The clock on the B&B nightstand read 11:47. Eve had been staring at it for two hours.
Beside her, Lily was asleep—or pretending to be. Her breathing was too even, too controlled. Eve knew that trick. She had taught it to her daughter when they lived in the motel outside Tucson, the one where the man next door screamed at his wife every Tuesday night.
Breathe slow. Don't move. They'll think you're not there.
Eve swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The floorboards creaked. She froze.
Lily didn't stir.
The rain had stopped sometime after ten, leaving behind a world that smelled like wet asphalt and dying flowers. Eve pulled on her jeans—the same ones she'd worn on the drive up from Texas—and a sweatshirt that still had Daniel's blood on the cuff. She hadn't been able to wash it out. Hadn't really tried.
The willow tree. Midnight. Come alone.
Maeve's words echoed in her skull like a bad song.
She slipped out of the room, down the narrow staircase, past the grandfather clock that ticked like a second heart. The front door of the B&B had a deadbolt that required a key from the inside. Celeste had thought of everything. But the kitchen door off the dining room opened onto the back porch with nothing but a screen latch.
Eve lifted the latch. Stepped out.
The air was cold in that specific way that happens after a summer rain—not crisp, just wet and sad. She cut across the backyard, past Celeste's prize roses (all dead, all brown), and onto the path that led to the creek.
Willow Creek wasn't really a creek. It was a muddy ditch that flooded every spring and dried up every August. But the willows that grew along its banks were real—ancient things with trunks as thick as oil drums and branches that dragged the ground like mourners at a funeral.
The tree they meant—the willow tree—stood at the fork where the old mill road met the creek. A hundred years ago, lovers carved their initials into its bark. Fifty years ago, a girl hung herself from its lowest branch. The town had tried to cut it down twice. Both times the chainsaw broke.
Eve's flashlight cut a weak beam through the dark. The path was mud, sucking at her sneakers. She passed the Thorne mansion—dark except for a single light in the turret. Jonah Black's light. She imagined him up there, typing his true crime book, maybe watching her through a pair of binoculars.
Paranoid, she told herself. You're being paranoid.
But she walked faster anyway.
The willow tree emerged from the darkness like a ghost—pale bark, black branches, a curtain of leaves that moved even though there was no wind. And under the tree, a figure.
Maeve.
She was sitting on a fallen log, wrapped in a quilt that looked like it had been knitted in 1985. Her face was hard to read in the flashlight's glow, but Eve could see the tracks of tears on her cheeks.
"You came," Maeve said.
"You asked."
Maeve laughed—a dry, broken sound. "I didn't think you would. After everything. After I ignored your calls for seven years. After I sent you a card with a cross on it, like that was supposed to make up for—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
Eve sat down on the log beside her. The wood was damp. She'd be wet for the rest of the night.
"Tell me what's going on," Eve said. "Frankie. The poison. And the thing you said about Daniel. The other one. What did you mean?"
Maeve pulled the quilt tighter around her shoulders. For a long moment, she didn't speak. Then:
"Did Daniel ever tell you about his brother?"
Eve's stomach dropped. "He didn't have a brother. He was an only child. His parents died when he was twenty."
"That's what he told everyone." Maeve turned to look at her. In the weak light, her eyes looked like two bruises. "But it wasn't true. Daniel had a twin. Marcus. Identical. Same face, same voice, same everything. They grew up in foster care—different homes, different names. Daniel got adopted by the Hartleys. Marcus… Marcus ended up in juvie by the time he was fifteen."
Eve's mouth was dry. "Why didn't he ever tell me?"
"Because Marcus is dangerous. And because—" Maeve hesitated. "Because Marcus is the one I had an affair with. Not Daniel. I never touched Daniel. But Marcus? He came to town about eight years ago, pretending to be Daniel. I didn't know. Nobody knew. He stayed for three months, slept with me, slept with Celeste, probably slept with half the women in this town. And then he left. And Daniel showed up a week later, looking confused, and I realized what had happened."
