Your old bedroom.

On the wall above the empty bed is the painting Misty did of the antique chair. Her eyes closed out on Waytansea Point. The hallucination of the statue coming to kill her. Blood sprayed across it.

With Grace now, in her bedroom across the hallway, Misty says not to try anything funny. The mainland police are parked right outside, waiting for them. If Misty’s not out there in ten minutes, they’ll come in, guns blazing.

Grace, she sits on the shiny pink-padded stool in front of her huge vanity table, her perfume bottles and jewelry spread out around her on the glass top. Her silver hand mirror and hairbrushes.

The souvenirs of wealth.

And Grace says, “Tu es ravissante ce soir.” She says, “You look pretty this evening.”

Misty has cheekbones now. And collarbones. Her shoulders are bony and white and stick out, coat-hanger-straight, from the dress that was her wedding dress in its previous life. The dress falls from a shred over one shoulder, white stain draped in folds, already loose and billowing since Grace measured her only a few days ago. Or weeks. Her bra and panties, they’re so big Misty’s done without. Misty’s almost as thin as her husband, the withered skeleton with machines pumping air and vitamins through him.

Thin as you.

Her hair is longer than before her knee accident. Her skin is blanched pale from so much time inside. Misty has a waist and sunken cheeks. Misty has a single chin, and her neck looks long and stringy with muscle.

She’s starved until her teeth and eyes look huge.

Before the showing tonight, Misty called the police. Not just Detective Stilton, Misty called the state patrol and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Misty said that OAFF would be attacking the art show tonight, at the hotel on Waytansea Island. After them, Misty called the fire department. Misty told them, seven or seven-thirtyish tonight, there would be a disaster on the island. Bring ambulances, she told them. Then she called the television news and told them to bring a crew with the biggest, strongest relay truck they had. Misty called the radio stations. She called everybody but the Boy Scouts.

In Grace Wilmot’s bedroom, in that house with the legacy of names and ages written just inside the front door, Misty tells Grace how tonight, her plan is ruined. The firemen and police. The television cameras. Misty’s invited the whole world, and they’ll all be at the hotel for the unveiling.

And clipping an earring on one ear, Grace looks at Misty reflected in the vanity mirror and says, “Of course you did, but you called them the last time.”

Misty says, What does Grace mean by last time?

“And we really wish you wouldn’t,” Grace says. She’s smoothing her hair with the palms of her lumpy hands, saying, “You only make the final death toll higher than it needs to be.”

Misty says there won’t be a death toll. Misty says how she stole the diary.

From behind her, a voice says, “Misty dear, you can’t steal what’s already yours.”

The voice behind her. A man’s voice. It’s Harrow, Harry, Peter’s father.

Your father.

He’s wearing a tuxedo, his white hair combed into a crown on his square head, his nose and chin sharp and jutting out. The man Peter was supposed to become. You can still smell his breath. The hands that stabbed Angel Delaporte to death in her bed. That burned the houses Peter wrote inside, trying to warn people away from the island.

The man who tried to kill Peter. To kill you. His son.

He’s standing in the hallway, holding Tabbi’s hand. Your daughter’s hand.

Just for the record, it seems like a lifetime ago that Tabbi left her. Ran out of her grip to grab the cold hand of a man Misty thought was a killer. The statue in the woods. The old cemetery on Waytansea Point.

Grace has both elbows in the air, her hands behind her neck fastening a strand of pearls, and she says, “Misty dear, you remember your father-in-law, don’t you?”

Harrow leans down to kiss Grace’s cheek. Standing, he says, “Of course she remembers.”

The smell of his breath.

Grace holds her hands out, clutching the air, and says, “Tabbi, come give me a kiss. It’s time the grown-ups went to their party.”

First Tabbi. Then Harrow. Another thing they don’t teach you in art school is what to say when people come back from the dead.

To Harrow, Misty says, “Aren’t you supposed to be cremated?”

And Harrow lifts his hand to look at his wristwatch. He says, “Actually, not for another four hours.”

He shoots his shirt cuff to hide the watch and says, “We’d like to introduce you to the crowd tonight. We’re counting on you to say a few words of welcome.”

Still, Misty says, he knows what she’ll tell everyone. To run. To leave the island and not come back. What Peter tried to tell them. Misty will tell them one man is dead and another is in a coma because of some crazy island curse. The second they get her onstage, she’ll shout “Fire.” She’ll do her damnedest to clear the room.

Tabbi steps up beside Grace, sitting on the vanity stool. And Grace says, “Nothing would make us happier.”

Harrow says, “Misty dear, give your mother-in-law a kiss.” He says, “And please, forgive us. We won’t bother you again after tonight.”

THE WAY HARROW told Misty. The way he explained the island legend is she can’t not succeed as an artist.

She’s doomed to fame. Cursed with talent. Life after life.

She’s been Giotto di Bondone, then Michelangelo, then Jan Vermeer.

Or Misty was Jan van Eyck and Leonardo da Vinci and Diego Velazquez.

Then Maura Kincaid and Constance Burton.

And now she’s Misty Marie Wilmot, but only her name changes. She has always been an artist. She will always be an artist.

What they don’t teach you in art school is how your whole life is about discovering who you already were.

Just for the record, this is Harrow Wilmot talking. Peter’s crazy killer father. The Harry Wilmot who’s been hiding out since before Peter and Misty got married. Before Tabbi was born.

Your crazy father.

If you believe Harry Wilmot, Misty’s the finest artists who’ve ever lived.

Two hundred years ago, Misty was Maura Kincaid. A hundred years ago, she was Constance Burton. In that previous life, Constance saw some jewelry worn by one of the island sons while he was on tour in Europe. It was a ring that had been Maura’s. By accident, he found her and brought her back. After Constance died, people saw how her diary matched Maura’s. Their lives were identical, and Constance had saved the island the way Maura had saved it.

How her diary matched her earlier diary. How her every diary will match the diary before. How Misty will always save the island. With her art. That’s the island legend, according to Harrow. It’s all her doing.

A hundred years later—when their money was dwindling—they sent the island sons to find her. Again and again, we’ve brought her back, forced her to repeat her previous life. Using the jewelry as bait, Misty would recognize it. She’d love it and not know why.

They, the whole wax museum of Waytansea Island, they knew she’d be a great painter. Given the right kind of torture. The way Peter always said the best art comes from suffering. The way Dr. Touchet says we can connect to some universal inspiration.

Poor little Misty Marie Kleinman, the greatest artist of all time, their savior. Their slave. Misty, their karmic cash cow.

Harrow said how they use the diary of the previous artist to shape the life of the next. Her husband has to die at the same age, then one of her children. They could fake the death, the way they did with Tabbi, but with Peter—well, Peter forced their hand.

Just for the record, Misty’s telling all this to Detective Stilton while he drives to the Waytansea Hotel.