sent on a scavenger hunt blindfolded. Like this was a game.

When I didn’t answer, she let out a heavy breath. “I know this is difficult, but I need you to listen to me. There’s a certain way this is supposed to happen.”

“What does that even mean?” I snapped.

“You’re starting to remember.” She searched my eyes. “Right?”

Remember.

I stared at her, my mind twisting. My jaw clenched, biting back an answer. That was the wrong word for this.

I put more space between us, grasping at the last shreds of reality I could hold on to. The obvious answer was that this wasn’t real. It never was. The photograph, the marriage certificate, the baptism records, the gravestones…it was all one long hallucination playing out in my head. That was it. Maybe I was still in my bedroom, tossing the unopened mail to the bed. There was a very real possibility that none of this was happening.

“This is…this is an ep-episode.” My words cracked as I said it. “This isn’t real.” I tried to reason with myself, begging my heart to calm. It felt like the world would go black at any second.

Birdie took me by the shoulders. “You’re not sick, honey.”

I felt myself still, the air in the room growing thin and dry. It burned in my chest when I drew it in.

“Now, tell meexactly.How many times have you seen the door?”

I blinked. “I don’t know. Three? Four times?”