I shake my head. “Hell no. I feel like I’m going to wake up tomorrow and laugh at how insane this dream was.”
Willow looks at the bed, and then back at me. “I can’t slip out of her without her being asleep first. I don’t want her to get scared.”
I nod. “It’s fine. I’ll sit in the chair until you’re asleep.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. But I do want to talk to you again. Maybe tomorrow night?”
She nods but doesn’t say anything else. She just crawls into the bed, pulls the covers over herself, and closes her eyes.
I watch her for half an hour. And then, slowly, Layla’s body relaxes.
I saw nothing that would prove Willow is no longer inside her, but I can tell she isn’t. She just changed, ever so slightly, and now Layla looks peacefully asleep. She looks like the same Layla I tucked into this same bed earlier tonight.
I look around the room, knowing Willow can probably still see me. Still hear me. I whisper, “Good night,” and then I crawl into bed with Layla.
I spend the next hour running question after question over in my mind, wondering if Layla will remember any of what happened.
And what does this mean for Willow? What happens when Layla and I leave next week? She’ll just be completely alone again?
I fall asleep feeling more sympathy course through me than fear or guilt.
THE INTERVIEW
It’s been a lot longer than twenty minutes since I last left Layla upstairs. Layla lets me know this by yelling my name over and over and over.
The man pauses the tape recorder. “She sounds angry.”
I nod. “I told her I’d bring her downstairs. She wants to meet you.”
“Layla does?”
“Yes. Is that okay?”
“What was the reason you gave her for my being here?”
“I haven’t really told her much at all yet. She knows something strange is going on with her behavior. I told her you might have answers.”
The man nods. “Bring her down, then.”
I pour myself another sip of bourbon before going back upstairs to untie her.
When I walk into the bedroom, she’s trying to reach the knot on the rope but can’t. I made sure of that when I tied it, but I admire her tenacity.
She hears the door shut, so she swings her head in my direction. “Twenty minutes? It’s been an hour.”
“I’m sorry.” I start to untie her hands and notice she’s been attempting to pull out of the ropes to the point that her bandages have come undone. Her wrists look even worse now. I don’t know what else I could use to restrain her that wouldn’t hurt. I don’t have any handcuffs, and I don’t trust her enough to leave this house to go buy any. “I need you to promise me you won’t try anything stupid. I hid all the knives.”
“Did you hide the forks? Those hurt too.”
I don’t even respond to that comment. Once she’s untied, she says, “I have to pee first.” She goes to the bathroom, so I follow her and keep an eye on her.
She’s not as scared as she was earlier. She seems more angry now. Her movements are full of temper as she flips on the water to wash her hands.
“So who is this guy?” she asks, following me out of the bathroom.
“I found him on the internet.”
She pauses as I open the bedroom door. “You’re kidding, right?”
“What am I supposed to do, Layla? Call up the police and ask them to help?”
“You brought in an internet quack to solve this?”
I put my hand on her lower back and guide her out of the bedroom. “I’m doing my best. Grasping for straws now. It’s all I can do.”
She stomps down the stairs, and I keep my hand on her back, not because I’m fearful she’ll fall, but because I’m worried she might try to run. I added a couple of dead bolts to the doors leading to outside, so she won’t have time to open a door and escape. It’s the only reason I’m allowing her to come downstairs in the first place.
She walks into the kitchen and pauses at the sight of him. She looks from the man, to me, back to the man. “You’re a detective?”
“Sort of,” he says. He reaches his hand out to shake hers. “I’m Richard.”
“Randall,” I correct him.
He looks down at his shirt. “Oh. Yeah, Randall. Name’s Randall.”
This was a bad idea.
“You don’t even know your own name?” Layla asks.
“It’s Randall Richard,” he says, covering up his lie.
Layla slowly turns her head to find me. She raises an eyebrow and then looks back at him. “You a doctor?”
“Somewhat.”
Layla laughs half-heartedly. “Sort of a detective. Somewhat of a doctor. You either are or you aren’t.”
“I used to be a doctor. Now I’m a detective.”
“Of course,” Layla says flatly.
The man sits back down at the table, motioning toward the chair opposite him.
Layla says, “I’d rather stand.” She turns her attention back to me. “Did you do a background check on this guy before you brought him here?”
I don’t lie to her. I just shake my head.
Layla laughs. “This is brilliant.” She walks toward the exit to the kitchen. “Just great.” She pauses and looks at me, and it’s the first time she’s ever looked at me with hatred in her eyes. “I’m leaving. And if you try to stop me this time, I will scream until someone hears me or until I die. I don’t really care which comes first.”
“I’m not the one who stopped you from leaving last time, Layla.”
I stay where I am as she brushes past me, but I watch as she crosses the foyer and heads toward the front door. She gets the top lock unbolted before she stops, pauses, and then backs away from the door.
She turns around to face me, and I can tell Layla isn’t the one looking back at me right now. It’s Willow.
“She’s really upset,” Willow says. Her eyes are full of concern. “I think you need to tie her up again.”
I nod and walk back up the stairs with Willow and into the bedroom. She sits down on the bed, and I notice a tear fall down her cheek as she lifts her hands up to me.
