Finally they came to a stop outside a large gate made of stone and wrought iron. On the arch over the gate was the word WINDCLIFFE.

“Hello,” Douglas said to the guard seated in the booth. “I’m Douglas Young. We have an appointment to see-”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Young,” the guard said, and the gate in front of them magically swung open.

They buzzed through, parking in a space in an area marked VISITORS. Carolyn got off the bike and removed the helmet.

“That was fun,” she admitted.

Douglas smiled. “Maybe sometime I can take you for a ride when we’re just out for a day of fun.”

She returned the smile. “I’d like that.”

They said nothing more as they approached the entrance of the place. Windcliffe Sanitarium was an old stone fortress built high on a crag overlooking the ocean. The lobby was sumptuously elegant, with an enormous chandelier and polished marble, not unlike the entrance to Mr. Young’s house. No wonder he’d chosen this place for his niece. A bespectacled woman behind the front desk looked up at them without any emotion. When Douglas told her who he was and who he was there to see, she seemed to snap to attention, a wide smile stretching across her face. She rang for someone to meet them. Carolyn had a suspicion that Howard Young was Windcliffe’s most important benefactor.

“Mr. Young,” came the voice of an old woman hurrying down the corridor. For her apparent years, she moved quite swiftly. She wore a conservative plaid skirt and matching blazer. Her gray hair was swept back into a severe bun. Her hand was extended. “Welcome to Windcliffe.”

Douglas shook her hand.

“I’m Dr. Hoffman,” she said. “Your uncle telephoned yesterday to let me know you’d be here.” Her eyes moved over to Carolyn. “Is this your wife?”

Carolyn blushed. “No,” she said, shaking the doctor’s hand herself. “I’m Carolyn Cartwright. A…friend of the family.”

Dr. Hoffman smiled. “Welcome. Come this way.”

She led them back down the corridor.

“Jeanette is up and waiting for you,” she said. “We told her yesterday that she was having visitors.”

“Was there any response at all?” Douglas asked.

Dr. Hoffman smiled sadly. “No. There never is.”

Douglas exchanged a glance with Carolyn.

“But her friend Michael O’Toole is here. I called him to let him know you were coming. And Michael said he believes she does know that she’s having visitors. Michael has a connection with Jeanette that is really quite uncanny.”

“Michael O’Toole?” Douglas asked.

The doctor smiled as they turned at the end of the corridor and headed into another wing of the building. Here the rooms were farther apart, and the carpet was thicker and richer. Carolyn deduced it was the section reserved for wealthier patients.

“Michael has been coming to visit Jeanette ever since she first came here,” Dr. Hoffman said. “Three or four times a week. They were to be married, you know, before she had her breakdown.”

“No,” Douglas said. “I didn’t know.”

They stopped outside a door at the end of the hall. The plate outside the door read SUITE 1. YOUNG.

The doctor knocked.

The door was almost immediately opened by a stout, balding man with bright red cheeks and thick black glasses. He smiled wide when he saw them.

“Hello, hello,” he said, gesturing for all to enter.

The suite was quite large. It looked nothing like a hospital room. There were easy chairs and a sectional sofa, and an enormous painting of what looked like Yale University on the wall. Books lined the shelves, and framed family photographs were everywhere. A flat-screen television was mounted on the wall. But somehow Carolyn felt the books were never read, the TV never watched.

At the far end of the room, facing a large picture window overlooking the ocean, sat a small, white-haired woman in a large wingback chair. She did not stir when they came in. She just sat there very still, her gaze aimed out the window.

“I’m Michael O’Toole,” the man with the red cheeks said. Douglas and Carolyn introduced themselves. “I’m very glad you’ve come. And Jeanette has been looking forward to it all morning.”

“I’ll leave you alone now,” Dr. Hoffman said. They thanked her, and she slipped quietly out the door.

“Jeanette,” Michael said to the white-haired woman. “Jeanette, this is your cousin Douglas and his friend Carolyn.”

There was no movement, no sense that she even heard him.

“Sit down, please,” Michael said, gesturing to Carolyn and Douglas to make themselves comfortable on the soda. He gently turned Jeanette slightly in her chair so that her vacant eyes now looked directly at them. She might as well have been a mannequin.

Carolyn felt her heart sink. She had read this woman’s impassioned work. She had followed the career she’d almost had. How vital she seemed in her writings of forty years earlier. Now she was just a shell.

“Mr. Young,” Michael said, “I remember your father. I was sorry to hear of his passing.”

“Thank you,” Douglas said.

Obviously Michael was clueless about the family curse. To him, Jeanette had simply suffered some unexplained breakdown. Carolyn had read the reports from the hospital. Although no brain damage was found, Jeanette had lost all ability to communicate or, apparently, to comprehend. Her body functioned fine. So long as attendants regularly moved her limbs, the muscles remained strong; without such assistance, they would have long ago atrophied. Without outside intervention, Jeanette would simply lie there, not speaking, not eating, not doing anything for herself. Carolyn noticed an IV drip behind Jeanette’s chair. She was fed intravenously, but, according to the notes in her file, she would sometimes chew and swallow if nourishment was held to her lips. On a small table in front of her were the remnants of a muffin on a plate and a half-empty glass of orange juice. Michael had apparently been feeding her before they arrived.

He sat now on a hassock at her side, looking solicitously up at Jeanette. “You remember his father, don’t you, Jeanette? Douglas. He was a lawyer. Remember when he’d visit? He was such a wonderful man.”

Still Jeanette made no sound, revealed no flicker of consciousness. But Carolyn felt somehow that her eyes had moved. They were no longer simply staring blindly. They had fixed on her. She felt Jeanette was looking directly at her.

And more than that.

She felt she was seeing her.

“I remember coming here with my father,” Douglas said, his voice uneasy. He was directing his words to Jeanette. “I remember meeting you when I was very young. I remember that painting, in fact.”

“I painted it,” Michael said, pride in his voice. “Jeanette and I met on the Yale campus. She was a divinity student. I was an artist.” The sadness shone in his eyes. “We were going to be married, weren’t we, Jeanette?”

Her face remained expressionless, her eyes fixed on Carolyn.

“Well, we never got married,” Michael said, reaching over to take Jeanette’s hand, “but we’ve still been together for forty-two years, haven’t we, my dear?”

Carolyn held Jeanette’s gaze. What was she saying with her eyes? There was something…something that Carolyn was sure she was trying to communicate.

Georgeanne had been right, though. Whatever thoughts, if any, swirled through Jeanette’s head, the woman herself was peaceful. There was nothing about her that seemed in distress.

“Jeanette,” Douglas said. “I wonder if I can ask you a few questions.”

Michael stiffened. “What kind of questions?”

“We’d like to find out what brought on her current state.”

Michael’s smile faded. “I was afraid that was the reason for the visit. Why is it that so few ever visit Jeanette just to see her? Your father was one of those few. A good man. Never came prying about what happened that night. Jeanette doesn’t know! It was a fluke of the brain. Who can explain the human brain? The human mind?”