Chapter 5

The next three days were a blur of hospital rooms and courtroom hallways and cups of coffee that went cold in my hands.

Cora was taken to the psychiatric hospital in Baton Rouge, this time under a court order. She was diagnosed with schizophrenia, severe and untreated, with a history of violence toward her daughter. She was committed indefinitely. She would not be coming back.

Priscilla was released on bail-the judge had taken one look at the baby monitor recording and the hospital file and set a hearing for the following week. She was charged with unlawful imprisonment, a felony that could carry up to ten years in prison. She had already signed a confession. She had already told the sheriff everything.

She came back to the inn because she had nowhere else to go.

I didn't know how to feel about that. I didn't know how to feel about anything. My dead wife was alive and insane. My current wife was a criminal who had saved my daughter's life. My six-year-old had been manipulated and coached and lied to, and she was acting out in ways I didn't know how to handle.

The first night Priscilla was back, Bea refused to come out of her room.

"She's scared of me," Priscilla said. She was sitting at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea she wasn't drinking. "Cora told her I hurt her. Cora told her I pushed your mother down the stairs."

"Did you?"

Priscilla looked at me with eyes that were red from crying. "No. I loved your mother. I was her nurse for three years. I was with her when she died. I held her hand. I told her it was okay to let go."

I believed her. I didn't know why, but I did. Maybe because I had seen her with my mother in those final days-gentle, patient, kind. Maybe because I had seen her with Bea all these years-loving, protective, fierce. Maybe because I had spent six years believing the wrong woman, and I was tired of being wrong.

"The hearing is in four days," I said. "My lawyer thinks you can get a reduced sentence if you testify about what Cora did. The baby monitor recording is strong evidence. But the imprisonment-"

"Was wrong." Priscilla set the mug down. "I know it was wrong, Miles. I knew it was wrong while I was doing it. But every time I thought about telling you, I thought about Bea. I thought about what would happen if Cora got out. I thought about what would happen if she took her. And I couldn't-" She stopped and pressed her fist to her mouth. "I couldn't lose her. I couldn't lose you. I couldn't lose this family."

"You should have told me."

"I know."

"You should have trusted me."

"I know."

"But you saved her." I walked to the table and sat down across from her. "Bea is alive because of you. Every day for six years, she's alive because you were there. At the river. In the hidden room. You saved her."

Priscilla's tears spilled over. "I don't feel like a hero, Miles. I feel like a criminal."

"Maybe you're both."

She laughed-a wet, broken sound. I reached across the table and took her hand.

"I'm not saying I forgive you," I said. "Not yet. But I'm saying I'm here. And I'm saying I'll testify. I'll tell them everything you did and everything you tried to do. And I'll tell them that my daughter is alive because of you."

The hearing was held in the Adams County courthouse, in a room with high ceilings and dust motes floating in the light. The prosecutor argued for prison time. The defense argued for probation and community service. The judge listened to the baby monitor recording-Cora's voice, cold and calm, coaching Bea to lie. The judge read the psychiatric file. The judge heard Priscilla's confession.

And then the judge heard from me.

I told them about the day I found Cora behind the wall. I told them about the lullaby. I told them about the knife, the river, the tunnel. I told them about Priscilla's hands on the crowbar, striking Cora to save Bea. I told them about the years of grief and the years of fear and the years of secrets.

"Priscilla made terrible choices," I said. "She broke the law. She kept my daughter's mother in a room for eight months. She lied to me. She lied to everyone." I paused. "But she also made choices I should have made. She protected Bea when I was too blinded by grief to see the truth. She gave up her freedom to keep my daughter alive."

The judge was silent for a long moment.

"Priscilla Vane Holloway," she said finally, "you are convicted of unlawful imprisonment. You are sentenced to three years of supervised probation, two hundred hours of community service, and mandatory counseling. You will have no contact with Cora Holloway. You will not serve prison time."

Priscilla bowed her head. Her shoulders shook. I reached over and took her hand, and this time I didn't let go.

Bea was in the hallway with the social worker. When we came out, she ran to us-to me, and then, after a hesitation that broke my heart, to Priscilla.

"Are you coming home?" Bea asked.

Priscilla knelt down and pulled Bea into her arms. "If you want me to."

Bea nodded against her shoulder. "I want you to."

I watched them together-my daughter and my wife-and I thought about the dumbwaiter, hidden behind the wall for decades, silent and secret. I thought about the voice that had hummed from the darkness. I thought about the truth that had nearly destroyed us and the love that had somehow survived.

We went home.