Two more years passed. Then, on the Saturday before Easter in 2021, my mother sent another message: the Ashcrofts were coming for supper, and I needed to be gone by 9:30 Sunday morning. I left early and spent the day with Hattie. That evening, I suddenly realized I had forgotten my medication at home. My doctor had warned me never to skip it. Hattie told me to go back and collect what belonged to me. I drove north after dark and arrived on Pinewood Circle shortly before ten. The Ashcrofts’ black Suburban was still in the driveway, and every downstairs light was on. I parked out of sight beneath a magnolia tree and approached the house along the side yard.

Through the hallway window, I saw something that made my blood run cold. Ellie’s mother, Lorraine, stood outside my locked bedroom door in a pale yellow Easter dress. My mother was beside her, holding a tissue against her face. Ellie held Grant’s arm, while my father stood silently near the stairs. Then Lorraine reached out, placed her palm against my bedroom door, and asked my mother if she could. My mother nodded. Lorraine lowered her head and began praying. I stood outside in the darkness, watching a stranger pray over my room as though the person who belonged there would never return. I waited until everyone left and the lights went out. Just before midnight, I entered through the back door, collected my medication, and walked into the dining room. Something lay on the table, partly covered by white tissue paper. I moved closer, and what I saw finally explained seven years of strange rules.