Page 6 of Breaking Isolde
The lake is a dark blue stain on the lower edge. I mark it with a red X.
I sit back and let the room settle around me. For a long time, I don’t do anything except listen. There’s a faint hum from the pipes, a rhythmic drip from the old radiator, and, beneath it all, the low, intermittent moan of wind through the cracks in the window frame.
I run my thumb along the edge of the police report. A cut forms and itches, the blood wells and recedes.
I promised myself I wouldn’t cry here. I don’t.
I don’t sleep either.
By seven the next morning, the hunger is winning. I ignore it as long as I can, but there’s only so many times you can reread a police report before the words stop meaning anything. I throw on whatever’s on top of the pile in the drawer and force myself down the hall. My steps make the floor groan.
The kitchen is twice as big as it needs to be. The walls are painted a blue so pale it almost disappears, and the refrigerator is covered in a patchwork of magnets, takeout menus, and a single passive-aggressive note about cleaning up “biohazardous substances.” Someone has jammed a coffee maker under the ancient, hissing hood vent. The smell of burnt grounds lingers.
The first time I see Charlie, she’s sitting on the counter with her bare feet swinging above the recycling bin, spooning peanut butter out of the jar. She’s wearing flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt that says “MATHLETES DO IT WITH INTEGRALS,” butthe cuteness stops at her wrists. Her nails are bitten to the quick and the skin around them is red and raw.
She sees me and beams. “Hey! You must be Isolde.” The name bounces out of her mouth in two bright, equally misplaced syllables. “I’m Charlotte but everyone calls me Charlie. Welcome to the fun house.”
I shrug, walk to the sink, and pour a glass of water. “You’re up early.”
She licks the spoon clean. “Couldn’t sleep. Noise travels in these halls.” Her eyes flick to the window, where the frost has drawn patterns across the glass. “You’ll get used to it. Or you won’t. Whatever.”
She hops down and starts loading dishes into the washer with unnecessary force. The clatter is probably deliberate. She has the energy of someone who’d rather shatter every mug in the building than let a conversation stall.
“So. What brings you to Westpoint?” she asks, not looking at me. The question is a formality and she knows it.
“Transfer,” I say. “My last place lost accreditation.”
She laughs, like it’s the first funny thing she’s heard all year. “Classic. They say Archer’s the most haunted house on campus, but honestly, it’s just a lot of bad wiring and worse plumbing. I’ll give you the five-cent tour if you want.”
She doesn’t wait for a response. She grabs her mug—a chipped, pumpkin-orange one—and sets off down the hallway, narrating as she goes. I trail after her, feigning interest.
“This is the main lounge, obviously.” She waves at the sagging leather sofas and the TV nobody has turned on in months judging by the dust. “Cleaning schedule is on the fridge. We are supposed to do our part, except Lucy, but she’s a lost cause. Before you, there was another couple girls but they graduated, so now it’s just you, me and Luce. Groceries are ordered online, just tell me what you want or you can order them yourself. The delivery guy knows to leave it at the back door, because otherwise the basketball team will steal all the good shit.”
“Oh… okay.”
Charlie’s smile slips for half a second. “You’ll see. Just… steer clear, okay? They’re like a cult, but dumber.” She gestures at a battered bulletin board next to the bathroom. “If you want anything added to the grocery list, write it down. Unless it’s Nutella, in which case I have veto power. Allergies.”
The hallway narrows. On the left is a tiny room crammed with cleaning supplies and a mop that looks like it survived a fire. On the right is the laundry. The rest of the tour is a blur of doors, creaking hinges, and a running commentary about random Academy gossip I couldn’t give a shit about.
She stops at the last door before the stairs, turns to face me, and lowers her voice. “Look, I know you’re here because ofCasey. You don’t have to say it. We all know. Just… if you need anything, or if people are weird, come to me first, okay?”
Her eyes go flat, serious, for the first time since I met her. She’s not as good at hiding things as she thinks she is.
I nod, and for a moment I want to believe that she really cares.
But when I say, “Did you know her?” the reaction is instant: her jaw snaps shut, her posture stiffens, and the cheerfulness floods back in with double force.
“Not really. She kept to herself.” Charlie’s words bounce a little too high. “Anyway. Breakfast is whatever you can find. Sometimes Lucy bakes on Sundays, but the rest of the time it’s fend for yourself.”
I watch her hand tighten around the mug until the knuckles glow white.
The lights overhead flicker, then buzz back on. At the same time, a cold draft snakes through the room. The windows are double-glazed and locked, but the draft comes anyway.
Charlie doesn’t shiver. She just says, “Old house, old ghosts,” and walks away, her feet leaving little sweat prints on the wood.
I head back to the kitchen and finish my water. The silence returns, heavier this time.
I can still smell that weird floral scent.
