Nola closed her eyes again and I watched as her eyes moved back and forth under her eyelids. "Then they were at the house-not the dollhouse, but the real one, on Montagu Street. They weren't dolls, either, but real people. And Miss Julia was there looking like she does now-really old. They were waiting outside the door to that creepy Santa room as if they weren't allowed to go in, or maybe they just didn't like it. But they wanted her to hear them, so they were shouting really, really loudly and they were saying, 'Stop it. Stop it now.' She was either ignoring them or really couldn't see them or hear them, because she acted like they weren't there. And then . . ."

She began to shake and my mother placed her arm around Nola's shoulders. "Shh. You don't have to say anything more."

Nola swallowed, her eyes still closed. "I have to. It's important, I think. And it's the part that scared me the most."

My gaze met my mother's again and I could tell that she already knew what Nola was going to say. Not wanting to be left out, I prompted, "What happened next, Nola?"

"They weren't talking to Miss Julia." Her eyes popped open, her gaze panicked. "They were talking to me. In the dream, I was lying here in my bed and they were standing next to me, yelling at me. Telling me to stop her." Nola began to cry. "I didn't know what they were talking about, but I was too scared to tell them. I think that must have been when I screamed, because I don't remember anything else after that."

I was no longer looking at Nola. My gaze had traveled to the bedside table, where her cell phone and an open copy of Seventeen magazine lay, the facing page dog-eared in the corner. But what caught my attention was the dollhouse figure of Harold Manigault, who stood on the corner of the table, facing Nola's bed.

"Let me guess. You left Mr. Manigault in the dollhouse, too?"

Nola nodded. "In the library at his desk."

I thought for only a moment before I picked up her iPhone from the table. "Can I borrow this for a second?"

"Sure. What for?"

I said it out loud before I could talk myself out of it. "I'm going to call your father. I think he and I need to pay another visit to Miss Julia. Since they're now involving you, this has suddenly become very personal."

Jack drove like a bat out of h.e.l.l from Legare Street to Montagu Street, making me wish that I'd taken my own car and met him there. But I hadn't wanted to get there early to face alone any of the house's residents-dead or alive; nor did I want to arrive after Jack. I knew he'd never get violent with a woman, but since this whole matter involved his daughter, I had no idea what to expect. At the very least, I didn't want to have to pay to replace a dozen smashed ceramic Santa Clauses.

Our conversation in the car was stilted and awkward, as I tried to pretend that everything was the same between us as it always had been, and Jack didn't even try. I kept giving him surrept.i.tious glances from the corner of my eye as we careened around corners, trying vainly to remember the time before he was a part of my life.

He wore what I secretly referred to as his "casual writer" uniform of loafers without socks, khaki pants, and a light blue b.u.t.ton-down oxford-cloth shirt rolled up at the sleeves. It was before noon, but he was clean shaven and had his shirt tucked in and wore a belt. I couldn't help but wonder whom he was trying to impress, knowing with all certainty that it wasn't me.

He wasn't smiling behind his sungla.s.ses as he held open my door before sprinting across the street and up the porch steps to ring the antique doorbell of Julia's house. Dee Davenport was already pulling open the door by the time I made it to the bottom step.

She smiled brightly when she spotted Jack, dimples showing in both chubby cheeks, until she spotted me and her expression quickly changed into a frown. "Did you have an appointment?"

Jack took a step forward, his hand resting on the door so she couldn't close it. "h.e.l.lo, Dee. How are you this morning? That shade of pink sure suits your fine coloring." He turned back to me. "Have you ever seen such a peaches-and-cream complexion as Miss Dee has?"

I stepped up on the porch to stand behind Jack, smiling and nodding in agreement. "One of a kind," I said.

Jack turned back to Dee. "I'm sorry that we didn't call first, but I was really hoping we could have a few moments of Miss Julia's time to discuss something very important."

Dee hesitated. "She's not ready for visitors right now, but if you want to come back later . . ."

