“Will she really testify against him?” I asked.

“Patricia will do whatever keeps her out of a federal penitentiary,” Thomas said. “She has always been a survivor, Claire. Even at the expense of her own blood.”

He walked over to the coat rack and pulled on his damp wool overcoat.

“Go to sleep, Claire,” he said gently. “You have your house back.”

I walked him to the heavy front door and watched him walk down the stone steps under a large black umbrella.

His car engine started with a low rumble, and his headlights swept across the wet lawn before disappearing down the long, oak-lined driveway.

I locked the door, sliding the heavy brass deadbolt into place.

For the first time in five years, I was alone in Hartwell House.

The silence of the old building did not feel heavy anymore; it felt spacious, like a room that had finally been cleared of dust and old smoke.

I slept that night in my mother’s old bedroom on the second floor, listening to the rain tap against the glass until the sky turned a pale, watery gray.