Ben Findley's arms went around Anna, and he held her tight. "No, Anna, I've told you the truth. It's all over now. Amos is dead, and he can't hurt you anymore. It's all over. Amos is dead, and our son is alive, and it's over."

But Anna shook herself loose. "It's not over," she hissed. "I wasn't wrong, Ben. I wasn't! You're lying to me, but I'll find the truth! So help me, I'll find the truth!" Then she turned, and with an effort of sheer willpower, she walked slowly across the room and disappeared into the tiny room that had been her private retreat for the last twenty years.

A moment later, when Ben Findley tried to follow her, he found the door locked. When he called to her, Anna Hall refused to answer him.

The next morning, Anna began to hear the rumors. People called-nearly everyone in town-to express their sympathies, and Anna listened to them, and made all the proper responses. But some of them didn't stop with condolences about Amos's death. Some of them made oblique references to Michael:

"Such a terrible thing for a boy his age-"

"Of course, losing his father must have been a terrible trauma for him, but to blame his grandfather-"

"Of course, he couldn't have seen a ghost, but he must have seen something-"

"Of course, I can't believe it's true. Why would a little boy want to do a thing like that-"

Anna listened to it all, and slowly pieced it all together. Finally she turned to Laura, who had arrived during the night, after Ben Findley had left. She hadn't seen Laura last night, but she'd told her through her closed door that she was all right and that she needed to be alone for a while. Laura had accepted it, as Laura always accepted everything. Only this morning, when Anna had slowly and shakily walked out of the tiny room, had Laura tried to confront her.

Anna smiled grimly at the memory. Laura had stared at her, speechless, then finally opened her mouth to protest. "Mother-you can't-"

Anna had silenced her. "Obviously I can," she'd said. "Since I am."

"But-but-how?"

"I don't know," Anna admitted. "Something happened to me last night. I'm not sure what it was, and I won't talk about it. But after I found out your father had died, something inside me changed." She'd smiled sadly at Laura. "Maybe I've stopped punishing myself. Or maybe I could have done it long ago," she said. "Maybe my chair was nothing more than my own way of running away from things. I've been thinking about it all night, Laura, and that's the only thing that makes sense. Charles told me that years ago, you know. From the very beginning, he told me there was nothing wrong with my legs, that I'd just decided I didn't want to walk." A tear welled in her eye, then ran slowly down her cheek. "And it worked, you know," she whispered. "Your father used to beat me, years ago-"

"Mother!"

"He did, Laura. But then he stopped. When I couldn't walk anymore, he stopped."

Then, with a strength she hadn't felt for years, Anna had begun taking charge of her own life, a task she'd ceded to Amos on the day she'd married him.

"I want to go to Janet's," she said now.

"But mother, Janet's in bed. The doctor's ordered her to stay in bed for at least a week."

"Then she'll need help," Anna replied. "I can at least take care of the cooking. I won't have my grandson rummaging around eating God only knows what."

"Mother, no one expects you to do anything right now. Ione Simpson's looking after her, and Michael can spend the nights with us, if it's too much trouble for the Simpsons."

Anna's face set. "Laura, I know you're trying to do what's best for me, and I appreciate it. But I'm not senile, and if I have to sit here listening to idle gossip about my grandson-"

Suddenly Laura's expression turned wary. "Gossip? What gossip?"

"It seems," Anna replied, "there are some people in town who think Michael might have had something to do with Amos's death."

Laura paled. "I know what they're talking about, but it isn't true, mother. It isn't possible-"

"I'll decide for myself what's possible and what isn't," Anna snapped. "Now, will you take me over there, or do I have to learn to drive again the same day I have to leam to walk?"

"Mother, you really should stay home-what will people think? And Father-think of Father."

Anna made no reply. Instead, she simply began making her slow way to the front door, then out onto the porch. She was starting down the steps when Laura finally decided that she was not bluffing. "All right, Mother," she said, and followed the older woman out to her car.

Ione Simpson looked up in shocked surprise, then got quickly to her feet as Anna Hall, leaning heavily on Laura's arm, walked slowly into Janet Hall's small living room. "Anna! What are you-" She paused, floundering, then recovered herself. "I'm-I'm so sorry about Amos."

Anna nodded an acknowledgment, and quickly scanned the room. "Is Michael upstairs?"

Ione hesitated, then shook her head. "He's in the kitchen, I think."

Wordlessly, Anna turned toward the kitchen. Laura moved quickly to help her, but Anna brushed her aside. "I want to talk to him alone." Slowly, but with remarkable steadiness, Anna walked out of the living room.

She found Michael at the kitchen table, staring sightlessly at a bowl of cold cereal. As if coming out of a trance, his eyes suddenly focused, and he looked at her. "Aren't you going to give your grandmother a kiss?" she asked.

With obvious reluctance, Michael got up from the table and approached her. "I-I'm sorry, Grandma," he whispered. Anna put her arms around him.

"It's all right, Michael. I know it's hard, but he was an old man, and whatever happened, it wasn't your fault." Then she held him at arm's length and looked directly into his eyes. "It wasn't your fault, was it?"

Michael trembled slightly, then nodded his head.

"I see," Anna breathed. She let her hands drop from Michael's shoulders and moved to the table, where she carefully lowered herself into a chair. "Sit down, Michael," she said softly. "Sit down and tell me what happened. Can you do that? Can you tell me all of it?"

Slowly, Michael recounted his story of the night before, and when he was done, Anna slumped tiredly in her chair. "You wished him dead," she whispered. "You and Nathaniel wished him dead."

She reached out then, reached out to comfort the sobbing boy who sat across from her, his head buried in his arms. At her touch, he looked up.

"I'm sorry, Grandma. I'm sorry!"

"Michael," Anna said almost fearfully. "There's something you haven't told me."

Slowly, Michael's sobbing subsided, and at last he looked up at his grandmother, his eyes red, his cheeks splotched with tears.

"Who is Nathaniel?" Anna asked. "You haven't told me who Nathaniel is." She hesitated, then asked the question she'd been dreading. "He's-he's a ghost, isn't he?"

Michael's eyes widened, and for a long moment he stared at his grandmother in silence. At last, he shook his head.

"No, Grandma," he said softly. "He's real."