Page 43 of The Narrow

“You could ask Geoffrey,” Veronica says. “He was a teacher back then, you know.”

“I know,” I say darkly. “I already talked to him, sort of. He’s the one that gave me her full name. But he wouldn’t tell me more than that.”

“You’ve been researching this for a while?” she asks.

“Not long,” I hedge.

“I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised,” she says, jostling me with her shoulder. “You’re the sneaky one, after all.”

“The what?”

“The sneaky one. I’m the hot one, Zoya’s the smart one, Ruth’s the strong one, and you’re the sneaky one. Your basic literary archetypes.”

I can’t tell if I should find it funny; I’m too wrung out to feel much of anything. She’s here, she’s trying, but that almost makes it worse. I don’t want her to have to try so hard. I just want things to be easy.

“We could help, you know. I love a good scavenger hunt. I’ve never done ghost research before,” she says, waggling her eyebrows. She doesn’t get it. She thinks it’s a fun lark.

“You should go. Do the Vespers run,” I say.

She chews her lip. “Are we okay?” she asks, searching my face.

I smile. It stretches the new skin on my lip. “We’re okay,” I assure her. I want it to be true; is that enough to make it something other than a lie?

“We’re hanging out tonight. Just the girls. Please come.”

“Okay,” I say.Please let things be okay, we both are saying.

“I love you, Eden,” she says. She leaves without waiting for me to respond.

I put the newspapers away and close the boxes. I have what I came for. A name, a date, a story. But it doesn’t tell me what I need to know.

What happened to you, Grace?

And what do you want from us?

—

When I get back to Abigail House, I towel off thoroughly before changing into my customary loungewear. Madelyn’s door is closed, and it looks like the light is off inside. I didn’t see her car out front, so I assume she’s gone out.

My arm is throbbing. I fish out one of the five remaining pills and down it quickly, trying not to think about it too much. I need it, so I’m taking it. Simple as that. In another week, even a hairline fracture should be healed enough that I won’t need the assistance anymore, and I can stop.

I hate the feeling of it sliding down my throat all the same, the memory of those days surfacing.

You back?Delphine texts, lighting up my phone. I pick it up, dashing off a response.

Yeah. Didn’t find much, though, but it’s a place to start.

Can you come up?

The answer is of course, but I send a more restrained response. I go through the decontamination procedures yet again, dress in the maroon scrubs, and trudge up the steps. Delphine is waiting at the top of the stairs, wearing one of her too-young dresses with the Peter Pan collar and shiny black Mary Jane shoes. Her hair is long and loose, perfectly smooth. She looks as put-together as always, but there is something off—the way she moves is jerky and uncertain, and there is red around her eyes like she’s been crying.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

“It’s nothing,” she says. “My mom and I had a fight. Nothing new.”

“What were you fighting about?” I ask, worry creasing my brow.

She makes a sharp, frustrated gesture with one hand. “The usual. Everything and nothing. I want to be looking at colleges to apply to next year, and she won’t even talk about it.”

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