Page 50 of The Narrow

It was Maeve. Somehow her presence brought the bruises back. Made my arm light up with fire. But I don’t think she meant to hurt me. Her touch was desperate, panicked even, but not angry.

Who is she? Her name wasn’t mentioned in any of the articles.

The Drowning Girl went to meet her lover.Her family didn’t approve for some reason, take your pick. He was poor, he was the wrong race, he came from the wrong family.

He wasn’t aheat all, maybe.

They went to meet that night. Maeve and Grace. Then what? Maeve drowned. And Grace? Where is she?

I pull on my clothes with shaking hands and hurry to my room. I don’t see Madelyn Fournier’s bright red car in the lot, and there are no cameras downstairs. I’m not being watched here, at least.

Fear and wonder and confusion jangle through me. That was real.Shewas real, and she was a ghost, and all of this is real.

Impossible and real.

My mouth is full of the taste of dirt and river water. I grab a cup and fill it at the sink, swishing the water around. I spit, rinse, spit again—and something clatters into the sink.

My tooth. Ripped up by the root.

I stand there staring at it. My cheek stings. I touch my fingertips to it—there will be a bright red mark there, I remember. A hand pressing down. But that will fade. My lip is sore but not split. My arm is easy to hide.

I pick my tooth up from the sink. My tongue probes at the sore, bloody gap where it was.

I throw it in the trash.

—

I dream that night of the Narrow.

I stand at the edge beneath a cloud-covered sky. My throat feels raw, as if I’ve been shouting—or sobbing. A branch snaps behind me. I turn. A figure stands in the shadow of the trees, indistinct.

“You can’t keep her from me,” I say. “I love her, and she loves me.”

The dream slews sideways, time crumpling, and I’m under the water, dragged down, battered against the cruel rocks as I try to call out her name—

Grace, Grace, Grace.

But I’m alone.

I sit up, panting. It’s morning. I’m in my bed, warm and dry. No current to drag me down. No ghost watching me from the corner. All at once, everything that happened last night feels like a dream as well, and I find myself trying to believe that I’ve somehow dreamed my encounter with Maeve, then kept dreaming, and the world is still arranged the way I believed it was.

But my tongue finds the gap in my teeth, still sore, still tasting coppery. No. It wasn’t a dream.

Delphine is talking to her mother upstairs; I can hear their voices faintly. I dress slowly, tame my tangled hair into order, and wait. Eventually, Madelyn Fournier’s footsteps come down the stairs. A few minutes after that, she emerges from her room and head out of the house. Only then do I make my way upstairs.

Delphine steps out of her room with her new sharp bob and, to my surprise, a slash of bright red lipstick, with expertly applied eyeliner to go with it. Her uniform shirt is unbuttoned enough that I can see the black edge of her bra. She looks—

“Amazing,” I say.

She gives me an amused look. “You’ve been reduced to adjectives by the sight of me?” she asks.

“You look amazing,” I amend.

She shrugs one shoulder. “Thanks to my mom. I’ve never really put on makeup before, so I asked if she would show me. Lessthan a day after screaming at me for cutting my hair. I don’t know what you said to her, but thank you.”

“I didn’t really say anything. I think she realized what she was doing all on her own,” I reply.

“She thinks that if I stay the same, I’ll stay safe. But the only people who never change are the dead ones,” Delphine says.

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