She’s not smiling, though. In fact, she doesn’t seem happy at all, her mouth turned down, her green eyes pinched at the corners. “Hi, Sue. Good for you to finally come around.” Her words are tinged with an acridness I’m not used to, and I feel my resolve crumple as I follow her through the doorway, over to the couch. She sits away from me, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“We need to chat about something,” she says primly, crossing her feet, confining her body to the very corner of the couch.

I blink, clearing my throat. “Yes. Yes, we do.”

She sighs, a long, expansive sound that seems to eat up the room. “You know, I thought it was silly of me to get offended. I wasn’t even going to bring it up at first, because I didn’t want to make things awkward between us. But good relationships are predicated on full transparency, right?”

I nod, feeling that shift again, like the earth is tilting on its axis. What the hell is she talking about?

“When you said you were starting a new art class, I wanted to be happy for you, that you were expressing yourself creatively during your downtime.” She fiddles with her watch, with a lock of hair that’s escaped from her updo. “But then I thought about all the trouble I’d gone to, setting up that painting studio for you in my room, and how you’d barely used it. Barely even appreciated it. I’m not even sure you said thank you.” Her eyes drift to the floor in an expression of mourning, of acute unhappiness, and linger there.

And I think I’m dreaming, that I must have misheard. “You’re mad at me for taking an art class instead of using the canvas and easel you set up in a corner of your room? I’d already told you I didn’t want to use it.” Her accusation sounds so ridiculous to me that for a second I’ve forgotten why I’m here in the first place.

“I just put a lot of work into it, and you barely touched it.” Her voice sounds so small, her words so breakable, that I can’t help but bark out a short laugh. She flinches, and for a fleeting instant, she looks afraid.

My script has gone completely awry. All the level, controlled things I had planned to say, scurrying out of my brain, running for the hills as I gape at her. “I know you’re a fraud, Anneliese. I know you lied about the bracelet and about your résumé and about your background. So don’t you dare try to tell me what I can or can’t do during my free time. Who the hell are you anyway?”