Layla

The problem with that is I’m not sure there’s enough good in Sable that would make her want to help us. She is, after all, the reason we’re here right now.

“Okay,” I say. “But I have to tie you up first.”

Layla crawls onto the bed. After I tie her up, she says, “I know you’re angry at her right now. But don’t be mean to her.”

I nod, but it isn’t a promise.

Angry is an understatement.

Layla closes her eyes and takes a breath. When her eyes open and I can tell it’s not Layla looking back at me, I feel nothing but resentment. I don’t feel remorse when she starts to quietly cry. I don’t feel guilt when she starts to plead with me to untie her. I sit on the edge of the bed next to her feet, and I just stare at her.

At least she’s not hysterical or screaming this time. We might actually be able to have a conversation about this.

“Are you going to let me leave now?” she asks.

“I want to ask you some questions first.”

“And then you’ll let me go?”

“Yes.”

She nods. “Okay, but . . . can you please untie me first? I’m sore. I’ve been in this position for hours.”

She’s been tied up for one minute. She doesn’t realize she walks around freely most of the time. “I’ll untie you after you answer my questions.”

She adjusts herself on the bed so that she’s sitting a little farther away from me. She pulls her knees in and looks at me nervously. “You look angry,” she says quietly. “Why are you angry?”

“What do you remember about the night you were shot?”

“I don’t like talking about that. You know that.”

“Why? Because you don’t remember it like I do?”

She shakes her head. “No. It’s because I don’t remember it at all.”

“That’s not entirely true,” I say. “I think you just remember it in a way that’s confusing to you.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I continue to speak, despite her pleas for me to stop. “I know what’s going on inside your head. You say you have amnesia, but I’m not so sure you do. It’s just harder for you to access Layla’s memories because they’re mixed in with other memories. It’s why . . . sometimes . . . when I bring up something from the past, you don’t have that memory right away. It’s like you have to sift through them. Dig them up.”

I can see her breath catch.

I lean forward and look her directly in the eye. “Do you sometimes feel like you have too many memories? Memories that don’t even belong to you?”

Her bottom lip begins to tremble slightly. She’s scared, but she’s trying to hide it.

“Do you remember opening the door when Sable knocked on it that night?”

She nods. “Yes.”

“But you also remember being the person who knocked on the door.”

Her eyes widen. “Why would you say that?” she says immediately.

“Because . . . you’re Sable.”

She stares at me for several long seconds. “Are you crazy?”

“Your memories are confusing because you’re in the wrong body.”

Her stare becomes threatening. “You better let me go right now, or I will have you arrested so fast, Leeds. I will. Don’t think I’m going to forgive you for this.”

“Have you known this whole time that you might be Sable?”

“Fuck you,” she hisses. “Let me go.”

“Why did you punch the bathroom mirror when we got here? Do you see Sable’s face sometimes when you look in the mirror?”

“Of course I see her face sometimes! She shot me, Leeds! I have PTSD!”

She didn’t deny punching the mirror. “You don’t have PTSD. It’s an actual memory.”

“You sound like a lunatic.”

I keep my voice steady when I say, “You shot me. And you shot Layla. And I know you remember doing it.”

She shakes her head. “I shot Layla? I AM Layla!”

I shake my head. “I know it’s confusing. But you aren’t Layla. You’re only able to access some of her memories, because you’re inside Layla’s head and you have access to them. But when I shot you, you died. And when you shot Layla, she died. But only for a few seconds. Long enough for your soul to end up in the wrong body. And Layla’s soul ended up stuck here, in this house.”

She’s crying now. “You’re scaring me.” Her voice is timid. “You aren’t making any sense. I am Layla. How could you possibly think I’m not Layla?”

I would begin to list all the proof, but there’s too much. Instead, I try to think of a question only Layla would be able to answer right away. One Layla has already answered, but that Sable would struggle to remember.

“What song did I sing to you the first night we met here?”

She says, “I . . . that was a long time ago.”