Layla

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.

She turns around to face me, and I can tell Layla isn’t the one looking back at me right now. It’s Willow.

“She’s really upset,” Willow says. Her eyes are full of concern. “I think you need to tie her up again.”

I nod and walk back up the stairs with Willow and into the bedroom.

She sits down on the bed, and I notice a tear fall down her cheek as she lifts her hands up to me.

“Don’t feel bad,” I say, even though I know she does. We both do.

“I can’t help it. I hate that we’re doing this to her. She thinks you’re evil and that she’s going crazy.”

I rewrap her hands before I tie them with the rope, hoping Willow will stay inside her long enough for Layla to fall asleep. “Have you been downstairs with us this whole time?” I ask her.

Willow nods. “Yes, but he hasn’t offered up any advice. No explanations.”

“I know, but he’s getting there. I don’t have much more to tell him, and then he could know exactly how to help you. It’s why we have to keep Layla here until we’re finished. We might need her.”

Willow is crying a little bit harder now. Her tears are different than Layla’s. Layla cries out of anger and fear. Willow cries because she’s sympathetic toward Layla.

God, what a tangled web we’ve woven.

I grab a tissue from beside the bed and wipe the tears from her cheeks.

I tilt her face up. “We’re going to figure this out. I promise. Can you try to make Layla fall asleep?”

She nods. I lean forward and kiss her on top of the head; then I go back downstairs. When I walk into the kitchen, I feel guilt, but it’s also accompanied by a little bit more hope than it has been lately. This man has

seen Layla. He’s seen what Willow can do. None of it seemed to faze him, though, so that gives me a sense of optimism. If it didn’t faze him, maybe he’s seen things like this before. And if he’s seen things like this before, maybe he really can help.

“Is Willow making you do this?” the man asks as I take a seat.

I’m not sure how to answer that. She doesn’t want us to leave. She’s made that clear. But I also haven’t fought back very hard. “I don’t know. I think this is a mutual effort, unfortunately.”

“Why won’t either of you let Layla leave?”

I don’t answer that, because the answer makes me feel like a monster.

The man leans forward, tilting his head. “Are you in love with her?”

“Of course. She’s only tied up because I want to keep an eye on her, but I can’t do that if she leaves.”

“I wasn’t talking about Layla.”

My eyes fall to the table when I realize what he’s insinuating. I can feel the heat in my chest spread to my neck . . . my cheeks. “No. It’s not like that.”

“Not like what?”

“It’s not . . . I don’t know. I care about Willow. But I’m in love with Layla.”

“But you’ve developed a relationship with Willow. Enough of one that you would put Layla at risk in order to help Willow.”

“I don’t feel like Layla is at risk,” I say.

“You certainly aren’t keeping her out of harm’s way by forcing her to stay here.”

“But I’m also not doing it out of a lack of concern for her.” I’m getting agitated at his line of questioning. “Look, it doesn’t matter why I’m choosing to keep Layla here. She’s seen too much. That’s a good enough reason alone.” I wave my hand toward him. “Ask me something else.”

He rolls his eyes a little. “All right. How often do you and Willow use Layla’s body without her knowledge?”

“Not as much as we did at first.”

“How often did it happen in the beginning?”

“A lot.”