Eve stood up. Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else.
"You're telling me my husband had a twin brother. An evil twin brother. And that twin slept with you while pretending to be Daniel."
"Yes."
"And Daniel knew?"
"Daniel knew. He confronted Marcus somewhere up near the cabin. There was a fight. Marcus fell—or was pushed—into the ravine. Daniel thought he was dead. But he wasn't." Maeve's voice dropped to a whisper. "He came back, Eve. Last month. I saw him at the gas station. He's been living in the Thorne mansion—Jonah Black doesn't know, he rents the whole house but he never goes in the basement. Marcus has been staying down there. I've seen him come out at night."
Eve's flashlight trembled in her hand. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because the man you buried—" Maeve's voice cracked. "The man you killed and put in the ground behind the cabin? I don't think it was Daniel. I think it was Marcus. And I think Daniel is still alive. And I think he's the one who's been poisoning me."
The world tilted.
Eve grabbed the willow trunk to steady herself. The bark was cold and rough against her palm.
"That's not possible," she whispered. "Daniel is dead. I watched the life go out of his eyes. I buried him with my own hands."
"Did you look at his face?" Maeve asked. "Really look? After you hit him? Or did you just… cover him and dig?"
Eve tried to remember. That night—a year ago now—was a blur of adrenaline and terror. He had come at her with a knife. She had swung the frying pan. He had fallen. There had been blood. So much blood. She had dragged him out the back door, through the mud, to the old well that had been dry for decades. She had pushed him in. She had shoveled dirt until her hands bled.
But his face?
She couldn't remember his face.
"Oh God," she breathed.
Maeve reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were cold and bony. "There's more."
"Of course there's more."
"Frankie isn't just poisoning me. He's been working with Celeste. They're trying to buy up all the land around the creek—something about a development deal. And the only thing in their way is the Thorne mansion. And the only person who owns the Thorne mansion is Molly Thorne's mother."
"Molly Thorne's mother died ten years ago."
"No, she didn't." Maeve's grip tightened. "She's been living in a nursing home in Biloxi under a different name. Celeste found out. She's been forging her signature on land deeds. And Frankie—Frankie knows because he helped her hide the body."
"Whose body?"
"Molly's. Molly isn't missing, Eve. She's dead. And she's buried under the willow tree. Right where we're sitting."
Eve looked down at the mud between her feet.
The ground was disturbed. Fresh dirt, darker than the rest. And something white poking out—a bone. Small. Human.
She screamed.
Not loud—a choked, strangled sound that got caught in her throat. But Maeve clamped a hand over her mouth.
"Shh. Shh. There's a man with a rifle who patrols the creek at night. Celeste pays him. If he finds us here—"
"You brought me to a murder scene," Eve hissed against Maeve's palm. "You brought me to a murder scene and you didn't tell me?"
"I needed you to see it. I needed someone else to know. Because if something happens to me—if Frankie finally gives me enough arsenic to finish the job—I need someone to tell the police."
"Tell them yourself." Eve shoved Maeve's hand away. "Go to Leo Cruz. The new detective. He's not in Celeste's pocket."
"I tried. He didn't believe me. He said I was hysterical. He said—" Maeve's voice broke. "He said I should go home and take my medication."
Eve stared at her. At the bruises on her arms. At the tremor in her hands. At the way her left eye twitched, just slightly, like a rabbit caught in headlights.
"You're not hysterical," Eve said slowly. "But you are scared. And scared people do stupid things. Like luring their old friend to a willow tree at midnight to show her a shallow grave."
"You came."
"Because I'm an idiot."
"No." Maeve shook her head. "Because you're a good person. You always were. Even when you stopped writing back to me—I knew it wasn't your fault. It was Daniel. Or Marcus. Whoever he was. He isolated you. He made you think I hated you."
