I look away, flustered. "So who are the other two?"

"They're impossible to tell apart-not that you really have to. I've never seen them separated from each other-or from Peregrine and Chloe. Out in the Peripherie, we call them the Clones, but their real names are Margaux and Arelia."

"Arelia?" It takes me a moment to realize why the name rings a bell. "That's who Glory said she was going to meet the night she died."

"She did?" Drew blinks a few times. "Did she say anything else?"

"Not really." I shudder. "I still don't understand it. She seemed like she was in a good mood. We talked about school. She was picking herbs. Why would she be doing that if she was on her way to stab herself through the heart?"

He hesitates. "I have no idea. But Glory, she was a cool girl. Not like the rest of the Dolls." He checks his watch and stands up. "Listen, I'd better be going. But how about Sunday? The Peripherie's always a good time. I promise, you'll have fun."

I tell him I'm in, and he says he'll pick me up at five thirty. But as I walk him out of the garden toward the front yard and we hug good-bye, I'm only thinking about Glory and what she could have been doing the night she died. And despite myself, I'm also thinking of the guy with the brilliant blue eyes, the very intriguing Caleb Shaw.

That night, I dream again of the parlor off the front hall. I'm walking down the stairs, but when I look at my feet, I'm surprised to find that I'm floating. In a panic, I grab for the railing, but my hand goes right through it, and I'm being carried toward the parlor, powerless to stop.

I smell blood in the air, and there's the scent of roses and fire too. As I float across the front hallway, the parlor doors creak open, and blood oozes out. I hear crying from inside the room and as I move through the doorway, I see a little girl standing off to the left, her back to me, the bottom of her nightgown soaked in blood. There's something beside her on the ground, and I strain to see, but it's hidden in the shadows.

That's when the girl turns. Her hands are stained with blood, and her face is streaked with tears. My whole body goes cold as I recognize her immediately.

It's me.

"Please help," she whimpers.

I wake up with a start. It takes me an hour to fall asleep again, and the smell of blood and death are still with me when morning comes.

5.

By the time I finally drag myself out of bed the next morning, Aunt Bea is gone. She's left a note saying she went out early to receive a big shipment of bakery supplies, scribbling on the bottom, Only five days to go until the opening!

I pour myself a bowl of cereal and settle at the kitchen table with my laptop, determined to find out more about Glory's death. I Google her name, but nothing appears. I try suicide + Carrefour, thinking that maybe Glory's name wasn't printed in the paper because she was a minor. But I strike out there too.

I backspace again and this time, I type in Carrefour newspaper. But when I press enter, I'm only hit with a long list of meaningless options that have nothing to do with this place.

I'm still staring at the screen, trying to decide what to search for next, when I hear Boniface's voice from the back garden. I look out the window and see him talking to two women wearing expensive-looking black dresses and heels that make their legs look miles long. I recognize them immediately-not just from my foggy memories, but also because they look exactly like their daughters.

Annabelle Marceau and Scarlett St. Pierre. I haven't seen them since the night they accompanied the police chief to deliver the news that changed my life. Honey, your mama killed herself. Drove right into a tree.

Boniface's eyes meet mine through the windowpane, and as he approaches the back door, I see him grimacing.

"Eveny, we have a couple of visitors," he says. He lingers uncertainly for a moment before walking back toward the garden.

"Ms. St. Pierre, right?" I say, smiling at the one whose honey blond hair cascades over her shoulders just like Chloe's. "And Ms. Marceau?" I ask, glancing at the one who looks like a slightly older version of Peregrine, but with short, spiky black hair.

"I knew she'd remember us, Annabelle," trills the blonde. "And I'll be damned if you are not just the spitting image of your mother!"

"Thanks," I say awkwardly. "Want to come in?"

"Don't mind if we do," Peregrine's mother says, already sweeping past me like she owns the place. "It's been ages since we stepped inside this house, hasn't it?"

Chloe's mother hands me a white cardboard box wrapped in an intricately tied purple ribbon. "This is for you, sugar," she says. "It's a coffee cake."

"We baked it for you last night," Peregrine's mother adds. "A little welcome-home treat!"

They stand there smiling at me for so long that the silence grows uncomfortable. "Would you like a cup of coffee?" I finally ask, trying to be polite. I turn and walk toward the kitchen, and they click-clack after me in their impossibly high heels.

