Page 30 of Mania

“I can explain,” I blurt out.

I don’t have an explanation but find myself trying to defuse the situation anyhow.

Her eyes turn hard, her fist tightening around the duvet. My gaze falls on her trembling lips, then follows the single tear trailing down her cheek.

“Was this all a sick game to you?” It’s barely a whisper but her words pack so much venom that I stumble backward from their intensity.

“A game?” I repeat incredulously, taking the lost step forward.

“Don’t come any closer,” she snaps.

I freeze.

“Maeve …” I speak her name like an offering, an olive branch to gain back her trust. My first instinct is to continue talking about the two-way mirror. Instead, I say, “What game?”

“It was you,” she mutters, almost to herself. “It was you all along.”

“Maeve, speak to me. You’re not making any sense.”

Her glare softens, evolving into something closer to sadness. “The bathtub … You took the razor out of my hand.”

I’m about to push her to explain herself again, still frozen to the spot near the edge of the bed, when she adds, “Your face was hidden but I should have known … I should have known.”

Every vowel and consonant she utters lifts the invisible veil over my eyes higher and higher until I suddenly see clearly.

I seeeverything.

The memories now tauntingly vivid.

The bathtub.

My dream girl sinking her teeth into my skin.

Maeve hanging in the closet, choking to death.

My breath catches in my throat, and my eyes widen as I bring my hand to my mouth.

How could this be? It isn’tpossible.

But … how do I even dare ask this question?

Nothing is impossible inside the walls of the Ambrose Hotel.

“You have to believe me, Maeve. I didn’t know. Please,” I press, “Let me explain — or at least let me tell you what I know to be true.”

She stays silent, chewing on her inner cheek. She appears to be stewing over my statement, and I hope the genuine shock on my face helps her decide.

Finally, she gives me a small nod and relief washes over me. Wordlessly, I ask if I can sit on the edge of the bed, and she gives another nod.

I sit, sliding my bent knee on the bed and turn my body so I can face her directly. I hate the way she’s looking at me. Guarded. Fearful. I only hope that divulging my story will be enough for her to trust me again. I clear my throat and deliberate on how to start, wishing I could close the gap between us and link her hand with mine. Regardless of how I broach the subject, I don’t think there’s any good way to start. So I say the first thing that comes to mind.

“I was born December 29th, 1913.”

Chapter 16

Maeve

Hazel’slast words hang between us while my heart beats wildly in my chest, blood rushing through my ears.

---