Page 85 of The Unknown

To the bare hook on the door that once held her dress.

To the windows, the curtains of which have been thrown open, letting in that flood of predawn gray. Standing in front of them is Julianne, back in her dress, gripping one of the curtains as she stares outside.

“He’s there,” she says.

“Who?”

“Dean.” Julianne whispers the name, as if saying it any louder might summon him inside.

I slide out of bed.

Carefully.

Cautiously.

Fear slowing my movements.

Because the thought of Julianne’s dead first husband standing outside is eminently terrifying. Especially when it might not be him but a demon in disguise. Yet even more scary is Julianne herself. She’s strangelynotfrightened. Standing at the window in complete calm, her voice takes on a hypnotized quality as she says, “I think he wants me to come outside.”

Hearing that shifts me into another level of fear. Overdrive. I speed up, flying to the window. Outside, everything is painted in various hues of gray. Slate sky. Pewter light. Ground the same shade as woodsmoke, its color accented by the low mist rolling over the grass.

What I don’t see is a person, human or demon or in between.

“There’s no one there,” I say.

“Thereis,” Julianne insists. “He’s right there. In front of the oak.”

She backs away from the window, giving me an unobstructed view of the ground below, which remains empty. Behind me, I hear the bedroom door open as Julianne says, “I need to see him.”

I streak across the room, blocking her path and slamming the door shut. In an instant, Julianne switches from hypnotized to hysterical. “I have to talk to him!” she cries. “Don’t you see? That’s why he’s here!”

“No,” I say gripping her shoulders, trying to shake some sense into her. “No one is out there.”

“Dean’s rightthere!” Julianne wrests herself from my grasp and returns to the window, using an index finger to jab at the glass. “Don’t you see him?”

I return to the window. There’s still nothing.

“I don’t,” I say, which doesn’t mean he’s not there. If Azra is impersonating our loved ones, it makes twisted sense that only we can see them. I don’t know what Dean looks like. Just like Julianne has never seen Molly. To effectively lure us, Azra must pretend to be someone each of us individually recognizes.

Julianne again starts to drift to the door. I latch onto her, frantic. “Whatever you see out there, it’s not Dean. You know that. You said so yourself. The people we love aren’t out there.”

“But what if they are?” she says, tears springing from her eyes. “What if it’s really him and this is my only chance to tell him I’m sorry!”

“It’s not,” I insist. “On both counts.”

Julianne turns her face to the window again and takes a despairing glance outside. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, making me think she’s addressing Dean, when in truth it’s me she’s talking to. I know because the whisper is followed by a violent shove in which Julianne knocks me against the wall while she speeds to the door. This time, I’m too slow to stop her. By the time I reach the hallway, she’s already down the stairs and running outside. A streak of ivory disappearing into the gray.

I run after her, my bare feet slapping against the hallway floor, then the steps, then the stretch of hardwood leading to the front door. Julianne left it open behind her, allowing me to ramp up my pace as I burst through it.

Outside, I try to trace Julianne’s path through the gray while calling her name. I search the mist as I continue to run.

Under the oak.

Past the cottages.

Through the archway.

Down the stone steps cutting through the trees, where night still lingers, thick and disconcerting. I make it all the way to the zigzagging path leading down the sloped meadow to the dock.