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“But it’s different now. You have proof. All these new pictures. It’s like you said: Teddy couldn’t have drawn these without help.”
“But I can’t prove Anya helped him. I can’t prove she’s sneaking into my cottage and leaving them on my refrigerator. It sounds crazy.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
“You don’t know his parents like I do. They won’t believe me. I need to keep digging, I need real proof.”
We’re drinking seltzers and sharing a large bowl of microwave popcorn—the best refreshments I could provide on short notice. I feel inadequate about my hosting skills, but Adrian doesn’t seem to mind. He updates me on the situation with the Spring Brook Public Library. His mother has started combing through the archives, but she hasn’t found anything yet. “She says the files are a mess. Land deeds, old newspapers, nothing’s organized. She thinks she’ll need another week.”
“I can’t wait another week, Adrian. This thing—this spirit or ghost, whatever it is—she’s getting inside my cottage. Some nights I feel her watching me.”
“How do you mean?”
I’ve never really found the words to describe the sensation—the strange fluttery feeling on the periphery of my senses, sometimes accompanied by a high-pitched whining noise. I’m tempted to mention the research experiment at the University of Pennsylvania, to ask Adrian if he’s ever heard of terms like “gaze detection.” But I don’t want to say anything that might steer the conversation toward my past. I’ve already told him too many lies; I’m still wrestling with the best way to come clean.
“I have an idea,” he says. “My parents have a small apartment over their garage. No one’s using it right now. Maybe you could stay with us for a few days. Work here, but sleep someplace safe until we figure out what’s going on.”
I try to imagine myself explaining the situation to the Maxwells—telling five-year-old Teddy that I’m moving out, because I’m too scared to live in his backyard.
“I’m not leaving. I was hired to look after Teddy, and I’m going to stay here and look after Teddy.”
“Then let me stay over.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’ll crash on your floor. No funny business, just a measure of added security.” I look at him and it’s nearly dark but I’m pretty sure he’s blushing. “If the ghost of Annie Barrett sneaks into your cottage, she’ll trip over me and wake me up and we’ll talk to her together.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“No, Mallory, I’m trying to help.”
“I’m not allowed to have sleepovers. It’s one of the House Rules.”
Adrian drops his voice to a whisper: “I’m up at five-thirty every morning. I can sneak out before sunrise. Before the Maxwells wake up. They’d have no idea.”
And I want to say yes. I would love to keep talking with Adrian until late in the night. I really don’t want him to go home.
But the one thing stopping me is the truth. Adrian still thinks he’s helping Mallory Quinn, cross-country scholarship athlete and college student.
He doesn’t realize I’m Mallory Quinn, ex-junkie and total screwup. He doesn’t know that my sister is dead and my mother won’t speak to me, that I’ve lost the two people in the world who meant the most to me. And there’s no way I can tell him. I can barely admit these things to myself.
“Come on, Mallory. Say yes. I’m worried about you.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“Then talk to me. Tell me. What should I know?”
But I can’t tell him now, not when I need his help more than ever. I need to keep my history under wraps for a few days longer. And then I swear I’ll tell him everything.
He gently rests his hand on my knee.
“I like you, Mallory. Let me help you.”
I realize he’s working up the courage to make a move. It’s been a long time since anyone has tried to kiss me. And I want him to kiss me, but at the same time I don’t, so I just sit there, frozen, as he slowly pivots toward me.
And then across the yard, at the big house, the sliding glass doors open and Caroline Maxwell steps outside, carrying a book and a wine bottle and a long-stemmed glass.
Adrian pulls back and clears his throat.