In the second half of Part 1, “Tragedy,” the novel moves from the immediate shock of loss to the quieter, more emotionally complex territory of grief and healing. The novel explores how the characters, particularly Thea, Lucy, and Riggs, navigate trauma, memory, and the psychic legacies they inherit.

At the heart of this section is the Lannigan family’s psychic gift, a legacy that is both defining and dangerous, thematically foregrounding The Power and Burden of Family Legacies. Lucy explains that “it seems this gift runs through the women in the family” (114), reinforcing that it’s a matrilineal inheritance, deeply woven into identity and family history. However, what makes this legacy bearable is its framing. The Lannigans treat it as a “gift,” not a curse. It’s something that each who inherits it can choose to develop, temper, or even decline (as Cora chose to do). Within this framework, Lucy teaches Thea how to live with the burden. She offers structure through folk rituals and “kitchen magic,” crafting protective sachets and teaching Thea calming spells to help her block intrusive visions at night. In doing so, Lucy transforms psychic ability from an isolating curse into a skill that Thea can understand and manage.

However, the gift also exposes Thea to immense suffering. Her psychic link to Riggs allows her not only to witness his crimes but also to feel his victims’ final moments as though they were hers. She absorbs the pain of others, often involuntarily, and experiences grief that isn’t hers alone. However, through Lucy’s support and her own growing maturity, Thea begins to regain control over when and how she uses her abilities. The legacy is a burden, but with love and mentorship, it also becomes a source of strength and resilience.

In contrast, Riggs’s experience with the gift highlights the danger of unmoored power. Riggs has no support system, no moral compass, and no intention of using his abilities responsibly. He hates his family, fantasizes about murdering them, and uses his psychic power to manipulate, harm, and haunt. If Riggs inherited his gift through lineage, the novel offers no insight into it. What’s clear is that, unlike Thea, he’s isolated and self-taught, driven by rage and obsession. In prison, he devotes his time to honing his ability, not as a path toward healing but as a weapon.

Thea and Riggs’s bond deepens in these chapters, illustrating the strange, dangerous connection that their shared abilities create. Initially, Thea seeks Riggs out in her dreams, hoping to ensure that justice has been served. In doing so, she sees that he’s alive but not living: “He could breathe […] He could sneeze and snore and sweat. But he couldn’t really live […] maybe that was worse than death […] She was glad she’d seen and felt and heard where he’d spend his life that wasn’t a real life at all” (112). For Thea, this realization provides a kind of emotional closure, a form of punishment that she considers fitting. She doesn’t kill Riggs or wish him physical harm, but she chooses not to forgive him. Her presence in his mind isn’t to inflict pain but to affirm her power, her survival, and her refusal to let him haunt her.

Thea’s decision also contributes to thematically developing The Wisdom of Forgiveness Versus the Temptation of Revenge. While she abstains from traditional revenge, her psychic visit to Riggs still serves as a form of retribution. It’s a way of confirming his suffering and ensuring that moral justice is done. However, even in that respect, Thea’s restraint is evident. She doesn’t strike or harm; she observes and then departs. Conversely, vengeance consumes Riggs. He fixates on Thea, promising to kill her slowly and joyfully. His revenge is rooted not in justice but in fury regarding what he considers entitlement and in his inability to accept responsibility. This contrast between Thea and Riggs highlights a crucial distinction: Thea is capable of forgiveness, though she withholds it; Riggs is not. He lacks empathy entirely, whereas Thea’s gift is empathy—overwhelming, painful, and often not sought. This difference defines the power dynamic between them. Thea moves forward, even as she grieves, whereas Riggs remains stuck and becomes increasingly monstrous in his isolation.

Lucy likewise grapples with the concept of forgiveness. Her rage flares again when John’s parents (the elder Foxes) fail to acknowledge their son’s death or offer any comfort to their orphaned grandchildren. Lucy’s bitterness is justified, and while she doesn’t act on vengeance, her refusal to include the Foxes in the children’s lives is a conscious severing. This quiet form of retribution speaks volumes and demonstrates Lucy’s protectiveness: She chooses her path according to what’s best for Thea and Rem, rather than acting out of anger like the Foxes.

Despite all this pain, the novel weaves in moments of deep love and understanding, small acts that bring the characters back to life. Lucy renovates the attic, transforming it into “The Foxes’ Den,” a cozy shared space that blends Thea’s and Rem’s tastes. Friends gather for the funeral and bring food to share. Maddy sits beside Thea and promises to eat lunch with her at school. Detective Howard, once skeptical, becomes a trusted adult in Thea’s growing circle of support. These relationships don’t erase grief, but they reshape it, showing that love doesn’t die with the people lost. These details thematically develop The Transformative Power of Love and Understanding, as do the final pages of this section, when Thea begins school, finds joy in friends, attends concerts, and dreams of college. Lucy continues to guide her, giving space for independence while staying close. Although Riggs still lurks on the edges of Thea’s psychic awareness, she learns to keep him out and choose boundaries and peace. This isn’t the end of her journey, but it is the beginning of a life that, while forever marked by tragedy, is no longer solely defined by it.