I was lying on the grass in the orchard.

The twins were sitting beside me, placing daisies in my hair.

The mansion was standing, untouched by fire.

Daniel was walking down the path toward us, holding a pitcher of lemonade.

He looked happy.

He looked whole.

But as he reached us, he poured a glass.

The liquid was red.

The color of copper.

The color of blood.

“Drink up, Claire,” Daniel said, his smile wide.

“The board is waiting.”

The phone in my pocket buzzed.

“Run.”

I looked at the lemonade.

I looked at the daisies in my hair.

They were not daisies.

They were dried, white roses.

The roses from the cellar.

And the ground beneath us began to shake.

The trap was not a place.

It was a loop.

And we were caught in it.

I grabbed the twins.

And I prepared to run again.

For the hundredth time.

For the last time.

The phone lit up one final time.

“The key is in the rattle.”

I looked at the silver toy on the grass.

It was moving.

Something was inside it.