Sometimes I hear noises. Soft footsteps brushing along the hall. A whisper of movement behind closed doors. But I tell myself it’s all in my head.
When I lift my face, I see someone in the window.
A woman in white. Her dark brown hair spilling over her shoulders. She stands there, looking down at me, still as a painting.
The crunch of tires on the driveway pulls my attention away. I turn my head, and when I look back, the window is empty.
I see her sometimes. Always in the same spot.
I tried to find the room, but it seems it doesn’t exist.
“What are you doing?” Catherine stomps toward me, her heels getting stuck in the dirt.
“My goldfish died,” I say, smacking my lips.
She lifts a brow. “Why are you wet?”
“I tried to revive it in the pool.”
She crosses her arms. “Why don’t I believe you?”
“I’m drunk.” I wobble on purpose and grab the shovel for balance.
“That, I believe.” She turns and walks toward the house, then looks back. “You coming?”
I nod. I carry the shovel to the wall, lean it there, and follow her inside.
“Am I alone here?” I ask, trying to keep up with her pace.
“We have maids,” she says. “If that’s what you are asking.”
“Yeah,” I mutter.
Maybe the woman in the window is a maid.
She opens a cupboard, ignoring the carton box with a red ribbon. The inside is still smeared with dried blood. She takes something out and heads back toward the pool.
“We got something for you,” she says.
I follow her, pacing behind, still pretending I am losing my balance.
We reach the garage. She lifts the door, and next to Judas’s two bikes, there is one more.
A pink Yamaha R125.
“Happy birthday,” she says.
I scream. I spin back to her and wrap my arms around her.
“Since you have your license, we thought you should have your own bike too,” she says.
I rush toward it. My hand slides down the leather seat, over the cool pink metal, then settles on the black handlebars. The rubber grips press into my palms.
“It’s perfect,” I say. My eyes burn with happiness. “Can I ride?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “You just told me you were drunk a minute ago.”
“It was a cover because I had to bury a dick my stalker brought me for a birthday present,” I say, blinking at her.
