The only thought in my head in the next moment was: GO.

Go, go, go. If it meant running ten miles down a country highway and hitching a ride with the first tractor-trailer that rumbled by, fine.

I got up and headed for the front door. I had to get outside.

Suddenly I felt freezing and hot at the same time. The air in the house was suffocating. The ceiling seemed to rotate above me. I raced for the front door, pushing on the handles, but they were stuck in place.

I turned the lock, but still the door wouldn’t open. I started to panic. I needed to be alone, like an injured animal.

“Margot,” Laura said, in a singsong voice. She had followed me from the hall and stood several feet away. “As I suspected, you’re very unwell. To bed with you.”

I shook my head. I wasn’t going to bed. I wanted out of the house. My head seemed to be wearing a massive, tight helmet. My whole skull hurt.

She stepped closer. “You shouldn’t be here.”

And then I remembered the voice that had answered me, that first day: You’re right.

I’d known since my first day here that this was a bad idea.

This was a bad place. What was the word Laura had used? Defiled.

There seemed to be strong hands pushing relentlessly in on my temples. The pain was almost unbearable.

And still Laura kept approaching. “Let me help you,” she said softly.

No. I tried the door once more. Why was it locked?

“You’re being silly, Margot,” she said, in a hard voice with a painted-on coating of fake patience. “Let’s go upstairs.”

I felt a sudden, oily pressure inside my neck, just behind my ears, and a sick sour bubbling filled my stomach.

“Leave me alone,” I warbled pathetically. My shoulders sagged. My sweaty hand slipped off the doorknob.

“Margot,” Laura said. “Turn around this minute.”

So I did.

And then I threw up all over her.

CHAPTER

27

I HUNCHED OVER the toilet in the bathroom, having spent the past hour regurgitating everything I’d ever eaten in my life. My throat and nostrils burned, and dark, merciless pain throbbed behind my eyeballs. My stomach felt like a knotted rope, and all the muscles in my body were tender and tired.

A fresh convulsion struck, and I bent over and retched.

“Are you feeling any—” Laura came into the room and stopped short when she saw me. “Oh. I guess not.”

I didn’t answer. I was too busy dying.

She smoothed my hair down, then stood back until I was finished.

Laura was a highly useful person to have around if you were sick. After my explosive vomiting display in the foyer, which may have ruined a priceless antique Persian rug as well as Laura’s blouse and skirt, we settled into a wordless truce.