Jack took a step closer so that he was now standing in the door's threshold. "Actually, later might not work. I know my daughter is scheduled for her lesson at one o'clock, and I'm afraid I can't let her come if I don't speak with Miss Julia first."

I could almost see the weighted scale moving up and down in Dee's head, measuring Julia's wrath against Jack's charm. Apparently, Jack's charm won out, as Dee stepped backward, allowing us into the dim foyer. "I'll go see if she's ready. . . ."

"We'll follow you," Jack insisted with a bright smile aimed at Dee.

With her forehead creased with worry, she led us down the now familiar route to the back of the house. Tapping on the door, she said. "Miss Julia? Are you decent? I've got Mr. Trenholm and Miss Middleton here, and they say they need to see you right away."

Jack reached around Dee and knocked more loudly. "If you don't let us speak with you now, I'm going to leave and get the dollhouse and bring it back here and let you deal with the unhappy spirits you tried to get rid of seventy years ago."

There was no response from inside as Jack and I shared a glance, and I had visions of the Bates Motel and a long-dead woman in a wheelchair. I jerked back at the sound of the latch turning, the door swinging inward.

Julia Manigault, with her white hair out of its tight bun and now unfurled down to her waist, glared at us from the door opening. Even stooped over and wearing a high-necked nightgown with a gray shawl around her neck, she still appeared formidable enough to make me take a step back.

"Didn't Miss Davenport tell you I wasn't available? I never take callers before noon, and I resent this intrusion."

"And I do apologize, Miss Julia," Jack said with appropriate contriteness. "But Melanie had a conversation with William that we thought you should know about."

I looked at him in surprise, having expected him to strong-arm his way into a conversation and not move the focus to me.

Julia stepped back and I saw that she leaned on a heavy-k.n.o.bbed cane. It was definitely a man's cane, with a large silver eagle's head at the top, and I realized it had probably been her father's. As we walked into the room, I noticed that the sofa had been made into a bed with a pillow and blankets, leading me to believe she spent all of her time in this peculiar room. I remembered her telling me that her father didn't like the room and would never go inside, and wondered whether that was the reason she rarely left it.

We sat down in the same uncomfortable horsehair chairs that we'd sat in before, and faced Julia, whom Dee had settled into her wheelchair with a blanket thrown around her knees. "So what did William tell you?" she demanded, her dark eyes boring into mine.

I glanced at Jack to be sure he really wanted me to lead this discussion and was answered with only his raised eyebrows. Clearing my throat, I turned to Julia. "Please understand that when I speak with spirits, it's rarely completely clear what they are trying to say. We can only try to interpret what we hear to make sense of it."

She leaned forward. "So what did he say?" she asked again, as if I hadn't spoken.

"He said, 'Stop her.' And that misery would follow if you didn't stop. Does that mean anything to you?"

She shook her head but didn't meet my eyes.

"Are you sure?" Jack asked, his voice gentle.

This time she met his eyes and shook her head. Turning back to me, she said, "Is there anything else?"

"Not exactly . . ."

Julia leaned forward, her dull eyes brightening with hope. "What was it?"

"Actually, it wasn't anything he said." I paused. "His head . . ." I tried to think of a tactful way to say it. "His head was bent at an odd angle, with lots of bruising on the neck. Like his neck was broken."

She blinked several times but didn't say anything.

I pressed on. "Could your father have hurt him? Hurt him accidentally, even, but enough to kill him?"

She shook her head vehemently. "No. I know my father didn't kill William." She looked at us, her eyes defiant. "I have proof."

"The letter in the box?" It was only a guess, but the surprise in her expression told me I was right.

"How did you know about that? Did William tell you?"

I figured my source wasn't as important as the content, so instead of answering, I said, "William told me that the note was proof of innocence where there is none. Does that make sense to you?"

Her eyes went blank; her mouth slackened.

