Layla - Colleen Hoover Page 0,38

pace the room for a few minutes. I think about everything that’s happened up to this point, and I think maybe I’m numb. In disbelief.

“Do you have a name?”

Yes.

“What is it?”

Nothing happens. No keys are pressed. I realize the question can’t be answered using one of the piano keys. I’ve started working out a way words can be spelled out using piano keys when I hear a noise. I look over at my laptop, which is sitting on top of the piano. It’s opening.

My Word document pulls up.

Letters are being typed into the Word document.

W . . . i . . . l . . . l . . . o . . . w . . .

I take a quick step away from the laptop.

I’m extremely uneasy now.

Before, with the piano, I felt like I still had a small sliver of a chance at explaining it away. A faulty piano key. A mouse in the strings. Something.

But after the book, and now this—this is a full-on conversation with . . . nothing. No one is here but me, so that only leaves one explanation.

Ghosts are real.

And this one’s name is Willow.

I stare at the computer for so long the screen goes dark. Then my laptop shuts, all by itself, no wires attached, no explanation—this is insane, good fucking night.

I leave the room.

When I get up to the bedroom, I open the drawer where Layla keeps all her medicine. She has three prescriptions. One is for her anxiety, one is to help her sleep, one is a pain medication.

I take one of each.

THE INTERVIEW

“Why did you walk away when she told you her name?”

I laugh. “Why didn’t I walk away when the stove turned off by itself? Or when the laptop shut on my hands? I don’t know. I was a hard sell, I guess. It’s not easy for a person to just change their entire belief system in the span of half an hour.”

The recorder is still going when he says, “Did anything else happen that night?”

I open my mouth to say no, but both of us look up at the ceiling as soon as we hear a crash. I leave the kitchen and run up the stairs.

Layla is still tied to the bed, but the lamp on the nightstand has been knocked over. She’s looking at me calmly. “Let me go or I’ll break something else.”

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

She lifts her leg and kicks at the nightstand. It scoots a foot across the floor, and then she kicks it again, knocking it over.

“Help!” she screams. “HELP ME!”

She knows someone is downstairs, and even though she knows someone is in the house, she has no idea he isn’t here to help her escape. “He’s not here to help you, Layla,” I say. “He’s here to help us get answers.”

“I don’t want answers! I want to leave!”

I’ve seen her upset since all of this started, but I’m not sure she’s been this upset. Part of me just wants to cut her loose and let her go, but if I do that, it will only mean trouble for me. She’d go straight to the police. And what would my excuse be? A ghost made me do it?

If they don’t arrest me, they’ll send me to a psychiatric hospital.

I take Layla’s face in my hands. My grip is firm, but she won’t be still, and I need her to look me in the eyes. “Layla. Layla, listen to me.”

Tears are streaming down her cheeks. She’s breathing heavily, inhaling shaky gasps. The whites of her eyes have turned red from all the crying.

“Layla, you know this is out of my control. You know that. You saw the video.” I wipe the tears from her cheeks, but more follow. “Even if I were to untie you, you’d be unable to leave.”

“If I can’t leave, then why do I have to stay tied up?” Her voice is tearful—a guttural ache. “Untie me and let me go downstairs with you. You can tie me to the chair, I don’t care. I just don’t want to be alone up here anymore.”

I want to. But I can’t. I don’t want her to hear everything I’m about to admit to the man downstairs. I know she’s scared, but she’s safe in here. Even if she doesn’t feel like it.

“Okay. I’ll bring you downstairs with me.” Her eyes grow hopeful, but that hope fades when I say, “Soon. I need twenty more minutes, and then I’ll come back