Page 51 of The Narrow

Something prickles at me. “That sounds familiar.”

“It should. It’s one of your lines,” Delphine says. “FromGrave Belles?”

Now I remember: Lenore’s father, the gravekeeper, says something like that to her in the opening pages, before Lenore hears the ringing bell that changes everything.

“What happens, anyway? After Lenore finds Isabelle?” Delphine asks. “It was a really interesting story. I was sorry you stopped uploading it.”

“I could show you,” I say, almost eagerly.

“Then you did keep working on it?”

“Yeah. There’s a lot, actually. Belle’s brother goes on trial, and she starts living in the family house again, secretly, and he thinks he’s being haunted—” I stop, the subject suddenly a bit too close to home. But Delphine looks intrigued.

“I’d love to read it. If I could.”

“Of course,” I say. Of course—as if it’s no big deal. As if I have ever let anyone see it before. It’s always belonged to me and me alone. Not as ambitious or polished as Zoya’s writing, not as technically proficient as Veronica’s artwork, butmine. But I want Delphine to see it. To know that part of me.

“Thank you,” she says. I can tell from those two words thatshe understands what it means to me, and what it means that I agreed.

Then I remember why I rushed up here. My throat gets tight. “Something happened,” I say.

Her eyes flick to the side. She doesn’t turn her head, but I know she’s thinking of the cameras. “Come to my room,” she suggests.

It is never any less intimate, stepping into her private space. The bed is made neatly. A modest collection of makeup has been added to the vanity, along with a bag from the expensive boutique two towns over. Madelyn must have made a trip to assuage her parental guilt with gifts.

Delphine sits on the edge of the bed, but I stay standing. I have too much energy burning through me, and I pace as I tell her what happened. She listens with rapt attention, and when I reach the end, I search her face for any sign that she doesn’t believe me—but there’s none.

“Then the story is true, in a way. The Drowning Girl went to meet her lover, and the Narrow claimed her instead. We were wrong about who the ghost was, though. And it doesn’t answer the question of what happened to Grace,” Delphine says, sounding far away. She fiddles with the delicate pearl pendant around her neck. When she lets it go, it rests right at the cleft between her breasts. I realize where I’m looking and glance away quickly, a touch of heat in my cheeks.

“She wants to find Grace, that’s all,” I say. “She isn’t malicious.”

“But why is she coming here? And what does it have to do with me?” Delphine asks.

“Maybe it doesn’t,” I say. “Grace lived in Abigail House. Maybe that’s why Maeve is coming here.”

“But that doesn’t explain what’s happening to me. It can’t be a coincidence,” Delphine says. She reaches for me. She catches my hand and pulls me wordlessly down to sit beside her. She doesn’t relinquish my hand but strokes her thumb across the back of it. Her head leans toward mine, her hair hanging forward to obscure half her face. From this position, I can see quite a bit of what her half-buttoned shirt reveals, and my memory supplies the rest. I picture her again, undressing—picture what might have happened if I put my hands on those hips, if I kissed that perfect neck.

I laugh, a low sound that scratches the back of my throat. Delphine’s brow furrows with confusion. “What’s so funny?” she asks.

“Not funny. Not really,” I say. “It’s just—with everything happening, ghosts and missing girls and all the rest, all I can think about right now is kissing you.”

I promised, after all, to tell the truth.

She straightens up, her hand pulling free of mine. Her lips part in silent surprise. A lurch of panic goes through me. Why did I say that? She doesn’t feel the same—I made her uncomfortable—I ruined whatever there was between us—

“You want to kiss me?” she asks. Her voice is small. Delicate. I pull back, giving her space.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Guilt and embarrassment are acidic in my veins. She doesn’t need this—the one person she gets to spend time with checking her out. Thereare few more awkward things than realizing a friend has the hots for you and it isn’t reciprocated. How much worse is it when it’s youronlyfriend?

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable,” she says. My relief is sluggish compared to my panic. “It’s just... unexpected. Why?”

“Why?” I echo, and almost laugh again, but I think it wouldn’t be exactly welcome. “You’re smart and different and intense—intense in a good way, I mean. And you’re beautiful, Del. Especially with that hair. You never looked like you before, and now you do.”

“And that’s a good thing? Looking like me?” she asks. Anyone else would have sounded like they were fishing for a compliment, but her look is one of careful focus. Trying to make sense of something she doesn’t understand.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I’m pretty strange, if you hadn’t noticed,” she says.

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