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I can tell he doesn’t believe me, but it’s the best I’ve got.
“Is everything okay?” he asks. “I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me. You’re… sweating.”
I lift my hand to my forehead, feeling the cold slick of my skin. I had practically run home from Paul’s house, too afraid to turn back around. To see the gaze of that man on my back; to face the accusations I could see twirling in his eyes.
“I’m fine,” I say. “It’s just this bug.”
“Do you need me to take you to the doctor? You really aren’t looking good… no offense.”
I glance to the side, to the mirror hanging above my dresser, and almost recoil at my reflection. He’s right. My skin is sallow and pale, like I just ingested something rotten; my eyes are sunken in, exposing the gentle slope of my skull. His expression is making me remember the way Dr. Harris had looked at me earlier today—or, I suppose that was yesterday; it’s all starting to blur together now—that same sense of concern.
“You know what’s more dangerous than sleepwalking? Sleep deprivation.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat. “Really.”
“Okay.” He looks at me, unconvinced, and I think I see a flicker of sadness appear on his features before it disappears just as fast. Or maybe it’s pity. The thought of how easy it was for him to snake his way into my life like this; how he only needed to say the right things at the right times in order for my guard to drop completely.
He takes a step closer to me, and I flinch.
“Isabelle… you know you can trust me, right? You can tell me if there’s something else going on?”
I don’t know how to respond to that. I don’t know if I can trust him after what I discovered—but I don’t know if I can trust myself, either. So instead, I look at my feet, my eyes drilling into the carpet. I can hear the tick of the clock in the living room and Roscoe’s tongue working its way over his fur as he lays on my bed, a methodical licking. The gentle buzz of the overhead light, like a swarm of flies circling something dead.
“What did Dozier tell you?” I ask at last, my voice a whisper.
“What?”
“At the station.” I look up, trying to read his expression. Trying to stay firm and focused when, really, the fear coursing through me makes me feel like I might faint. “Today. You said you talked to him.”
“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Let’s not get into that right now, okay?”
“But you said—”
“Not now,” he repeats. “It can wait. You need to get some sleep.”
I exhale, nod, knowing that there’s no point in trying to convince him. It is two in the morning, after all—most people would be asleep at this hour.
Most people.
“Okay,” I say, my eyes stinging at the thought of waiting until morning—laterin the morning, I mean—to finally find some answers. “Okay, sounds good. I’ll sleep.”
Waylon smiles, oblivious to the fact that once he leaves, once the door shuts behind him, nothing will change.
I’ll still be here, awake, only without him, I’ll be alone.
“Well, good night,” he says, turning around and flipping off the light.
I shut the door quickly and listen as Waylon retreats into his own room—then I hear the gentle click of the lock and realize: I don’t think I’ve ever heard him lock the door before. I wonder if it’s because of me. If it’s because he’s afraid of me—afraid of being alone with me in the dark—the way my own mother was.
I make my way back to bed and crawl beneath the covers, glancing at my laptop and pulling it toward me. I tap at the keyboard until it comes back to life, and there I am, just as I had left it: there’s me, standing in Mason’s nursery, the video onPause. I stare at the frozen image on the screen, my body moving through some kind of mindless rhythm, like a wind-up doll walking on its own, and I wonder: If I was going into Mason’s nursery like this, night after night, I suppose it’s possible I was going outside, too.
I try to imagine myself walking down the hall, passing his nursery, and opening the front door instead, roaming the streets of my neighborhood, like some kind of restless spirit walking a familiar, comforting path. I think of those footprints on my carpet again; the fact that I had done that exact thing before—but even if that’s the case, there’s no way I would have brought Mason with me. I’ve seen myself enough times on these videos to know: I’ve never touched him. I’ve never even gotten closer than mid-room. That man must be confused. He must be lying to me, playing with me, trying to make me believe something that just isn’t true.
I hitPlayagain, resuming the video, watching as my body continues to sway like laundry on a clothing line being pushed by the wind. I observe the way Mason kicks his little feet in his sleep, the entire screen glowing in a strange, night-vision gray, making me look like I’m an animal in the dark, wandering into some kind of trap. Finally,I see my legs move: a step, and then another. I wait for myself to turn around, to walk back toward the door, but instead of walking out the way I came, I start to walk closer. Closer to Mason.
I lean forward, the light from the laptop making my eyes burn. I watch as my body approaches his crib and stands, silently, above him, peering down—then as I lean forward, my arms outstretched.
No, I think, unable to look away, unable to move, as my unconscious body picks up my son, his little feet kicking in the air as I hoist him up, bring him close. Hold him tight against my chest.
