When Annie visited her mother, she asked for her advice. She was worried about the Story sisters. One was quiet, one was standoffish, one seemed to be disappearing before her eyes, becoming someone else entirely. Perhaps they’d been more affected by the divorce and Alan’s defection than it had first appeared. Or maybe it was Annie’s fault—she’d been depressed, wrapped up in her souring marriage. She went to the garden for solace rather than to her girls. She’d cut herself off, didn’t date, rarely saw friends—a poor example of how to live in the world.

“Young girls are moody,” Natalia told her. The task of raising children was a difficult one.

“Was I like that?”

“Well, you were well behaved. I never had to punish you. But you used to cry for no reason. It’s an emotional time of life. You try things on, you put them away.”

“Was I like Elv?” Annie wanted to know.

“No.” Natalia shook her head. That man in Paris had skulked around long after the girls had gone home in the spring. Natalia had found a knife and a length of rope beneath the bed in the guest room later in the month when she was cleaning up. She’d brought the little rescued cat, Sadie, with her from Paris to New York. It sat in her lap in the afternoons while Martin took his nap. Natalia often thought back to that night when her granddaughter had sneaked back into the apartment, dripping with river water, managing to be both fierce and tenderhearted. “Not like Elv.”

The last time the Story sisters had visited her apartment, Natalia had found Elv in her closet, asleep on the floor, curled up like a little girl. The jewelry box had been open and a gold chain was missing. Natalia was sure Elv would wear it, then return it to its rightful place. But she never saw the necklace again.

Sometimes when she looked at her granddaughter—her black-painted fingernails, the expression on her face when she thought no one was looking, the marks on her skin that were so even it appeared as if she cut herself—Natalia felt afraid for the child. Her friend Leah Cohen had told her that demons preyed upon young girls. They came through windows and found ways to open doors. Natalia had always listened to these stories with half an ear; now she was hesitant to dismiss them. She found herself locking the doors whenever Elv came to visit so that no one could get out or in. She had grown convinced that you could lose someone, even if she was in the very next room. She remembered her friend’s warnings more clearly. Although Natalia didn’t believe in butting into her daughter’s business, she took Annie by the arm before she left for home.

“Look closely at Elv,” she advised. “Look inside.”

SHE STARTED BY searching the attic. It was one of the reasons they’d bought the house in the first place, the sloping eaves, the large space, the old hawthorn tree that cast shadows through the window. The perfect place to raise three girls. They had painted the woodwork antique white and papered the walls. Annie found the shoebox where the marijuana was hidden first, then a vial of pills—Demerol stolen from the grandparents’ medicine cabinet. Taped to the closet wall there was a series of photographs of Elv kissing various boys. There was a mysterious map as well. Inky green paths led through a garden of thorns. Demons were wound in a frantic, scandalous embrace.

A journal had been left in Elv’s night table. Annie took it down to the garden. Her hands were shaking. She felt like a witch in a fairy tale, raiding the castle, sifting through bones. There had been rain that morning, and the heat had broken. Birds were searching for worms and the tomatoes were covered with glistening drops. Most of the writing in the journal was in Arnish, with captions beneath green and black watercolor paintings. A girl with wings was held captive, abducted from her true parents. Roses died, iron bars were set around a beating heart torn whole from a now lifeless body, a man named Grimin tied up faeries and fucked them till they bled, goblins drifted through the trees ready for rape and destruction.

Annie hadn’t imagined Elv knew about such things, let alone that she was filling a journal with erotic and dangerous drawings. She threw out the drugs, then went back upstairs. The house was quiet. It felt big when there was only one person in it. She thought about the year before she and Alan were divorced, how the fights they’d had must have reverberated up in the attic. Did the Story sisters place their hands over their ears? Did they all get under a blanket and wish they lived somewhere else? Annie replaced the journal, closed the bedroom door, then called her ex-husband. She was crying, so it was difficult for him to understand, but once he did, he insisted everything Elv had done was within the realm of normal teenage behavior. He was a school principal, after all. Minor drug use and a fantasy world. He’d seen far worse, and many of those students had gone on to graduate, been accepted to college, lived their lives. Annie was overreacting, as usual. But did he know Elv was going out at all hours? Elise had reported that Mary had seen Elv swimming naked in the bay with some high school boys. What about her refusal to follow the house rules, sneaking out at night? He said to wait, things would turn around.

The next morning a police officer came by to inform Annie that her daughter had stolen a tray of cupcakes from the bakery. She’d been seen giving them out to children in the playground before the tots’ agitated mothers swooped in to throw away the suspicious treats.

“They were only cupcakes,” Annie said, quick to defend her daughter.

“They were stolen property,” the officer said stiffly.

When he left, persuaded to let the incident go unreported, Annie went upstairs and knocked on the bedroom door. It was locked whenever Elv was at home. The locks clicked open and there she was, annoyed, half dressed, her hair in knots.