THE INTERVIEW

The man stops the recorder.

I tilt my head back, feeling uneasy about where this conversation is headed. I want to be honest with him, but the truth that’s about to come up doesn’t paint me in a good light.

Nothing else I say tonight will paint me in a good light.

“Do you have a restroom I can use?” he asks.

I point down the hallway. “Third door on your right.”

He gets up and leaves the room. I would go check on Layla, but it’s finally quiet upstairs. Hopefully it stays that way for a while. I open my laptop to see if Willow is in the room with us.

“Are you here?” I ask her.

I scoot the laptop over to an empty seat next to me, and she immediately types a response.

Yes.

“What do you think?”

I haven’t been down here for all of the conversation because I wanted Layla to fall asleep, so I don’t know what all you’ve told him, or what he’s suggested.

“I’ve told him almost everything, but all he’s done is listen so far.”

Almost everything? What have you left out?

I roll my head and then lower it to my arms. “I haven’t told him everything that happened the night Layla and I were shot.”

Leeds . . .

“I know. I’ll get to that. I just . . .”

The man walks back in the room, so I clamp my mouth shut and don’t finish my sentence. He eyes me carefully as he takes his seat at the table. “Were you just speaking to Willow?”

I nod.

“How?”

“Through my laptop. I talk to her out loud, and she responds using the computer.”

The man stares at me in thought. “Fascinating,” he says.

I turn the laptop toward him. “Do you want to watch her do it?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t need to see it. I believe you.” He leans forward and hits record. “So what happened the next morning?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I wake up to the smell of eggs. I roll over, and Layla isn’t in bed. There’s a popcorn kernel next to her pillow, so I quickly snatch it up and take it with me to the bathroom, tossing it into the trash can.

After I brush my teeth, I head downstairs, not exactly sure what to expect. Layla doesn’t usually cook anymore, but someone is cooking.

I walk into the kitchen, and she’s still in the T-shirt Willow was wearing when we crawled into bed last night, but I’m not certain this isn’t still Willow.

It’s the first time I’m not able to tell who is who. Did Willow wake up as Layla?

I quietly observe her from the doorway. Would Willow ever pretend to be Layla to trick me?

I immediately feel bad for even thinking that. Willow is protective of Layla. She knocked the wineglass out of my hand last night. I doubt she’d do anything deceptive now that I know about her.

As soon as she looks up from the stove and I make eye contact with her, I know instantly that it’s Layla. Her voice is heavy with sleep when she mutters, “Morning.” Her eyelids are drooping a little. She looks tired. Hungover.

I walk over to her and kiss her on the cheek. “Morning.” I look down at the pan, and she’s scooting around scrambled eggs with a fork.

“You want some?” she asks. “I read eggs help with hangovers.”

“Nah, I’m good.” I make myself a cup of coffee and lean against the counter, watching Layla. I’m curious if she has any memories at all of last night.

“What time did you wake up?” I ask her.

“Five. Couldn’t go back to sleep. I have a horrible hangover.” She spins around and says, “Want to know something weird?”

“What?”

“I had a piece of popcorn stuck in my tooth when I woke up.”

My spine stiffens at that comment. I turn away from her and pour creamer into my coffee cup. “Yeah, we watched a movie in bed last night. You were pretty drunk.”

Layla laughs, but it’s a painful laugh. She’s touching her forehead when I turn back around. She winces and then says, “Wow. I don’t remember that at all.”

She scoops a pile of eggs onto a piece of toast and sits at the table to eat. I can’t stop looking at her eyes. Her pupils are dark and wide—like two black marbles have covered the greens of her eyes.

She takes a bite of her eggs and toast with a fork, then taps her fork repeatedly on the table as she chews. Her knee is bouncing up and down, like her hangover is oddly coupled with a lot of pent-up nervous energy.

“How much coffee have you had today?”

She swallows her bite and then wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Four cups already. I thought it might help with the hangover.”

That explains her behavior. I was beginning to think she might be Willow again, but she isn’t. She’s eating like Layla eats. Small bites, always with a fork. Willow would have devoured that whole plate of food by now.

“Maybe you should relax today,” I suggest. “Have another pool day.”

She motions toward the kitchen window. “I can’t—it’s supposed to storm.”

I walk to the window and push the curtain aside. The entire sky looks like deep-blue rolling hills. I open the weather app on my phone, and it says it’s supposed to rain for the next two days. I look back at Layla. She’s only eaten half of her toast and eggs, but she’s already pushed her plate away and is scrolling through her phone. “Then what do you want to do today?” I ask.

“You really need some new social media content,” she says. “We haven’t posted anything since the picture on the plane. I can take some sexy pictures of you in the rain. That might make a really great album cover.”

That actually sounds like a nightmare. Layla can see on my face that I’m not in the mood to pose for pictures.

“I know you don’t want to think about work, but this house is huge. There are so many potential backdrops for photos. Just give me two hours with the camera, and then I’ll leave you alone about it until Wednesday.”

“Why Wednesday?”

“That’s when we leave.”

Her voice is delicate, but those words feel dense and unintentionally harsh. We’ll be leaving Willow here alone in just a matter of days. I don’t really want to go until Willow is ready to find answers, because for some reason, I need answers. I don’t feel like I’ll be able to function out in the real world unless I can somehow make sense of everything that’s happened in this house.

I take a seat across from Layla. “What do you think about staying a little longer?”

Her shoulders drop a little. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I’m getting a lot of songwriting done. I can probably finish the album here if I have a little more time.”

“I haven’t heard the piano once.”

“I haven’t needed it. I’ve been writing lyrics,” I lie.

She sighs and drops her phone to the table. “Not to be mean, but it’s boring here, Leeds. I’m going stir crazy. And the boredom is making me tired. I feel exhausted every day. It’s like all I do is sleep.”

I know that exhaustion is my fault, but I still don’t let up. “What if we compromise?”