"Would you like some water?" Jack asked, already standing and moving toward a tray with a gla.s.s and a pitcher of water. He poured her a gla.s.s, then pressed it into her hands. She stared at it for a moment as if trying to remember what to do with it before raising it to her mouth.

I pushed on, trying to recall everything William had said to me. "I might be wrong with this, because he didn't say this exactly, but it seemed that he was telling me that you know something, but you're not seeing it, either intentionally or not."

Julia pressed her lips together, then took another sip.

Jack sat forward. "That last night that you saw William and you heard him with your father. What were they arguing about?"

She looked down at her hands, fisted in her lap. "The same things they'd been arguing about ever since I could remember. William was . . . sensitive. Not like our father at all. He enjoyed music and poetry, and time spent outdoors was to admire nature, not shoot at it. He and my mother were close, and they would spend hours together reading to each other. He was brilliant on the piano, until my father made him stop. He bought William a gun and told him that hunting was a more gentlemanly pursuit. William hated that-almost as much as I, because my father forced me to learn the piano. I was good, but never with the talent William had, and I suspect my father knew that, which was why he pressed me so hard to be better."

An unnatural grin lit her face. "I could outshoot, outrun, and out-hunt my cousins and my brother, and I think it turned my father into a cruel man. A year after I came back to live with my family in Charleston, my father bought us horses for Christmas. A beautiful black stallion for me and a small spotted pony for William, just to prove a point."

"And your mother allowed that?" I asked, fearing I already knew the answer.

Julia gave us a bitter laugh. "My mother had no opinions one way or the other. She was what they called 'delicate.' I'm not sure what that meant, other than that my mother couldn't face any unpleasantness. She stayed up in her rooms most of the time." Julia pursed her lips, as if trying to eradicate the bitter knowledge of her father's malice. "My father's cruelty subsided when Jonathan entered our lives."

"Your fiance?" I prompted.

She nodded. "William met him the first year they were both at Clemson and started bringing him home for holidays and school breaks." She smiled wistfully. "He came from a family with ten children, and I think he enjoyed the quietness here." Her eyes met mine. "He was everything William wasn't-good at riding and hunting and math and . . . all those male pursuits at which William had always failed. We made plans of taking over my father's business empire and running it together when my father retired. I know my father had wanted that for William, but he had no head for figures."

"So when you and Jonathan fell in love and wanted to get married, your father approved."

Julia nodded vigorously. "And so did William. My father's focus shifted to Jonathan, and we were all relieved. My father didn't even notice William anymore, and William didn't care. Having Jonathan in our family was like an answer to all of our prayers."

"So what changed?"

Her face went ashen, her hand trembling enough to slosh water out of the gla.s.s. I took the gla.s.s from her as Jack stood. "I'll get Dee," he said, already halfway to the door.

She held up her hand and shook her head. "Not yet. Please. I'm not finished. I need . . . I need to know."

I knelt by the wheelchair and took one of her hands in mine. "Let me see the letter. Maybe what William was saying will make sense to me."

Jack came and stood next to me. "They're attacking Nola in her dreams, and I suspect the same thing happened to you, which is why you got rid of the dollhouse. You told Nola to keep the doll figures of your father and brother separated, because they didn't like each other. But they were getting along until that last argument before William disappeared. You know something you're not telling us, don't you?"

Julia glared up at Jack. "My father did not kill William, if that's what you're thinking. I have proof," she repeated.

The last word was barely a whisper, and I recalled again what William had said to me. She believes it is proof of innocence where there is none. Let her believe it. Make her stop.

"Then let us see the proof, Miss Julia," Jack said. "They will not leave you-or Nola-alone until this gets resolved. Mellie can help them find peace. Don't you want that?"

Her hands began to tremble on the arms of the wheelchair as bright spots of pink marred her pale skin. "No! They've not given me a moment's peace in all of these years. Do you know what that's like? To turn off your lights and feel them there? I want peace."

"Then what did you want to talk about to William?" I asked, my knees aching from kneeling.

It took her a long time before she finally answered. "Forgiveness."