“Don’t feel bad,” I say, even though I know she does. We both do.
“I can’t help it. I hate that we’re doing this to her. She thinks you’re evil and that she’s going crazy.”
I rewrap her hands before I tie them with the rope, hoping Willow will stay inside her long enough for Layla to fall asleep. “Have you been downstairs with us this whole time?” I ask her.
Willow nods. “Yes, but he hasn’t offered up any advice. No explanations.”
“I know, but he’s getting there. I don’t have much more to tell him, and then he could know exactly how to help you. It’s why we have to keep Layla here until we’re finished. We might need her.”
Willow is crying a little bit harder now. Her tears are different than Layla’s. Layla cries out of anger and fear. Willow cries because she’s sympathetic toward Layla.
God, what a tangled web we’ve woven.
I grab a tissue from beside the bed and wipe the tears from her cheeks. I tilt her face up. “We’re going to figure this out. I promise. Can you try to make Layla fall asleep?”
She nods. I lean forward and kiss her on top of the head; then I go back downstairs. When I walk into the kitchen, I feel guilt, but it’s also accompanied by a little bit more hope than it has been lately. This man has seen Layla. He’s seen what Willow can do. None of it seemed to faze him, though, so that gives me a sense of optimism. If it didn’t faze him, maybe he’s seen things like this before. And if he’s seen things like this before, maybe he really can help.
“Is Willow making you do this?” the man asks as I take a seat.
I’m not sure how to answer that. She doesn’t want us to leave. She’s made that clear. But I also haven’t fought back very hard. “I don’t know. I think this is a mutual effort, unfortunate
ly.”
“Why won’t either of you let Layla leave?”
I don’t answer that, because the answer makes me feel like a monster.
The man leans forward, tilting his head. “Are you in love with her?”
“Of course. She’s only tied up because I want to keep an eye on her, but I can’t do that if she leaves.”
“I wasn’t talking about Layla.”
My eyes fall to the table when I realize what he’s insinuating. I can feel the heat in my chest spread to my neck . . . my cheeks. “No. It’s not like that.”
“Not like what?”
“It’s not . . . I don’t know. I care about Willow. But I’m in love with Layla.”
“But you’ve developed a relationship with Willow. Enough of one that you would put Layla at risk in order to help Willow.”
“I don’t feel like Layla is at risk,” I say.
“You certainly aren’t keeping her out of harm’s way by forcing her to stay here.”
“But I’m also not doing it out of a lack of concern for her.” I’m getting agitated at his line of questioning. “Look, it doesn’t matter why I’m choosing to keep Layla here. She’s seen too much. That’s a good enough reason alone.” I wave my hand toward him. “Ask me something else.”
He rolls his eyes a little. “All right. How often do you and Willow use Layla’s body without her knowledge?”
“Not as much as we did at first.”
“How often did it happen in the beginning?”
“A lot.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The way a person wakes up in the morning reveals a lot about the stage they’re at in life. Before I met Layla, I was a hard wake. I’d hit snooze on my alarm five times if there was somewhere I was meant to be. And if there wasn’t, I’d sleep until my body ached; then I’d roll myself out of bed like a deadweight and drag my feet all the way to the shower. I lived a life with very little that excited me.
After I first met Layla, I was eager to wake up. My eyes would open and immediately search her out. If the alarm was set, I’d silence it at the first sound, fearful it would wake her because I wanted to be the thing that woke her. I’d kiss her cheek or drag my fingers up her arm until she smiled. I wanted to see her before she saw me, but I also wanted to be what she woke up to.
Today, I wake up in a similar, yet entirely new way—my skin already buzzing with anticipation before I’m fully alert. My eyes pop open, and I immediately search out Layla, but not because I want to be the thing that wakes her. I want the opposite. I want to slip out of our bed undetected so I can hide in the bathroom and rewatch footage from last night.
I lock the bathroom door, turn on the shower to drown out the noise from my phone, and then I lean against the counter. I skip the footage back to the moment Willow walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. I rewatch my entire conversation with Willow, just to make sure it actually happened and I didn’t dream the whole thing.
I didn’t dream it at all.
I close my phone app and stare into the bathroom mirror. It’s insane how two mornings ago, I woke up confident in my view of the world. But now that confidence has vanished and has been replaced by curiosity, fascination, and a new, intense need to uncover everything else in this universe that I’m unaware of.
Knowing there’s more to this life than meets the eye makes everything around me feel insignificant. My career feels insignificant. My love for Layla feels like it matters less to the timeline of my life than it did two days ago.
Most of the things that have ever caused me stress all seem so unimportant now that I know there’s so much more out there than what I’ve led myself to believe.
My own existence feels less important to me now.
My priorities have shifted in the last twenty-four hours, yet I have no idea what my new priority is. It’s been Layla for so long now, but even everything Layla and I have been through feels less traumatic when you consider the possibility that not only do other humans have it worse than we do—but other realms of existence have it worse than we do.