Eve closed her eyes. The truth of it settled into her chest like a stone.
"What do you want me to do?" she asked.
"Go to the police station tomorrow morning. Ask for Detective Cruz. Tell him you found evidence related to the Molly Thorne case. Don't tell him I told you. Just say you were walking your dog and you saw the bone."
"I don't have a dog."
"Get one."
A twig snapped behind them.
Both women turned.
The flashlight beam cut through the darkness and landed on a figure standing twenty feet away. Tall. Broad. Wearing a dark hoodie and jeans. His face was hidden in shadow, but Eve could see his hands. Big hands. The kind of hands that could wrap around a throat.
"Evening, ladies," the figure said.
Frankie's voice.
Eve's blood turned to ice.
"Frankie," Maeve said, standing up. The quilt fell from her shoulders. "I can explain."
"You don't need to explain, darlin'." He stepped closer. The flashlight caught his face—the beard, the smile, the cold dead eyes. "I heard everything. The whole fucking thing. The bone. The well. The twin brother I didn't know about. You've been a very busy little wife."
He was holding something. A gun? No—a tire iron. Long and rusted.
"Let her go," Eve said, stepping between Frankie and Maeve. "This is between you and your wife. I'm leaving. I didn't see anything."
"Bullshit." Frankie's smile widened. "You saw the bone. You know about Molly. You know about Celeste. You know about the twin. You're a liability, Eve. And I don't like liabilities."
He swung the tire iron.
Eve dove sideways. The metal whistled past her ear and hit the willow trunk with a sickening thunk.
Maeve screamed—a real scream this time, loud and raw. It echoed across the creek.
"Run!" Eve shouted.
They ran.
Eve grabbed Maeve's hand and pulled her through the mud, away from the willow tree, away from Frankie. The path was slick. Her sneakers lost traction. She fell, knees first, into a puddle of something that smelled like rot.
Behind them, Frankie was laughing.
"You can't outrun me! I know these woods better than you ever will!"
Eve scrambled to her feet. Maeve was already ten feet ahead, stumbling, gasping. The B&B's back porch light was a dim glow through the trees. Maybe a quarter mile.
We can make it, Eve thought. We can make it and lock the door and call 911.
Another twig snapped. Closer this time.
Maeve cried out—a sharp, surprised sound—and disappeared.
One second she was there, running. The next, the ground had opened up and swallowed her.
"Maeve!"
Eve skidded to a stop at the edge of a hole. An old well, covered by rotted boards that had finally given way. She aimed her flashlight down.
Maeve was lying at the bottom, maybe fifteen feet down. Her leg was bent at an angle that legs should never bend. Her face was pale, her mouth open in a silent scream.
"My ankle," Maeve whispered. "I think it's broken."
"Stay still. I'll get help."
"No—Eve, he's coming—"
The flashlight beam flickered. The batteries were dying.
And behind her, Frankie's footsteps were getting louder.
Lily Hartley woke up because the bed was empty.
That wasn't unusual. Her mother had night terrors. Sometimes she'd get up and stand by the window for hours, staring at nothing. But this time, the room felt different. Too quiet. The bathroom light was off. Her mother's shoes were gone.
Lily sat up and looked out the window.
The backyard was dark. But down by the creek, she saw a light—bobbing, weaving, like someone with a flashlight running through the trees.
Then she heard the scream.
It wasn't her mother's scream. It was higher. Thinner. And it stopped very suddenly.
Lily grabbed her phone. Her hands were shaking, but she didn't cry. She never cried.
She typed a text to the only number she had memorized besides her mother's:
Leo Cruz. The detective. His card was on the kitchen table.
She found the number under the salt shaker. Her mother had hidden it there, thinking Lily wouldn't notice.
Lily noticed everything.
There's a woman screaming by the creek. My mom is gone. Please come.
She hit send.
Then she pulled on her sneakers and opened the bedroom door.
End of Chapter Two