Page 31 of The Narrow

“Weren’t you just saying that you lie all the time?” I ask her, almost teasingly. “Why should I believe you now?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” she says. I can’t look away from her. With the light shining from behind, her face is in shadow. Her hair has come loose from its braid, leaving red wisps around her cheeks. “Goodnight, Eden.”

Her steps carry her up the stairs with the quick, tense grace of a deer.

I look after her until the door shuts, cutting off the light. I don’t know what to make of Delphine Fournier. Maybe that’s inevitable—she’s bound to be a little strange. But I didn’t expect her to be so easy to talk to, and I didn’t expect the way she has of listening—like she’s intently focused on understanding every word you’re saying. On understandingyou.

I didn’t expect that I would want someone to understand me that way.

I turn away from the door. There are no exterior windows off the hall, and without the light spilling down from Delphine’s rooms, it’s pitch-black. I drop against the wall for the light switch and flick it on.

Bare, wet footprints stretch between the front door and my room. I creep over, heart hammering in my chest. The prints aren’t just damp. Water has pooled in them and spattered around in drops and small puddles.

It was raining when I came in, and I hadn’t showered. Could I have tracked this water in?

I hold my foot up against one of the prints. My feet are at least a full size smaller. And there’s something strange about the right foot—it’s bent inward, and the inside of the ball of the foot hasn’t left a mark, like whoever it was had to put their weight on the edge of their foot.

I follow the prints to my room. Through the door I know I left locked.

All the way to the edge of my bed.

12

I DON’T SLEEPthe rest of the night, listening for the rain. Around seven, my phone chimes with a text from Delphine.

Come upstairs. I need to talk to you.

I scale the steps with trepidation. I’m extra meticulous with the procedures. It’s not like I was going to gamble with Delphine’s health before, but now it takes on new importance. I dry beneath my fingernails and tuck every strand of hair up beneath the plastic cap before I walk upstairs.

Delphine is on the couch, reading. The title of the book is in French.

“Are you reading that for a class?” I ask.

“Just for myself,” she says.

“Are you really French?” I blurt out, remembering Veronica’s long-ago accusation.

Delphine’s eyebrows raise slowly. Then she laughs, shaking her head. “No. ButMamanhas always been enamored of France,” shesays, overemphasizing the French word. “Her real name is Janet Murphy. She changed it when she started acting.” She sets the book aside, closing it without marking her place.

There’s a camera up in the corner I didn’t notice before. It’s white and blends in with the walls, but the black eye is pointed straight toward us. Delphine follows my gaze.

“In case I have an episode. They’re monitored by an outside company,” Delphine says. “They can’t hear us, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Can your mother watch you through there?” I ask.

“She says she doesn’t, but I know she does from time to time. She’ll keep track of the fact that you were here. She’s anxious that she hasn’t been able to meet you in person.”

“When is she coming back?” I ask. I’m not exactly looking forward to the introduction.

“Tomorrow. That’s why we need to talk,” Delphine says. She eyes me. “Your arm is worse.”

It’s true. My arm is throbbing in time to my pulse, worse than it’s been since it first happened. She approaches, stretching out a gentle hand, and lifts my arm to examine it, touching me only at the wrist and elbow.

“Were these here before?” she asks.

Four bruises stripe my arm. A fifth wraps around the other side to meet them. Like a hand, gripping tight.

Queasiness lurches through me. I pull my arm away. “No. They shouldn’t—it healed. It was healing.”

---