"Have a seat," I say, gesturing to the kitchen table. I pull out a filter, line the coffeemaker with it, and scoop in several tablespoons of Folgers.

"Don't you have any chicory coffee?" Chloe's mother asks.

"Just the Folgers," I tell her as I add water, push the start button, and grab three mugs from the cabinet. "This cake looks delicious," I tell them.

"Oh, it is!" Chloe's mother bubbles. "It has rosemary to ward off evil, cloves to help foster friendship-with our daughters, of course-huckleberry to help you remember your dreams, and just a pinch of cinnamon to help promote good taste, because, let's face it, you're in Carrefour now."

"Okay. . . ," I say slowly.

"Of course it's nothing like the cakes your aunt bakes," Peregrine's mother adds. "We can't wait to have her little bakery open! What's she calling it?"

"Sandrine's Bakeshop. After my mom."

"How lovely. I remember your mama and your aunt baking up a storm when we were your age." She gets a faraway look in her eye and adds, "We miss her so much, Eveny, we really do."

"Yeah. Me too." I pour three cups of coffee and ask if they want cream and sugar. They decline.

"So, Eveny," Peregrine's mother says a moment later as I hand steaming mugs to them. "All those years you were gone, did your aunt tell you much about Carrefour?"

I shake my head.

The women exchange looks. "I see," Peregrine's mother says. "So she hasn't explained any of the . . . customs of the town or anything?"

"Customs?" I ask blankly.

"Oh, Annabelle, stop putting Eveny on the spot," Chloe's mother says quickly. She turns to me. "I think what Annabelle is wondering is whether you'd heard of the Mardi Gras Ball. It's coming up in about a month you know."

"Sorry, doesn't ring a bell. My aunt and I didn't spend a lot of time talking about this place. I think it reminded her of my mom."

"Your aunt never was a big fan of Carrefour," Chloe's mother says with a sigh. "But we'll change that yet, right Eveny?" She claps her hands in a way that reminds me of a preschool teacher trying to coax a child into singing along.

"Sure," I say. I glance down at my computer. "Listen, while I have you here, do you know the website for the local paper?"

"The local paper?" Peregrine's mother asks.

"Yeah. I was trying to read more about what happened to Glory Jones."

"Why on earth would you want to do that?" she asks.

"Well, I met her the night she died, actually."

Chloe's mother goes suddenly pale, and Peregrine's mother freezes. "Did you?"

"She just didn't seem suicidal to me," I continue. "I thought maybe if I read about what happened, it might make more sense. But I can't seem to find anything about it on the internet."

Peregrine's mother takes a second to recover before speaking. "Of course not. We're not on the internet, dear."

"What's not on the internet? The whole town?" When she nods, I add, "But that doesn't make any sense."

"We like our seclusion from the world, Eveny," Chloe's mother says. "It's one of the wonderful things about living in Carrefour. We don't air our dirty laundry. We don't get unwanted visitors. Everyone knows everyone, and nothing bad ever happens."

I shake my head in disbelief. "What about Glory dying? What about my mother dying?"

"Those were both very unfortunate incidents," Peregrine's mother says, looking out the window.

"Try your cake, sugar," Chloe's mother urges.

I clear my throat and take a bite, even though I'm not hungry. "Delicious," I say politely. And actually, it is-it tastes a bit like the lemon cake they served in the Polish deli below our apartment, but with a spicy, herbal twist.

"Really, Eveny, there's no reason to go looking into poor Glory's death," Peregrine's mother says after I've taken a second bite. "It's a tragedy, but it's all very straightforward."

But the more they brush off my questions, the more I'm convinced they're hiding something. "My friend Drew said there was a rumor about something satanic going on."

Both women laugh. "Satanic?" Peregrine's mother asks. "That's a new one."

"In any case, enough talk about death!" Chloe's mother says brightly. "Let's talk about you! I understand you're interested in botany?"

"Yeah." I nod. "I always have been. I was in charge of our community garden back in Brooklyn, and I worked for about a year and a half for a wedding florist."

"Your mother would have been so proud," Chloe's mother says. "She was very passionate about flowers and herbs." She glances at Peregrine's mother and adds, "We all are. Annabelle, me, our daughters . . . I think you'll find that this is a wonderful place to live if you're interested in gardening."

