The cover had ripped in the book’s fall. It had twisted backward and torn down the middle. Right through the bowler hat.
Jane threw the book violently; it hit the side of the bed and fell to the floor.
She covered her face with her hands. Her heart was beating too quickly; she could feel it hammering against her rib cage. She tried to remember Ruth’s easy tone: No big deal. But her fingers were shaking. Her hands were shaking. She was having trouble getting air into her lungs; her vision was starting to turn to white.
Then her hands landed on a book within arm’s length—a battered hardcover of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. She grabbed for it in a panic, letting it fall open on her lap to the first page in the book. Page 51. Pages 1–50 were gone.
Without ceremony, without pausing to think, she ripped page 51 from the book, then tore off a small corner and put it into her mouth.
Almost instantly, she felt like she could breathe. She let the paper sit on her tongue for a minute, turning pulpy and clumpy as her saliva coated it.
And then she swallowed.
Again and again until the entire page was gone.
Again and again until her anger—the dull throb that never seemed to completely leave her—receded a little.
Again and again until she felt safe.
A knock at the door.
She closed the book and slid it into the bookcase.
“Come in,” she said.
Ruth opened the door and stuck her head inside. She had a towel wrapped around her hair. “Everything okay in here?”
“Yeah, Mom. Just trying to organize.”
“Why don’t you strip that bed and we’ll get a load of laundry going?”
“All right. I’ll meet you downstairs in a few.”
Ruth closed the door again and Jane took a deep breath, then let it out slowly, just like Greer had taught her to do.
She reached across the floor and picked up Poirot Loses a Client. She traced her fingers over the ripped cover.
If her father were here, he would have found tape and taken the book from Jane to mend it. He would have said there was nothing sad about a book with a few dings in it. That was how you knew it had been enjoyed.
He was the one who had always known the exact thing to say to help her calm her anger. He would sit with her, breathe with her, listen to her. Who would do that for her now? She knew Ruth tried, but there was just something different about Greer. He seemed to understand her in a way she didn’t even understand herself. He understood her anger, why it sometimes exploded out of her in waves of red.
That anger was faded now, replaced with sadness, replaced with a gnawing in her stomach that she identified as the place that had been ripped out of her when Greer had died. The absence of Greer.
She stood up and placed the book carefully on the bookcase, then walked over to the bed and pulled the heavy comforter to the side. She unbuttoned the duvet and made a pile of linens on the floor. The door creaked open as she was pulling a pillow from its pillowcase. She turned around, expecting to see Ruth again, but there was no one there.
She crossed to the door and shut it again, making sure it latched. When she turned back to the room, she paused. What was that? A buzzing noise? She stood listening for a few moments before she realized it was her phone.
“Shit,” she said, kneeling in front of the pile of linens. The buzzing was coming from underneath them; her phone must have slid out of her pocket and gotten buried. She pulled the sheets to the side and found it after a minute of searching. She’d missed the call, but as she held the phone in her hand, it lit up with a voicemail. She hit Play and held it to her ear.
“Hi, Jane! I’m realizing now it’s a bit early—sorry for that; I’ve been here since six and you sort of lose track of time. Anyway, oh—I haven’t even said who I am. It’s Will, from Beans & Books. Just wanted to see if you were down with doing some training this week. How does Tuesday after school sound? It’s all right if it’s too late notice; you can text me back at this number and let me know. Thanks!”
Grinning, she texted Will that Tuesday sounded great, then she slid the phone into her pocket, rebuilt the pile of linens, gathered it all in her arms, and stood up. She turned around and paused—
That was weird.
The door was open again.
Something must be wrong with the latch.
She dropped the linens and crossed the room, then closed the door again. She gently pulled without turning the handle. It wouldn’t open.
She left it closed and took a few steps back, waiting.
Nothing happened.
She shrugged, opened the door again, gathered up the linens, and headed downstairs. The laundry room was empty, but Ruth had already started a load. Jane dropped her pile in front of the machine and paused as she heard footsteps on the floor above her. Like someone was running down the hallway. What was Ruth doing?
“Mom?” she yelled to the ceiling.
“What?” Ruth answered from the doorway; Jane jumped a mile and turned around, her hands covering her heart.
“You scared the crap out of me!”
Ruth dropped more linens onto the pile and laughed. “Sorry. Thought you heard me coming.”
“No, I thought you were upstairs. There were footsteps.”
“Footsteps?”
“Yes, footsteps!”
The house creaked. As if on cue. Like a long exhalation of muffled pops. Ruth smiled knowingly.
“It’s these old houses, Janie,” she explained. “They’re constantly making noises. It’s called settling; you’ll get used to it. Come help me get some curtains down.”
They stayed busy the rest of the day, doing endless loads of laundry, stripping and making beds, dusting and vacuuming the rooms they were going to sleep in.
And it was fine, really. Nothing else weird happened. But still… Jane couldn’t shake a strange feeling. Like a tingle down her spine that never quite went away. It was silly, of course, just nerves and overtiredness and the time change messing with her head.
That night, when she finally said good night to Ruth and went upstairs to her new bedroom, she pulled the bookshelf in front of her door.
For what exactly, she wasn’t sure.
But she felt a little safer, anyway.
She didn’t sleep well. She had the same dream, over and over, a fuzzy dream that became fuzzier if she tried to focus on it. Long corridors. Closed doors. The sound of footsteps and the feeling that there was someone in the shadows, watching her.
When her alarm went off she moaned and hit Snooze, but she couldn’t fall back asleep. She stared up at her ceiling for a few minutes before getting out of bed and pulling on a sweatshirt. She dragged her bookshelf away from her door. She’d been silly to put it there—what was she afraid of?
Ruth was already in the kitchen, eating a piece of toast spread with peanut butter and jelly, drinking a cup of coffee.
“Morning, honey,” she said. “How did you sleep?”
“Meh,” Jane replied.
“Same.” Ruth sighed, and Jane watched her struggle to put on an encouraging face. “We’ll get used to it. It’s only been four nights.”
“At least no one threw any rocks at the windows.”
“Small favors,” Ruth agreed. “Get yourself some toast. Excited about your first full week?”