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“All that while he wassleeping?”
Dr. Harris shrugs. “Five neurological experts seemed to think so. He was acquitted.”
“How could that be possible?”
“The subconscious mind is both beautiful and mysterious,” he says, tapping his forehead with his pen. “The upper frontal lobe is the most evolved part of the brain, where moral teaching lives. When we sleepwalk, that part of the brain is fast asleep. So a sleepwalker could do things,terriblethings, that they would never do if they were awake. They can’t differentiate between right and wrong.”
I swallow, nodding along, trying to act interested but detached. Like this is a simple curiosity and nothing more.
“It’s like your body is on autopilot, but of course, most cases aren’t quite that extreme,” he continues. “The sleepwalker might be goingabout their regular routine, perhaps—like attempting to drive to work, shave their neck—and accidentally kill someone, or themselves, in the process.”
I think back to Mason’s nursery—to me, a shadow drifting down the hall, stopping in front of his door. Opening it, entering his bedroom, the way I had done so many times before.
“Or maybe they become startled and attack a bystander,” he continues. “That’s where the saying comes from:Never wake a sleepwalker.”
Back in my bedroom, lying there with Margaret. Her wide eyes staring into mine, her face pushed into that pillow.
“Did you wake me?” I had asked, that flare of embarrassment creeping up my neck like flames licking at walls.
“Mom said not to.It’s dangerous.”
“It’s not dangerous,” I had said. “That’s an old wives’ tale.”
“Would the person remember?” I ask now. “Doing something like that?”
“Unless they wake up mid-attack, not usually, no,” he says. “A sleepwalker rarely remembers their episode in the morning—though sometimes, they can. It’s like recalling a dream.”
I clear my throat and stand up from the chair quickly, desperate to get out of here.
“Thank you,” I say. “That was very helpful.”
“You sure that’s everything?” he asks, standing with me. “I still have another thirty minutes before my next appointment.”
“Yeah, that’s everything. I just wanted to make sure, you know, that it was safe.”
“For the most part, perfectly safe,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. I nod, turn to leave, and feel his eyes on my back as I make my way to the door. “But Isabelle—?”
“Yeah?” I ask, swinging around. My hand is on his doorknob; I’m almost gone.
“You know what’s more dangerous than sleepwalking?”
“What’s that?”
“Sleep deprivation,” he says. “Really. It leads to all sorts of issues.”
“I know,” I smirk. “I’m aware.”
“I’m being serious,” he says, eying me again, unsmiling, like he isn’t quite sure if he should let me leave. “Forget the lethargy, the memory problems, the sensory disruptions. If it gets severe enough, it can lead to hallucinations, delusions. Really bad stuff.”
“I know,” I say again, biting my lip.
He looks at me for a beat more, like he’s trying to send me some kind of message, until finally, he sits back down, placing his hands on his desk.
“Just try to get some sleep, okay? Promise me.”
“Sure,” I say, opening the door and stepping into the lobby. I’m afraid of how easily they’re coming now, the lies, rising up from the pit of my belly and gurgling out of my mouth like the black algae spewing from that wide, stone mouth. “I promise.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
