Layla - Colleen Hoover Page 0,96

he says. “You specifically said, ‘He thought I was a terrible dancer.’ You referred to yourself as Layla when you were in Leeds’s head.”

“Oh,” she says, her voice a faint whisper. “I don’t know. I can’t explain that.”

The man motions toward her chair. “Sit down.”

Willow sits.

“According to Layla’s medical records, they had to resuscitate her after she was shot. Once before paramedics got her into the ambulance. And again at the hospital.”

“That’s right,” I say. “Like I told you, it was touch and go for an entire week.”

“So she flatlined?”

I nod.

The man shoots me an inquisitive look. “You said Layla has been different since the attack. Memory loss, personality changes . . . can you think of anything else about her that’s different now than from before the injury?”

“Everything,” I say. “It affected her a lot.”

“Are there things about Willow that remind you of Layla?”

I look at Willow, then look back at the man. “Of course. She’s in Layla’s body when we communicate, so there are lots of similarities.”

He directs his attention toward Willow. “How did it feel taking over Leeds’s body?”

“Strange,” she says.

“Does it feel strange when you possess Layla’s body?”

She nods. “Yes, but . . . in a different way.”

“How are they different?” he asks.

“It’s hard to explain,” she says. “I didn’t feel like I belonged in Leeds’s body. It felt foreign. Hard to control. Hard to remain in his head.”

“But you don’t feel that way when you’re in Layla’s body?”

“No.”

“You feel like it’s easier to possess Layla’s body?”

Willow nods. The man leans toward her. “Does it feel . . . familiar?”

Willow’s eyes cut to mine for a brief moment; then she looks back at the man and nods. “Yes. That’s a good way to describe it.”

The man shakes his head with a look of complete disbelief on his face. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Anything like what?” I ask. I’m confused by his line of questioning.

“Your situation is very unique.”

“How so?”

“I knew it was possible, but I’ve never actually seen it myself.”

I want to strangle the words out of him. “Can you please just tell us what’s going on?”

He nods. “Yes. Yes, of course.” It’s the most expressive he’s been tonight. He stands up and walks around to the side of the kitchen table, leaning against it, looking at both of us intently. “Death from bullet wounds is usually the result of excessive blood loss, so it probably took Sable several minutes to die after you shot her. And in that same time frame, Layla also flatlined. There were two souls in the same room that left two bodies at the same time. Which means when Layla’s body was revived by paramedics, there’s a strong possibility that the wrong soul entered that body.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?” I ask. “That’s the best you can come up with?”

“Bear with me,” he says. He nudges his head toward Willow. “When Willow is inside of Layla, she can remember things from both Sable’s and Layla’s points of view. But when she was inside you, she could only remember things from yours and Layla’s points of view. Sable’s memories didn’t move with her into your body.” He pushes away from the table and begins pacing the kitchen. “The reason it’s hard for your girlfriend to remember things isn’t because of memory loss. It’s because they aren’t her memories. She has to search for them, and even then, she can only pull up a memory when it’s prompted. The only logical explanation for this would be that the soul who has been walking around inside Layla’s body since the night of the shooting is not Layla.”

Logical? He thinks telling me that Layla isn’t really Layla is a logical explanation?

It was a feat for me to come to terms with there being an afterlife. But this is beyond the capabilities of my imagination. This is absurd. Ridiculous. Unfathomable. “If Sable is Layla, then where is Layla?” I ask.

He points at Willow. “She’s right there.”

I look at Willow, too confused—or maybe too scared—to accept what this delusional man is trying to spoon-feed us. I rest my elbows on the table and press my palms against my forehead. I try to slow down my thoughts.

“What would make this possible?” I ask. “Why would Sable’s soul choose Layla’s body rather than her own?”

The man shrugs, and I’m not sure I like that shrug. I would much prefer him to be absolute in his responses. “Maybe it’s not so much where