Lucky, lucky, lucky.
In bed, burrowed under the covers, I reach over for the light. The bedside table is set awkwardly far away, and I have to lean out to reach the switch. My hand on the ridged plastic knob, I pause, staring down. Then I get out of the bed and walk slowly around it.
The hardwood floor is blotchy, mottled with darkness. But only around the bed.
A ring of water damage. As if a flood spilled around the bed and seeped into the wood. I bend and press a palm to the floor.
It’s dry as a bone.
8
THE PAIN IN my arm keeps me dipping in and out of sleep all night. Each time I wake, I hear the steady drumming of the rain. It almost sounds like someone tapping against the windows. When I finally wake, I feel like I’ve been dreaming, my heart hammering and my hands reaching for something, but I can’t remember the dream.
It’s too early for breakfast in the dining hall. To kill time, I look around my new abode. There isn’t much to see. A linen closet with fresh sheets, blankets, and towels. The bedroom closet with Aubrey’s forgotten clothing. I open the dresser, worrying that I’ll find more, but these at least have been cleared out except for a single stray sock.
I’m closing the bottom drawer when it sticks. I shove at it, thinking it’s gotten off track, and try opening and closing it again—but it still sticks four inches shy of closing. Grumbling, I lever it off its tracks and peer back inside to see if there’s something blocking it.
A slim red book is wedged behind the back of the drawer, preventing it from closing all the way. I reach in and lever it free. Gold text on the cover reads Journal. Was Aubrey the kind of girl to keep a diary?
I sit with it in my lap, my fingers tracing the edge of the cover. I shouldn’t open it. But I can’t stop thinking about what happened to Aubrey—and what she might have known.
Before I can think twice, I open the diary. Where I expect to find writing, there are blotches of ink, the ghosts of words bleeding across the page. The paper itself is rippled and stained, as if it’s been soaked through and dried out. The pages stick to each other stiffly, and as I ease them apart, some of them rip. Most of the writing has been completely destroyed, but here and there a few lines and phrases remain. Fragmented, they’re even more unsettling.
rain again, but it didn’t
hear her
don’t let it in
she knows
don’t let it in
again
watching me
cameras everywhere
does she know?
know
DON’T LET IT IN
here she’s here she’s
she’s here
here
Delphine know
can’t trust her
the Drowning Girl
Grace
The word Grace is circled and underlined three times.
The pages at the back of the journal are untouched by the water. There’s one more entry scrawled across the page without following the lines.
She is trying to get in. She is trying to get in like she never has before and she is all that I dream about she is trying to tell me something but I can’t understand her. It isn’t just dreams anymore; I feel like I’m drowning all the time. She won’t leave me alone.
I don’t know what to do.
A drop of crimson splashes onto the page. I curse, pressing the back of a knuckle to my nostril. Bloody nose.
In the bathroom, I staunch the blood, the taste of it filling the back of my mouth.
Those words don’t mean anything, I tell myself. They’re a creative writing exercise. A dream diary. Something innocuous.
My phone chimes. Veronica, texting to ask where I am.
I grab the diary and shove it into the drawer in the bedside table, out of sight. I’ll give it to Mrs. Clarke to mail back to Aubrey, whatever the hell it’s supposed to be.
It’s time to get to breakfast and to class. Only, I don’t have my things. Which means I don’t have my uniforms.
Aubrey’s are still hanging in her closet.
I tell myself it’s not as strange as borrowing her day-to-day clothes. All our uniforms are the same. We could have traded and no one would know. The skirt and blouse and jacket are all exactly the same size as mine.
Yet as I pull them on, I can tell they aren’t. The way the jacket sits on my shoulders, the way the skirt settles around my hips—just subtly wrong. Shaped by a different body, a different girl. It’s like fitting into another person’s skin. And in a way, isn’t that what I’m doing? Slipping inside Aubrey’s life?
Don’t let it in.
“It’s fine,” I whisper, as if there is anyone else here who might need convincing.
Something thuds upstairs, loud and sudden. I jump, startled, and look up toward the ceiling. I wait for the creak of footsteps, but there’s nothing. Was that the sound of a body falling? Has Delphine collapsed?
I don’t think she’s in danger of another attack, not if they’re letting her stay here functionally alone, but what if I’m wrong? What if she’s collapsed and I’m supposed to go up there and save her?
I pad cautiously out into the hall. The door to the upstairs stands before me. I could put in the code. I could go upstairs. But I stay, hands at my sides.
“Hello?” I call. My voice is weak. I try again, louder. “Delphine? Are you all right?”
She appears at the top of the stairs. “I’m fine,” she says.
“I heard a thump,” I explain.
She looks behind her, as if considering what it might have been. “I can be a bit clumsy,” she says. “I tripped. But I’m not hurt.”
“Good,” I say.
She leaves me off-balance with that direct, steady voice of hers. The way she watches me intently, not bothering to conceal the fact that she’s picking my every word and movement apart. The strangest part is that I don’t mind at all. The idea that she can see my secrets isn’t frightening. It’s enticing.
“I’m heading out to breakfast,” I say when the silence has stretched too long.
“Mind if I come?” she asks. I blink, and a smile curls the corners of her mouth. “Just kidding.”
So she has a sense of humor. It’s another glimpse under the mask, and it feels almost like she’s let me have it deliberately—an offering of sorts. “I’ll see you around,” I say. I start to leave.