I said, “Oh—guess who I saw today, Mom: Renee Holland. Do you remember her? From the camp across the cove?” She squeezed my hand but didn’t answer. “She has red hair,” I said. “You wouldn’t recognize her. It took me a minute. You remember Pat, though, don’t you? He hired me to write a story, and Renee is—” “Not at Rosewater,” she said. “What’s that?” She turned from the garden, looked directly at me, and said, “Should not be at Rosewater.” “Renee shouldn’t be at Rosewater? Or Pat?” “Nick,” she said. I felt an eerie prickle. It was like being in the deep fog and seeing something take shape,
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