"Great," I say, forcing a smile. I can't exactly imagine their supermodel daughters in muddy jeans and canvas gloves, digging in the dirt. "Must be nice to have good weather year-round."

The mothers eat their cake and drink their coffee quickly as they chatter about all the social gatherings I can get involved with now that I'm back. Apparently, I just haven't lived until I've attended the annual Mardi Gras Ball.

"You are so lucky, Eveny," Peregrine's mother says as she finishes the last of her coffee cake. "It's the social event of the year. It'll be a wonderful welcome home for you!"

"Thanks for the coffee, sugar," Chloe's mom says. She stands up and brings her mug and plate to the sink.

Peregrine's mom hands her dishes to me. "We're sure we'll be seeing a lot more of you."

"You must promise us, Eveny, that you'll spend some time with our daughters," Chloe's mom says. "They're ever so delighted that you're back, and they can't wait to get to know you."

I want to tell her that based on the way Peregrine and Chloe were looking me up and down at the funeral like I was yesterday's garbage, I'm not expecting a call from them anytime soon.

"Sure, I'd love to hang out," I say, forcing a smile as I walk them to the door.

"Make sure you eat that cake, now!" Chloe's mother says brightly. They both air-kiss me on their way out, and a moment later, they're vanishing down my long driveway in a sleek silver Bentley coupe.

Later that afternoon, I'm wobbling down Main Street on a 1970s cruiser that Boniface found for me in the storage shed. Its red paint is chipped in places, and I've managed to convince myself that the rust stains and loud rattling noise aren't all that obvious until people start to turn and stare at me. I'm relieved when I spot my aunt's bakery, which now has a purple sign above the front door that says sandrine's bakeshop.

"Aunt Bea?" I call out as I head inside, where the air is soft with cinnamon and chocolate. She's painted the walls pale pink and decorated them with a dozen ornate French-style mirrors in various shapes and sizes. As I step up to the polished silver counter and the big glass case, I think how proud my mom would have been to have her name on a place like this.

"Eveny? That you?" I hear my aunt's voice from the back, and a moment later she emerges wearing a flour-streaked blue apron over jeans.

"Aunt Bea, the bakery's beautiful!" I tell her. "I can't believe you put this together in a week."

"I hoped you'd like it." She smiles at me. "Want to try one of my chocolate lavender cupcakes? I have some cooling."

"Maybe later. I just had some lemon herb cake."

She looks confused. "Where did that come from?"

"Peregrine's and Chloe's mothers dropped by to welcome us to town."

I expect her to be pleased, but instead her face darkens. "What did they say?"

"That their daughters are positively thrilled to have me back." I roll my eyes. "Doubtful."

"I suspect you'll have more in common with them than you imagine," she says. "Now, would you mind helping me frost some cupcakes? I want to take them home for Boniface to thank him for all his hard work."

She brings me a tray of unfrosted cakes and a pastry bag, setting them on a table in front of the bakery window. "I'll be in the back if you need me."

I spend the next few minutes piping caramel cream onto little pillows of chocolate. As I work, my head is swirling with a thousand questions about my mom, prompted by my brief visit with her two best friends. I've Googled her before, hoping to find some information about her death, but not even an obituary popped up. Just like with Glory.

"Hey, Aunt Bea?" I ask when I'm finished, setting the tray of frosted cupcakes on the counter in the back. "Does Carrefour have a newspaper?"

"Sure, why?"

"I'm trying to understand what happened with Glory Jones. I don't get what would make someone who seemed so happy kill herself."

She studies me briefly before saying, "Try the library. Mrs. Potter, who runs the place, prides herself in keeping perfect town records. Or at least she used to when I was growing up here." She walks me to the door and points down the street. "It's just past the theater, on the left side."

"Thanks," I say, but she puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me.

"I know you're going to look up your mom's death as well," she says. "Just don't read too much into it. Things in this town are never quite what they appear."

She heads back inside without explaining more. I'm still puzzling over her words as I make my way up Main Street toward the library.

"Can I help you, dear?" asks the old woman behind the front desk as I walk in.

"Do you keep archives from the local paper here?"

She peers at me over her glasses. "I haven't seen you around before. Are you from the Peripherie?"