I always tell Layla everything, but I’m still not sure I want to bring this up to her. But there’s a part of me that believes Layla knowing the truth about this could somehow help her. If she knew for a fact that there were other planes of existence than the one we’re currently in, maybe what happened to us would feel less significant. Maybe, in some warped way, this would be just as intriguing to her as it is to me, and it could possibly help with everything she’s been struggling through.
It has certainly freed me from the emptiness I’ve been feeling lately. I’m not sure what it is I’m filled with now, maybe just curiosity and a shit ton of questions. But it’s been a while since I’ve woken up with this much enthusiasm for the day.
I’m ready to speak to Willow again.
I look around the bathroom, wondering if Willow is in here right now. Does she watch us all the time? What does she do all night if she doesn’t sleep? What is she doing right now?
I have so many questions for her; I don’t even want to waste time on a shower. I turn off the water and slip out of the bathroom. Layla is still asleep on her stomach.
I leave her in bed and go down to the kitchen. I start a pot of coffee and look around the kitchen, wondering if she’s here. We need a way to communicate when she’s not using Layla.
“Are you in here?” I ask.
I say it quietly because I’m not sure it’ll ever feel normal—talking to nothing.
I don’t get any type of response, so I repeat myself. “Willow? Are you here?”
I spin around when the water in the sink faucet begins to drip. I turn and observe the drips of water until they change into a steady flow, then a heavy stream.
Then the water turns itself off completely.
I realize fear should be coursing through me, but the only thing I feel right now is eagerness. I want to continue where we left off in our conversation last night. I look around the kitchen—wondering how we can do that. I have a phone in my hands. I can use my phone. Willow can use my laptop.
I retrieve my laptop and sit at the kitchen table. “I don’t know if you know much about technology,” I say out loud. “But since I know you can type, we can use the messenger app.” I open it and point to the screen, assuming she’s following along if she’s in the room. “I’ll use my cell. You can use the laptop.” I slide it to the left of me and then rest my elbows on the table, holding my phone in my hands. I’m staring at the keys on my laptop as they begin to depress, quickly, several letters in rapid succession. She types fast. That could be a clue as to what she did in her past life.
A message appears on my phone. I’m very good with technology.
I can’t help but smile at the message.
This is surreal. It is so much bigger than anything I’ve ever imagined would happen in the span of my lifetime. The idea of marriage, having kids, building a music career—it all seems like filler now. What if I have some sort of sixth sense? What if I’m supposed to do something with that? What if I’m meant to be something else besides a musician?
The keys on my laptop are being pressed again. She’s typing something else.
I know things—like how to cook. How to use a computer. How to use a cell phone. But I have no idea how I know those things.
I don’t use my phone to respond to her. I just speak out loud since Layla is still asleep upstairs. “I wonder if that could be a clue to how recently you died. I would assume if your death happened decades ago, you’d speak differently, or act differently.”
You seem so sure that I used to be alive. What if I’ve just always been here?
“Maybe you have, and you’ve just picked knowledge up along the way. You say you watch television sometimes, right?”
Yes.
“There are things we could do to try and pinpoint a timeline.”
Is that important to you? Knowing if I was once alive?
“Is it not important to you
?”
I don’t know. Not really, I guess. What would it matter?
“If you knew what your life was like, maybe you could figure out why you’re stuck here.”
I don’t necessarily feel stuck.
“But are you happy?”
No. I already told you what it’s like here. You and Layla showing up is the most exciting thing to happen to me.
“What if I’m here to help you? Do you even want help figuring this out?”
That’s pretty egocentric of you to assume I’m the one who needs the help. What if I’m here to help you?
I stare at that comment for a moment, allowing it to get tangled up in all my other thoughts. “I’ve never thought of it like that.” I lean forward on the table, bringing my fingers to a point against my chin. “Maybe you’re right—maybe we’re both where we belong. But if that were the case, why would you be crossing into this world? You’re the one who misses things I still have. Food. Water. Sleep. You’re never satiated where you’re at. Everything tangible is in this realm, and it seems like you miss those things, which means maybe you had them at some point in the past.”
My laptop slides several inches across the table until it’s sitting directly in front of me. The sudden movement causes me to flinch.
“Why’d you let me sleep so late?” Layla asks. My eyes dart up, and she’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, stretching her arms above her head. She yawns as she heads for the coffeepot.
“It’s not that late,” I say, slowly closing the lid to my laptop.
Layla pours coffee into a mug. “It’s eleven o’clock.”
“The deadliest time of day,” I say teasingly.
She eyes me curiously. “It’s what?” She has both hands wrapped around her coffee mug now as she sips from it. I walk over to her and kiss her on the forehead.
“Eleven in the morning—the deadliest time of day,” I say, repeating one of the many facts she’s told me.
Her eyes squint in confusion. “Weird. You’d think it would be nighttime.”
A blanket of guilt feels like it drapes over my shoulders. There are so many things I take for granted that Layla is still slowly recovering—the conversations we’ve had, the memories we’ve made, all the perfect moments we’ve spent together. It’s like someone took a pair of craft scissors and cut slivers of her life out of her mind, leaving them in scraps on the table.
Layla Page 12
