Page 51 of The Only One Left

I take a step back and give Lenora a look. “How do you know I heard noises?”

Because she caused them.

The thought pushes into my brain like a drill bit. Sudden, unnerving, and unwanted.

Also, ridiculous.

No, it was someone else.

And Lenora’s lying to me.

Probably not for the first time.

It occurs to me that much of what she’s typed so far could be, if not a lie, then at least a bending of the truth. Shaping the story in a way that suits her best. I did it myself when talking to Mrs. Baker upon my arrival. I could have said it was my mother who overdosed on pills. Instead, I told her it was merely a patient. Not a lie, exactly, but also not the full truth. Not by a long shot. I suspect Lenora’s been doing the same.

And I’m getting tired of it.

“I know someone was in here last night,” I say. “Now tell me who it was or no more typing. And certainly no more telling your story.”

Lenora studies me, trying to decide if I’m bluffing. Good luck with that.Idon’t even know how serious I am. While I suspect I’m as eager to hear the full story as she is to write it, I’m also hesitant. Again, it might not be the whole truth. And if it is, I might not want to know it.

Apparently, I look more decisive than I feel, because Lenora starts typing again.

someones been here

I enjoy a moment of vindication. I knew it wasn’t my imagination!

“But not just last night, right? The night before as well.”

many nights

Jolted with alarm, I say, “Then who is it? Who’s been in your room?”

Still hesitant, Lenora sizes me up again. Then she resumes typing with pronounced reluctance. It takes her a full minute to press eight keys. When she’s done, I rip the page from the typewriter. Marking the white paper in ink as black as night is a single name.

virginia

SEVENTEEN

Muzak squawks from the kitchen telephone as I wait for Mr. Gurlain to pick up. It’s been five minutes since he put me on hold. Long enough for a queasy rendition of a Captain & Tennille song to be replaced by an even worse cover of “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers.” I wait, receiver at my ear, as I look around the empty kitchen, hoping no one enters while I’m here. I don’t want to explain why I’ve left Lenora alone in her wheelchair while I make a phone call. I especially don’t want to talk about the reason for the call. Telling it to Mr. Gurlain is going to be hard enough.

When he gets on the line, blessedly cutting off the Muzak, he sounds nervous. I assume he’s thinking about the morning I found my mother dead, which was the last time he got an urgent phone call from me.

“Is something wrong?” he says.

“No. Well, yes.” I inhale, hold the breath in my chest, exhale. “I’m calling to ask for a new assignment.”

“I just gave you a new assignment,” Mr. Gurlain says.

“I’d like a different one,” I say, tacking on a polite “please.”

“It’s only been a few days, Kit.”

“I know. I just—”

My voice seizes up. I have no idea what to say. That I’m afraid? I’m not. Fear involves certainty. You know what you’re afraid of. I’m the opposite. Uncertain and unnerved. And who can blame me? I’m in a slanted mansion where three people were murdered. There are bloodstains on the Grand Stairs and a ballroom where a dead girl swung from the chandelier. A dead girl who, apparently, roams my patient’s bedroom at night.

I don’t believe in ghosts.

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