Page 23 of The Narrow

Or someone playing a cruel prank.

The smart thing would be to forget about all of it—what I saw six years ago, the diary, what happened to Aubrey. But Delphine is the question that has haunted me for six years, no matter how many times I tried to forget.

I have to know what happened. Whatishappening.

When classes are done for the day, I automatically head towardAbigail House, but Zoya intercepts me. “Hey,” she says. “We missed you at lunch.”

“I wasn’t feeling great,” I say truthfully. “Did I miss anything spectacular?”

She makes a face. “The boys were there. Veronica and Ruth were mostly all over them. I don’t get it. Remi spent most of the summer with Veronica. It’s not like they’ve even had time to miss each other.”

“He’s so in love, he misses her when she goes to the bathroom,” I say, and she giggles.

“He’s sweet, at least,” she says. “She needs sweet.”

“Sweet and steady,” I agree. Someone to ground her.

“You’re coming to debrief, right?” Zoya asks. At the end of our first week of classes, we always gather for a sacred ritual that involves placing bets on final grades and which class each of us will have a meltdown about first. There’s ice cream and usually a smuggled bottle of wine.

“Lest I surely die,” I tell her, though the gathering does not hold its usual appeal. There’s something stifling about the idea of sitting there and listening to everyone talk about their wonderful summers. I’ll have to make something up. Plaster a smile on my face.

“Lest Veronica actually murders you,” Zoya corrects. “She has not shut up about it all week. In the meantime, I’m hitting up the library. Want to come?”

When I hesitate, Zoya grabs my hand in both of hers. “Come on, Eden. I haven’t seen you all summer, and I’m stuck in a dormwith the biggest pair of extroverts in the world. Please stand in companionable silence two aisles away from me?”

I force myself to smile. I love my friends; I should want to spend time with them. “Sounds like a good time.”

“Thebestkind of friend-date,” Zoya confirms.

We walk together without the particular need to talk. I’ve always appreciated that aspect of our friendship—we spend a lot of time reading, Zoya’s legs draped casually across my lap as I balance my book on her shins. Or watching a movie together while I braid her hair—neither the salon on campus nor the one in town are up to her standards, so between YouTube and her instructions, I’ve trained myself to a serviceable level of expertise. I was surprised to discover I really enjoyed it, and I’ve been doing Veronica’s and Ruth’s hair for years, too.

Zoya’s watching me out of the corner of her eye. “What?” I ask her.

Her lips press together briefly. “Look, it’s probably nothing,” she says.

“What, Zoya? Now you have to tell me,” I say.

We’re approaching the library. She cups her elbows in her hands, hunching as she walks. “It’s just, people have been gossiping. About what happened to Aubrey and you being in Abigail House.”

“There have always been rumors about Abigail House,” I say. Usually, they have to do with Delphine not really being sick, Madelyn Fournier being a Munchausen-syndrome-by-proxy villainess, that sort of thing. And of course people occasionally say that Abigail House is haunted, but every brick and stone atthis school has a haunting to its name. It’s the sort of place built to breed ghost stories.

“They’re saying that Aubrey was never anywhere near water when she drowned. They found her on the front steps, and she had a bunch of broken bones,” Zoya says. Goose bumps rise on the back of my neck. “Some people are saying she’s dead.”

“She’s not,” I say. “I think she texted me, actually.”

“Seriously?” Zoya asks.

“I can’t be sure, but I think so. She said she saw the Drowning Girl.”

“The ghost,” Zoya says, not quite a question. “The girl who drowned in the Narrow because of some boy, and now she climbs out to drip on people.” She gives me a sidelong look. “Have you seen something?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I say. It’s true. I’m pretty sure. “But I don’t know. There’s something weird about that place.”

Zoya looks thoughtful. “You know who I bet knows something about it? Mr.Campos.”

“We don’t have to talk to Mr.Campos,” I say at once.

“Why not? He’s all about Atwood history, and he teaches that ghost story elective during Free Week.” Free Week is the week between semesters. The teachers and some of the staff offer short classes on niche subjects—there’s Mr.Campos’s ghost story class, a baking class, even a class that consists entirely of watching the movieHot Fuzzevery day for five days.

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