Layla

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.