Bel and Ernest watched her from the doorway. Mercy was dragging her feet, trying to soak up one last second of television. Time had become a great syrupy broth. The text from Vida Wiley was twenty-one words long: Follow the trail to the end, no matter what. Stick close to Bel. Trust no one else. I love you, always. “Salem? Who texted?” Was Bel watching her oddly? Well, of course she was. Salem was not answering a direct question, shivering, holding her phone like it was both a scorpion and a life raft. An idea was birthing itself, ripping through Salem’s stomach, shredding her throat, too big to push past her mouth, tearing through sinew and skin in its effort to escape: if her mom was texting her right now, that meant Gracie was dead. Beautiful, sassy Gracie, who lit up any room she walked into and treated everyone like she was their best friend. Gracie, whom Salem had always secretly wished was her own mother.
