The rest of the bedroom furniture—a dresser, chest, and nightstands—is white with gold knobs. There’s a freestanding mirror in one corner of the room, a computer desk, and numerous bookcases. A burgundy University of Chicago banner hangs above the computer workstation.
There’s a massive TV hanging above the stone hearth. A sofa sits at the foot of the bed, facing the TV. There’s even a mini fridge in here, and a microwave. One door opens to a walk-in closet, and another door leads to her private bathroom.
Layla surveys her room critically. “I guess it hasn’t changed much since I was in high school.”
“It looks very comfortable,” I assure her.
“Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”
I leave her suitcase near her closet, then follow her out into the hallway to the next room over. Pushing the door open wide, she motions for me to enter first. This room is equally large, big enough for four bedrooms if you ask me. The color scheme here is more muted—blues and browns. It’s got a masculine vibe. Besides the king-size bed and matching mahogany dresser, there’s a computer desk, bookcases, a TV, a fireplace, and a sofa. This room is also equipped with a mini fridge and a microwave. I guess it would be a long hike to the kitchen if I wanted something cold to drink in the night.
“This house didn’t always have central heating,” she explains as I eye the hearth. “When my grandfather was young, they used to heat the rooms with fire. I’ll let you—” She stops midsentence and looks away, as if she’s listening to something I can’t hear. I imagine it’s the voice in her head. A moment later, she seems to snap out of it and picks up right where she left off. “I’ll let you get settled in. If you need any changes to your room, just ask Margaret.” Then she heads for the door.
“Layla, wait.”
She stops and turns back to me.
“This place is big enough to get lost in. Why don’t we exchange phone numbers, so I can text you.” I pull out my phone. “What’s your number?”
She rattles off her number, which I add to my contacts list. “I’ll text you so you have my number, too.”
“Sure.” She nods, but then she looks away again and shakes her head. When she snaps back to me, she smiles apologetically. “Sorry. I’ll see you at dinner. We eat in the informal dining room.”
I grin. “You have more than one dining room?”
“Well, yeah. A formal one for entertaining, an informal one for family meals, and the big table in the kitchen, which is where the staff eat. It’s also where I eat breakfast and lunch, if I’m at home.”
“How about I stop by your room a few minutes before six? That way you can show me where this informal dining room is. I’d hate to get lost my first day here.”
She cracks a tiny smile, displaying a hint of dimples. “Okay.”
And then she’s gone, leaving me to my own devices in a very large and very quiet room that’s half the size of my entire apartment.
After acquainting myself with my new bedroom—which feels more like a guest suite in a Ritz-Carlton Hotel than a bedroom—I unpack the few belongings I brought with me and hang up my clothes in the large walk-in closet.
My phone chimes with an incoming message from Ian.
Ian: How’s she doing?
I message him back, assuring him his sister seems to be doing well.
Ian: Keep me posted. Tyler and I are coming for dinner tonight.
The next couple of hours pass slowly, and I’m restless. I spend some time reading more about auditory hallucinations. This particular woman’s story is pretty hopeful because after years of hearing voices, she’s come to terms with them and has learned to work with them, instead of constantly fighting against them.
I watch a little baseball on TV. Then I get up and pace the room, stopping at one large window, then another, to survey the street. It’s clearly an old-money neighborhood, consisting of huge private residences and expensive cars parked out front.
Since I haven’t heard a peep out of Layla in quite a while, I send her a text just to say hi and ask how she’s doing. I don’t have a good feel yet for her mental state, so I don’t know what’s normal behavior for her and what’s not.
When I get no response, I text her again.
Jason: Hey, what’s up?
Still nothing.
Instinct has me exiting my bedroom and knocking on her door. After still getting no response, I knock again, louder this time. I suppose it’s possible she left her room, maybe went back downstairs, and I just didn’t hear her leave. But I can’t help the feeling of unease I have.
I try knocking again, but when she still doesn’t answer, I turn the knob and slowly open her door just enough that I can poke my head inside. “Layla?”
When I scan her room and don’t see her, my pulse kicks up. What could have happened? I didn’t hear her leave the room. Her phone is lying on the bed.
Suddenly, her bathroom door opens, and she walks out wearing nothing but a lacey pink bra and matching underwear. I get an eyeful of skin and long, supple limbs. Also a ton of bruises. She has her earbuds in, which explains why she didn’t hear me knock.
Shit!
My heart thuds in my chest as I quietly shut her door before she notices me. Okay, that didn’t go as planned. I definitely jumped the gun.
I return to my room, and a moment later, my phone chimes with an incoming message.
Layla: Sorry. I was in the shower. Didn’t see your message. You ready to go down to dinner? I’ll be dressed in a sec.
Jason: Sure. Come get me when you’re ready.
As I sit on the sofa in my room and wait for her, I try not to think about those curves I just saw. It was inappropriate as hell for me to walk in on her. While I’m trying to come up with a better way to handle a situation like that in the future, I hear a knock at my door. “Come in.”
The door opens, and Layla steps inside. “Ready?”
My breath catches.
Holy crap.
I thought she was gorgeous before, but now she’s stunning. It’s her eyes. She’s got a bit of eye make-up on, not a lot, just subtle shadows and eyeliner framing her large dark eyes, making them utterly mesmerizing. Her lips are pinker, glossier. And her hair—she put part of it up in a high ponytail, and left part of it down. She’s wearing a dark purple tunic dress that hugs her curves, black leggings, and short black boots.
“Wow.” The word slips out before I can engage a filter.
As she smiles, color blooms in her soft cheeks. “Thanks.”
Then I attempt to do some damage control. “I mean… you clean up well.” I glance down at my faded jeans and T-shirt. “Do I need to change for dinner? Am I underdressed? Maybe I should put on a velvet dinner jacket.”
She laughs. “No. Dinners are informal. It’s come as you are. You’re fine.”
I pretend to be relieved. “Good, because I left my formalwear back at my apartment.” Actually, I don’t even own a decent suit. I have an old one that dates back to high school, but I doubt it fits me anymore. I’m a hell of a lot more muscular now than I was then.
As we head for the stairs, I calculate how long it’s been since she last ate—she had a snack right before we left the hospital at two-thirty. I pull out my phone and quickly check her blood sugar level. It’s a bit low, but nothing crazy. It’s definitely time for her to eat something. I’m not used to monitoring eating times so carefully; this will take some getting used to.