Tearing her gaze away from the woman’s blurry profile, Una read the caption on the opposite page.
Eel’s Nest, home of Captain Josiah Smith. Photo taken in 1881 by the author’s grandfather, Edward Stapleton.
Una wondered if the Stapleton who’d written this book was related to Mrs. Stapleton, the librarian. She tried to remember Mrs. Stapleton’s first name but couldn’t concentrate because the fly’s buzzing suddenly increased in volume. The small engine whir of its wings became the throaty roar of a sports car.
The fly hurled its body around the window frame, torpedoing into the glass over and over again. Between each impact, its translucent wings vibrated with anger or desperation; Una couldn’t tell which.
She was about to close the book splayed open in her hands when her gaze was abruptly snagged by the woman in the photo.
She was no longer looking off to the side. She now stared directly out at Una, and her face was no longer blurry.
“No!” Una cried, dropping the book as if it had burned her.
It landed on its spine, its pages spread to the photo of Eel’s Nest and the woman in black. Her mouth was a menacing slash. Her eyes were two pinpricks of hatred.
Those eyes catapulted Una into the past.
She had seen them before.
Their soulless blackness. Their otherness.
She’d seen them staring up at her from beneath the waves. She’d seen them in her nightmares.
They were the eyes of a monster.
A killer.
“No, no, no. That can’t be,” Una whispered, backing away from the book.
She put a hand out to steady herself on the shelf, but instead of feeling the cool metal of the bookshelf under her fingers, she felt a sting of pain.
The horsefly squatted on the back of her hand. It had stung her once and seemed poised to sting again. Its green eyes flashed. Its hairy legs stroked her skin.
She swatted at the fly with her other hand, but it flew back to the window and pressed its body to the glass. It hung there, unmoving, as if waiting for her to attack.
Una cradled her throbbing hand, surprised by how much it hurt.
As a gardener, she’d been stung by all kinds of insects. Ants. Mosquitoes. Wasps. Horseflies. No bite or sting had ever felt like this. It felt like a hot needle was embedded just under the surface of her skin.
She turned away from the window and saw Kristofer standing at the end of the row.
“Did you get lost? This isn’t the mystery section,” he teased. Catching sight of her face, he stopped smiling. “Elskan mín.My love. Are you okay?”
Blinking back tears, Una pointed at the book. “I was looking at that when a horsefly bit me. It was a big one. It’s on the window.”
Kristofer glanced from the raised bump on his wife’s hand to the window. “Well, it’s gone now.” He scooped up the book, and his eyes went wide. “Look at this! The most famous house in Cold Harbor.” He shook his head. “It was ugly then, too.”
Una rubbed at her eyes. “The woman in the picture. Is she facing the camera?”
“No, she’s looking to her right. Her face is a little out of focus, but it looks like someone caught her in a bad mood.” He closed the book. “Are we taking this with us?”
Una wanted to say no. She wanted Kristofer to put the book back on the shelf. Or in an incinerator. She wanted to bring her mystery novels to the car and then walk up the street to the bakery. She wanted to order a cookie with rainbow sprinkles—Justin’s favorite—and take it home to have with a cup of tea later that afternoon. She wanted to be in her garden, to feel the sun on her skin. She wanted to get out of this library—to run from the strange eddies of glacial air, the horsefly, and the woman on the porch of a house called Eel’s Nest.
She thought of Justin eating a cookie with rainbow sprinkles, his little face crinkling with pleasure. Of Jill, scribbling a story in one of her notebooks. Of J.J., singing ABBA behind the closed door of his bedroom. She thought of Charles and all the other children who lived near the water, and she knew she couldn’t leave without the book.
Una had to know if Mrs. Smith could turn her blood to ice with the flick of her gaze. She had to know if she had the same eyes as the woman in the photograph. The same eyes that had haunted Una for most of her life.
For the children’s sake, she had to know.
