Page 32 of If Anything Happens To Me

“Nothing. But I could tell that what I said really bothered her. She got even more hunched and left the room. I almost felt bad for her. But, see, she could come and go. She had control—we had none.”

I tried to imagine Gale’s role in what had happened to Iris and Hayley—and to Eloise, because I was convinced that my sister had to be “the other girl” that Gale had referred to.

“And what was the room like?” I asked. “Can you remember?”

“It was in an attic,” she said. “But, like an extra-high attic or something. I was out of it when we got there, but the drug was starting to wear off when he jostled me out of the van. We had to go up a bunch of flights. Four, I think. You could tell it was a very old place—the rafters were splintered, and the nails were that rustic, iron kind that you see in museums about New England history.” She glanced at me. “And, Oli, thereweredead birds.”

“Like in your dream.”

“Yes. Mostly owls. Dead, stuffed, with their wings out like they were flying—suspended from the ceiling. Hanging up there, dangling over our heads.”

“With dolls’ eyes,” I said, remembering what she had said.

I pictured being at the birding station. I loved birds so much, and I tried to imagine the kind of person who would kill them, take them to a taxidermist, and hang them from the ceiling.

“There were windows,” Iris continued. “But they were so old and dirty, we couldn’t see out. A big chimney stood in the center of the room. Or maybe just a brick enclosure. He went inside it sometimes, through a splintery old door that was set into the brick. Also, there were those strange painted panels, leaning against the walls.”

“Like in the ghost signs?” Matt asked.

“Yes. Those same three classical-looking girls,” Iris said. “The Sibylline sisters in those draped white gowns, with flowers in their hair, carved marble columns behind them.” She paused, frowning.

“What?” I asked.

“Obviously Gale’s nightgown was modeled on their dresses.” She shrugged and went on. “Once, the guy was standing in front of the panels, and I heard him say ‘hella-spon-teen.’ Or something like that. Then something that sounded almost like ‘arithmetic,’ but not quite. ‘Aritherin’? A foreign language, I thought. And he said the words in an almost reverential way, as if they meant something very important to him.”

“Who is a ‘hella-spon-teen’?” I asked, pulling out my phone and typing it phonetically into the search window.

Nothing with that spelling came up, but it autocorrected toHellespontine. When I looked that up, it said she was an ancient Greek sibyl along with two others,PhrygianandErythraean.

“Wait, could ‘arithmetic’ have been ‘Erythraean’?” I asked. “Sounds similar.”

“Yes, that’s it!” Iris said.

I passed her my phone, to show her the painting of the three sibyls that had popped up in the search. Their long white dress were ethereal and delicate, but they had sharp intelligence in their eyes that left no doubt they were women to be reckoned with. Iris peered at them, nodding her head. “These are similar to the ones in the attic,” she said. “Not by the same artist, but definitely the same subjects. Sibyls . . . what are they?”

I took my phone back and skimmed the screen. “According to this article, they’re women who are oracles,” I said, and suddenly it seemed obvious. “The Sibylline sisters!”

“The ghost-sign girls!” Matt said.

“They can tell the future?” Iris asked. “Isn’t that what oracles do?”

“Yes, according to this article,” I said, looking at my phone.

“Do you think the guy who took you drew the paintings? Or did Gale?” Matt asked.

“No, the panels were really old,” Iris said. “They looked almost like stage sets, as if they’d been in a theater at some point . . .” She trailed off, and I noticed her voice and energy draining away.

I looked at the time on my phone. It was three in the afternoon. Hard to believe that only a day and a half had passed since I had found her in the ground.

I saw her yawn widely and touch her head.

“You’re doing great, Iris,” I said. “I can’t believe how much is coming back.”

“I have this bizarre feeling,” she said in a strained whisper, pressing against her temples with her fingertips. “Almost as if I’d been in a hospital, or a clinic. With a band put around my head. Or electrodes or something—attached with that sticky stuff. Like, testing my brain.” She yawned again. “I’m really tired and I can’t think anymore. I feel as if I’m going to fall asleep.”

“Of course,” I said worriedly. “You didn’t sleep well last night.”

She nodded. “I just need a nap—I’ll curl up like a cat and be ready to go when I wake up.”

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