Page 61 of Insomnia

“Do you have a Stanley knife?”

“I don’t know. Maybe somewhere.”

She shrugs and sips her coffee. “I don’t think you slashed your own tire. If I’m honest, you sound like the worst tire slasher in the world. Before you ask, I haven’t ever slashed a tire, but I’m not going to lie, I did google it a couple of times before Parker and I broke up.”

“But none of it makes sense. There is definitely something wrong in my head. I’m missing bits of time. Doing things I don’t remember.”

“Insomnia will do that to you. And look, having just gone through a mini-meltdown myself, maybe you are going a bit cuckoo. Happens to a lot of people. More than you’d think. And I don’t meancrazylike you do. I don’t think you’re insane. Just struggling. It’s actually why I’m going to train to be a counselor. This world can be a mean place. I mean, we’ve both struggled and we’re in lucky situations. But that’s a conversation for another time. Anyway, my point is that you’re looking at this as an either or.” She signals a waiter for the bill. “When in fact, why can’t it be both?”

I look at her, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that yes, maybe you are going through some incident with your mental health. But that doesn’t mean that someone isn’t fucking with you too.” She shrugs again, as if she’s French and we’re discussing the dullness of a lover rather than my potential insanity. “I mean, just because your sister got hit by a van doesn’t mean she didn’t slash your tire, or do any of those other things, does it? Two separate actions.” She taps her card on the machineand the waiter vanishes. “And she knew about the milk-bottle stuff as well as you, I presume?”

Once again, my suspicions of Phoebe start to swirl around my head. “Yes. Of course.”

“So all I’m saying is, trust your gut. If you think there’s something wrong in your head, there probably is. But also, if you think someone is out to get you, I’d say trust your gut on that too. My divorce has taught me that much. People can be slippery shits when they want you out of the way.”

She’s right. I look at the clock.Look, look, a candle, a book and a bell.Maybe I am going mad. But someone’s still out to get me. Two equal truths. Could it still be Phoebe? Maybe when she’s out of surgery she’ll tell me. I look down at her dried blood on my hands as if it has some answers. It stays silent. It doesn’t tell me if I pushed her either. It holds its secrets close.

49.

“Phoebe got hit by a van,” I say.

Caroline’s in her nurse’s uniform, professional and dependable, and I look the complete opposite. A low-rent version of Carrie from that old Stephen King book standing on her doorstep. Less blood but the same level of crazy. Her face pales.

“What?”

“I know. Insane. I was on my way to see her and there she was in the road. She’s in the operating room now.” I called the hospital on the way here and there’s no real news on how she’s doing. There won’t be till the surgery’s all over and she’s in recovery. Hopefully she’s in recovery. No promises there. “Can I come in?”

“Um... sure.” She backs up and I come inside. “Is she okay?”

“No. No she’s not.”

The song is playing on a loop in my head, making it hard for me to look anything but irritated. “She may not make it.”Look, look,a candle, a book and a bell, I put them behind me. Oh look, look, A candle, a book and a bell. There to remind me...

The song’s got louder since I rang the hospital—she’s in surgery; more complicated than we thought—going around in my head all the while as I drove, thinking about what Miranda said. Phoebe being run over doesn’t mean she wasn’t out to get me.

“Look at these.” Once we’re in the kitchen, I take the reviewsout of my bag, the paper crumpled, and hand them to Caroline. “Do you think Phoebe could have done them? I do.”

She looks at the pages and then at me. “Why would she do this?” She frowns as she shuffles the papers around. “What’s this?”

She holds up a different piece of paper, one I didn’t plan for her to see, that must have got tangled with the others in my bag. My mother’s page with my name written jaggedly all over it. “Oh, that’s nothing. Will did it ages ago.” I take it back and hurriedly stuff it into my bag. “But those—I mean who would do that?”

She studies the reviews. “What happened that day? Did you speak to these people?”

“I wasn’t rude to potential clients,” I snap. “That’s what happened on that day.”

“I was only asking.” She hands the papers back carefully and I half expect her to anti-bac her hands, as if paranoia is a virus she can catch from them.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Just came as a shock. And they’ve fired me. Not good for the firm apparently. But thiscouldhave been Phoebe. Maybe she made the calls to my work. How do I know the women I spoke to weren’t all her?”

“Isn’t that a bit of a leap? And surely now isn’t the time to be suspicious of her. How did her accident happen? Did she go into the road without looking?”

“Someone said she was pushed, and of course I’m sure the police think it was me. Not that they’ve got any proof.” The words are coming out fast. It’s hard to get clarity with the song so loud in my head. “She’s so jealous of me and there’s the way she is with Robert, I can feel something’s off there.” I crunch the paper and flinch as more lyrics blast loud in my head, without warning. I press a hand to my temples.

. . .Sees through a glass, darkly. Can I have an opinion. To trigger this loop... Look, look, a candle, a book and a bell...

“Emma.” Caroline says, awkward, and the crashing music suddenly stops, leaving my head ringing in blissful silence. “Your sister is in the hospital. You’re in shock. And you’re tired. Why don’t you go back to the hotel and get some sleep?”

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