Her tears had dried, and skepticism was back in her eyes. “Right. Not likely.”

I shook my head. “Just trying to make you feel better.” I stopped, and realized that was what someone had once tried to do for me, and it didn’t help a bit. The night my grandmother died, I was at a party. I knew she was in the hospital, but didn’t think it was anything serious, so I went out with my friends. I was doing shots while my grandmother lay dying in the hospital. An earnest, young nurse tried to make me feel better later, when I found out she’d died while I was getting drunk, but I saw right through her, like Lizzie saw through me.

But this was not about my haunting guilt, my sense that I had let my beloved grandmother down, this was about Lizzie. And she had no guilt to feel, no reason to let it affect her beyond the human kindness that allows us to feel empathy for our fellow creatures. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, this was that person’s path in life. There is not a thing you can do about it. If you want to talk about it, I’m here.” She was tougher, in some ways, at fifteen than I had been at twenty-one, but I wouldn’t take that for granted. I vowed to myself that I’d check in with her often over the next few days. I wondered if the local police department had a victims’ services or social worker to deal with the traumatized.

We drove on, and she indicated her grandmother’s home, which was a tiny bungalow on a narrow street that angled up toward the ridge above town. But when we approached, she suddenly said, “Why don’t you just drop me off? I’m fine.”

“Lizzie, I’m going to speak to your grandmother. Number one, I want her to know about that poor soul we found in the woods, and that we’re taking care of it, and number two, I want to be sure it’s all right that you come out to the castle again.”

She shook her head, tight-lipped, but I was not going to be swayed. She was very young, and even asking her to come out to the castle could be misconstrued. I should have checked with her grandmother before asking her to guide me through the woods. No one in Autumn Vale knew me from Eve. What was I thinking? I pulled into the driveway, where a beat-up Cadillac sat, parked on a crazy angle. Lizzie flung herself out of my car and stomped up the drive, with me following as quickly as I could. She disappeared around the side of the house, toward the back, but I was going to knock on the front door like a civilized human being. I heard the shouting before I even got up to the porch.

“I don’t care what you say, Lizzie is my daughter and I can take her back any time I want.”

“Not without CPS getting involved!”

Lizzie’s mother and grandmother?

“You don’t have a court order, Mama, so don’t try to fight me on this.”

“You are not gonna take that child back to your house; not with all manner of things going on!”

I hesitated, not sure what to do. I stared at the screen door and willed the arguing to stop, so I could knock.

“What things? You don’t know a damn thing about me. You think you do, but you don’t. I don’t even drink anymore!”

“Stop it, both of you!” That was Lizzie intervening.

“Honey, I didn’t know you were home. Your mom and I are just . . . we’re talking about where you’re gonna live, and I told her you’re staying here until she can . . . until she gets herself straightened around.”

“Listen to me,” Lizzie pleaded. “Both of you shut up for one minute!”

But I didn’t want her to have to explain me. I knocked.

“Now who the heck is that?” came the grandmother’s worried voice.

When she came to the door, I introduced myself. She was a plump woman, probably in her sixties, with a worried round face much like her granddaughter’s, and faded blue eyes under a fringe of gray. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to come in and talk to you about Lizzie’s day.”

Looking confused and uncertain, she stood back and let me in.

Lizzie had disappeared. I entered the living room, a tidy enough space with a sagging couch and big-screen TV, on which a game show on mute played across the screen. A woman stood by the front window; so this was Lizzie’s mother. She was slim and attractive, with dark hair tied up in a ponytail, and she was wearing jeans and a jean jacket.

I explained why I invited Lizzie out to the castle in the first place, and apologized, acknowledging that I should have asked her grandmother first. I then told them both what we had found together. “I’m so sorry,” I finished, wringing my hands. “I just wanted you to know that if she seems quiet or upset, she may need to talk to someone. That sight . . .” I shuddered. “It’s not something anyone should ever see.”

Lizzie’s mother had seemed pensive until now, but there were tears standing in her eyes by the time I finished. She had her arms folded over her chest, and she was chewing on her fingernail. I suspected that she had recently quit smoking, or was trying to refrain, since I’d seen other ex-smokers nervously biting their fingernails. She turned away and stared out the front window. “Poor Lizzie,” she said, a catch in her voice. “Mama, I want her to come home with me.”

“Why? So you can leave her alone while you go off to do whatever it is you do?”

“I work, Mama, I work!” She sobbed, and headed for the door. “She’s fifteen, not five . . . she can stay alone sometimes.” Shaking her head, she cried, “It’s no good; I don’t know what to do anymore. I just don’t . . .” She flung the door open and stomped out onto the tiny, cement porch, then stood staring at the Caddy, which was blocked in by my rental. The rain had stopped for the moment, but the sky was still a leaden gray.

“You can have your daughter back when you stop working at that awful place,” the older woman yelled after her.

“I’d better move my car,” I said, and headed to the door.

“You’re never going to understand what I’ve been through!” the younger woman hollered back at her mother from outside.

“You’d better not say that again, Emerald Marie Proctor, because I understand more than you’ll ever know.”

I stopped stock-still on the bottom step and stared at Lizzie’s mom. “Your name is Emerald?” I asked stupidly.

“Yeah. Why?” she growled at me. “You going to move your car or what? I need to get out of here and get ready for work.”

But I couldn’t move. Emerald was Lizzie’s mother, and Emerald was the woman over whom Junior and Tom Turner had fought. There could not be two women named Emerald in or near Autumn Vale, could there? She was agitated, I could tell, but I needed to ask her a couple of questions. “Hey, I was just wondering . . . I know you and Lizzie are having a tough time right now—”

She snorted. “Yeah, a tough time because my own mother is turning her against me!”

I remembered Lizzie’s remark about her mother being a whore. Emerald might be right. My mind was working a mile a minute, and I thought a shot in the dark may be required. “It must be difficult, especially with . . . especially since Tom Turner died recently.”

She whirled to face me, her expression one of terror. “What are you saying?”

“You and he were . . . you had a relationship, right?”

She nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. She jangled her keys in her hand, and said, “Yeah, a long time ago. Then I took off. I just came back to Autumn Vale a year or so ago. Thought I’d reconnect with my mother! Ha! Then Tom started coming around again, and he got to wondering . . .” She trailed off and shook her head, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“He got to wondering if he was Lizzie’s father, is that right?” I said it softly, but she nodded. “Was he?” She nodded again. “But you haven’t told Lizzie.”

She shook her head, and choked back a sob. “What’s the point now?”

“What were he and Junior Bradley fighting over at the bar you work at that involved you?”