The first sign that something still wasn’t over came three weeks later, in an envelope that shouldn’t have existed.

No return address. No postmark I recognized.

 

Just my name—Willow Frell—typed neatly across the front, like whoever sent it didn’t want to risk handwriting.

Inside was a single photograph.

It was taken outside Raymond Holt’s house in Simsbury. The angle was distant, partially obscured by trees, like it had been shot from the street.

Agnes stood on the porch.