My Word document pulls up.

Letters are being typed into the Word document.

W . . . i . . . l . . . l . . . o . . . w . . .

I take a quick step away from the laptop.

I’m extremely uneasy now.

Before, with the piano, I felt like I still had a small sliver of a chance at explaining it away. A faulty piano key. A mouse in the strings. Something.

But after the book, and now this—this is a full-on conversation with . . . nothing. No one is here but me, so that only leaves one explanation.

Ghosts are real.

And this one’s name is Willow.

I stare at the computer for so long the screen goes dark. Then my laptop shuts, all by itself, no wires attached, no explanation—this is insane, good fucking night.

I leave the room.

When I get up to the bedroom, I open the drawer where Layla keeps all her medicine. She has three prescriptions. One is for her anxiety, one is to help her sleep, one is a pain medication.

I take one of each.

THE INTERVIEW

“Why did you walk away when she told you her name?”

I laugh. “Why didn’t I walk away when the stove turned off by itself? Or when the laptop shut on my hands? I don’t know. I was a hard sell, I guess. It’s not easy for a person to just change their entire belief system in the span of half an hour.”

The recorder is still going when he says, “Did anything else happen that night?”

I open my mouth to say no, but both of us look up at the ceiling as soon as we hear a crash. I leave the kitchen and run up the stairs.

Layla is still tied to the bed, but the lamp on the nightstand has been knocked over. She’s looking at me calmly. “Let me go or I’ll break something else.”

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

She lifts her leg and kicks at the nightstand. It scoots a foot across the floor, and then she kicks it again, knocking it over.

“Help!” she screams. “HELP ME!”

She knows someone is downstairs, and even though she knows someone is in the house, she has no idea he isn’t here to help her escape. “He’s not here to help you, Layla,” I say. “He’s here to help us get answers.”

“I don’t want answers! I want to leave!”

I’ve seen her upset since all of this started, but I’m not sure she’s been this upset. Part of me just wants to cut her loose and let her go, but if I do that, it will only mean trouble for me. She’d go straight to the police. And what would my excuse be? A ghost made me do it?

If they don’t arrest me, they’ll send me to a psychiatric hospital.

I take Layla’s face in my hands. My grip is firm, but she won’t be still, and I need her to look me in the eyes. “Layla. Layla, listen to me.”

Tears are streaming down her cheeks. She’s breathing heavily, inhaling shaky gasps. The whites of her eyes have turned red from all the crying.

“Layla, you know this is out of my control. You know that. You saw the video.” I wipe the tears from her cheeks, but more follow. “Even if I were to untie you, you’d be unable to leave.”

“If I can’t leave, then why do I have to stay tied up?” Her voice is tearful—a guttural ache. “Untie me and let me go downstairs with you. You can tie me to the chair, I don’t care. I just don’t want to be alone up here anymore.”

I want to. But I can’t. I don’t want her to hear everything I’m about to admit to the man downstairs. I know she’s scared, but she’s safe in here. Even if she doesn’t feel like it.

“Okay. I’ll bring you downstairs with me.” Her eyes grow hopeful, but that hope fades when I say, “Soon. I need twenty more minutes, and then I’ll come back up here.” I press a kiss against her forehead. “Twenty minutes. I promise.” I put the nightstand back near the bed. I place the broken lamp on top of it, and then I go back to the kitchen. My feet feel heavier as I descend the stairs. The longer I keep Layla tied up against her will, the guiltier I feel, and the harder it’s going to be for her to forgive me.

Is this even worth it? Are answers for me and for Willow worth what I’m putting Layla through?

“Is she okay?” the man asks when I walk back into the kitchen.

“No, she’s not okay. She’s tied to a bed.” I sit down with a thud and press my face into the palms of my hands. “Let’s just get this over with so I can figure out what to do with her.”

“Does she know why I’m here?”

“No.”

“Does she know anything at all?”

“A little. But she thinks it’s all related to her head injury. The memory loss. She doesn’t know it has nothing to do with her.”

“What does she think about you keeping her locked inside this house?”

“She thinks I’m a monster.”

“Why don’t you just let her leave?”

It’s such a simple question to have so many complicated answers. “Because maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m a monster.”

He nods, almost sympathetically. I don’t know how he can look at me without judgment, but that’s exactly how he’s looking at me right now. Almost like he’s seen this before. “After the incident with the piano, did you speak to Willow again that night?”

I shake my head. “No, I fell asleep. Slept for twelve hours because of the pills I took. When I woke up, Layla decided she wanted another pool day, despite her sunburn. She stayed under the canopy and read a book in the shade. I joined her because I just wanted to stay out of the house. I was uneasy after what had happened the night before. But the whole time we were outside, I was on my phone. Distracted by the cameras, waiting for something else to happen. Speaking to people in the forum.”

“Did you speak to Willow again that day?”

“Chad and Aspen ended up showing up around five o’clock in the afternoon. I didn’t even try to communicate with Willow. I tried to forget it had happened, but Willow made that impossible.”

“How so?”

“She joined us for dinner.”

CHAPTER TEN

“You guys have any plans for your anniversary?” I ask. I’m trying to keep up with the conversation—pretend I’m mentally involved in this dinner. But my mind hasn’t been on dinner at all.

“Just practicing our baby making on our road trip,” Chad says, grinning in Aspen’s direction.

“We are not. I’m still on birth control,” Aspen says.

“That’s why I said practicing,” Chad says. He looks at me. “We took a detour to Hutchinson on our way here today. Ever been to the Salt Mine Museum?”

I take a long swig of my beer and then say, “No.”

“We had sex in the mine,” Chad says, shooting Aspen a grin.

I look at Layla. She’s cringing.

Aspen groans and says, “Please stop talking about our sex life.”

“Yes,” Layla says. “Please.”

I want to beg him to stop, too, but I’m honestly barely even in this conversation. Chad was tolerable when they got here a few hours ago, but that was before eight beers.

“I can’t wait until the honeymoon phase is over,” Aspen mutters. “You’re wearing me out.”