"For what?" Jack pressed.

With a stubborn set of her jaw, she said, "My father did not kill William."

"Show me the proof, then," I said, slowly standing. Jack took my elbow and helped me up.

I spotted the small box that Jack had described to me on the bookshelf behind Julia. I retrieved it and handed it to Julia. She looked resigned and didn't bother asking how I'd known.

"Open it," she commanded. "I don't have the strength."

Regretting my own vanity at having left my reading gla.s.ses at home yet again, I handed the box to Jack. He gave me a knowing grin as he lifted the lid and peered inside before pulling out a small folded piece of paper. After replacing the lid, he opened the well-worn letter and began to read: Dear Sister, As you no doubt have already realized, and perhaps have known for some time, it is time for me to go. I can no longer live under the same roof as Father, as you well understand. It has not been easy for me with him, nor for you, I would imagine. Life is intolerable the way it is, and I must make the choice to change it. I suppose I have you to thank for my realization, although I doubt the result was what you expected. But that is what happens when we spill a secret-the results are not always what we planned. I am sorry for any hurt that my leaving will cause you, but it cannot be helped, as I am sure you will become aware. I want the best for you, and you will realize that in time.

I doubt I will see you for a while, if ever. I will not pa.s.s judgment; nor do I expect judgment to be settled on me.

William Jack lowered the letter. "He was planning to leave of his own free will, and didn't expect to return or stay in touch."

I took the letter from Jack, then folded it up and returned it to the small box, going over the words in my head and Julia's request that I ask William to forgive her. "What secret was he referring to?"

"You must go now," she said. She slumped to one side, her hand pressed to her chest.

Jack immediately left the room to find Dee while I took her hand again. "Was the secret the reason William argued with your father? Is that why you need his forgiveness?"

She didn't answer, and I had to stand back as Dee entered carrying a pill bottle and another gla.s.s of water. "Miss Julia needs to rest now. Please go."

Jack took my arm and led me down the hallway and out the front door. I didn't stop walking until we were a block away and out of sight of the turret, feeling unseen eyes on my back.

Jack followed without question, then turned to face me when I stopped. "She's guilty about something; I just don't know what," he said.

"But she doesn't want us to know, and her father and brother aren't happy that we're asking questions, either."

"What about Anne, her mother? Have you tried to contact her?"

I shook my head. "My mother did, but as in life she's overwhelmed by her husband. If we want answers, we'll need to go to the source."

"You tried before, and all you got was William telling you to stop her, and a burning bag filled with dolls. And agitated ghosts who want to get Nola involved in whatever this is all about."

I nodded. "We need to get the dollhouse away from Nola. Teenagers always have too much energy so that they draw the spirits to them."

"We could move it to my loft. Dead people don't bother me, and it will give Nola an excuse to come visit more often."

"That's a thought." I smiled, remembering the conversations Nola had with Alston while they were messing with the dollhouse, and thinking how foreign it would all be to Jack. "I'll mention it to her and she can let you know."

"Anything more from Bonnie?"

I frowned. "Not really. She said something about 'my daughter's eyes' again and then . . ." I stopped, not sure how to put the last part into words.

Jack c.o.c.ked an eyebrow.

"When I asked her why she'd intervened in the cemetery, she answered by laughing."

"Really?" He rubbed his hands over his face, and I noticed again how tired he looked. "I had a conversation with Nola about Jimmy Gordon. Seems it was Rick Chase who introduced them. Rick, Bonnie, and Nola went to Jimmy's studio, where he was recording his first alb.u.m. They left Nola in the waiting room for most of it, but apparently Jimmy, Bonnie, and Rick spent about an hour together in an office with Jimmy's producer."

"I'm guessing they were making a deal about Jimmy recording Rick's song 'I'm Just Getting Started.'"

"Probably. Although that still doesn't explain why Nola would have such an intense dislike of the man."

"She's a teenager," I said. "They usually don't have reasons for most of their feelings."