Chapter 7

The garden took three months to plant.

It was Bea's project, mostly. She chose the seeds from a catalog, picked the spot in the side yard where the sun hit longest, and dug the first hole with a trowel that was almost as big as her arm. Priscilla helped her plant the rows-tomatoes and peppers, sunflowers and zinnias, a patch of pumpkins that probably wouldn't fruit in time for Halloween but Bea didn't care. I built a fence to keep the deer out and a scarecrow that looked more like a pirate.

The inn reopened in the spring. Guests came back-some curious, some kind, some there to gossip. I told the ones who asked that the past was past. Priscilla stayed behind the desk, and Bea played in the garden, and we pretended we were a normal family.

But there were still nights when I woke up in a cold sweat, the ghost of a lullaby in my ears. There were still moments when I looked at the dumbwaiter-now sealed and painted over, indistinguishable from the wall-and felt the plaster dust in my throat. There were still days when Bea cried for no reason, or flinched when someone raised their voice, or asked questions about "the lady in the wall" that I didn't know how to answer.

Priscilla and I took her to a child therapist in Jackson. Dr. Okafor was a calm woman with kind eyes and a voice like warm tea. She taught Bea that feelings were okay, that memories could be scary, that talking about what happened wouldn't make it real again.

She taught us that also.

The sheriff closed the case in April. Cora was transferred from the psychiatric hospital to a long-term care facility in Mississippi. She would never be released. She would never see Bea again. The judge had ordered no contact of any kind-no letters, no calls, no visits. Cora's parents, who had believed their daughter dead for six years, had moved back to Natchez and asked to see Bea. I said no. They sent a lawyer. I said no again.

"I know they're her grandparents," I told Priscilla one night. "But Bea has enough ghosts to carry. She doesn't need any more."

Priscilla nodded. "She's not a resource, Miles. She's a child. She doesn't owe anyone a relationship."

I kissed her forehead and went to check on Bea. She was asleep with her stuffed rabbit under her arm, her mouth slightly open, her face peaceful. The night-light by her bed cast a soft glow over the room. No humming. No tapping. No voices from behind the walls.

Just my daughter, safe and alive.

The CTA asked who was behind the wall and whether Miles could save Bea from the woman he mourned. The answer was simple: Cora was behind the wall, and I saved Bea by finally seeing who she really was. The hard part wasn't breaking down the door. The hard part was accepting that the woman I had built a life with-the woman I had buried and grieved-had never really existed. The Cora I loved was a story I had told myself. The real Cora was a nightmare I had refused to see.

I kept her wedding band on my chain for a few more months. And then, one morning, I took it off and put it in a drawer. I didn't throw it away. I just stopped carrying it.

The past was still there. It would always be there. But I didn't have to hold it.