Page 122 of The Witch’s Orchard

I look down at my own hands. They are the hands I’ve always had, and they are also my mother’s hands, my granny’s hands. They havepeeled apples and fired guns and held children and thrown punches and turned the pages of book after book after book.

My hands. My mother’s hands. My granny’s hands.

Will they become a mother’s hands once more? Will I pass them down the line?

I don’t tell Shiloh that I was pregnant once. That it was still early. That I was still in the Air Force and that the pregnancy had been an accident. That I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. That I’d never really wanted kids. That, even so, I couldn’t help picturing the child, the way it would look, a cross between myself and the father. That I cried one night, curled around my belly, trying to know what to do. That one day soon after I saw that positive test, I was escorting a prisoner from one base to another. Routine. That we came under fire. That the driver was hit. That the vehicle tumbled off the road, flipping over and over. That I woke up in the hospital and my choice had been taken from me with a single bullet.

That Leo had been there, had taken my hand, and had held me while I cried and told him about the pregnancy. How we felt the loss together. A choice we never got to make. A discussion we never got to have. Would we ever have it again?

“Do you think you’ll have children?” she’d asked.

“I don’t know,” I repeat.

I look back at Shiloh, and she holds my gaze for a long, long moment before giving me a gentle nod.

“Where did this come from?” she asks, holding up the paper full of spirals.

“Olivia Jacobs,” I say. “She’s drawn them ever since her kidnapping.”

“Do you know what they are?” she asks.

“No. Nicole brought her around… Oh my God, was it only last night? Anyway, Nicole brought her and I asked her a few questions. She drew those—she’s been drawing them for years—and held the paper up to her face. But… no, I don’t know what it means.”

I’m trying to decide whether to tell her how Olivia reacted to my question about the witch story when my phone buzzes. It’s AJ.

“What’s up?” I ask, stepping outside and onto the porch.

After the warmth of the cabin, the cold air hits hard, and I cough and sputter into the phone.

“You okay?” he asks. “You sound terrible.”

My mind swirls. My chest aches. A cough tries to fight its way up my throat, but I suppress it.

“Yeah.”

“We got toxicology back,” he says. “On Molly Andrews.”

“Okay?”

“You know Doc Jenkins said there was evidence of damage to her internal organs? It looks like something called grayanotoxin.”

“Grana—what?”

“It’s a plant toxin. It’s found in Mediterranean rhododendrons, but around here it’s found in higher quantities in mountain laurel. Looks like it was either in honey or tea.”

“Is it a lethal poison?”

“In high enough quantities it can be,” he says. “But it’s used recreationally for its hallucinogenic properties, apparently. The side effects can be pretty severe, though. Nausea, vomiting, sweating, even seizures.”

“Shit,” I say. Thinking about the tea I drank in Susan’s house only this morning. The warm feeling that swam through my body. The sleepiness I’d felt as she told me the story.

“You’ve got to get them out here,” I say. “You’ve got to get the cops on the mountain. I don’t know where they are but—”

“I’m working on it,” he says. “We should be there soon.”

“How soon is soon?”

“Well—” And then I hear another voice. A woman with a DC accent telling everyone it’s time for a briefing. There’s a dog barking. A rush of other voices.