When you used to run away, I want to interrupt, but I have a feeling Tom wouldn’t be happy with me if I did. Probably something about invading the process or some such nonsense.

“In art class?”

“She helped me draw my map.”

“It’s a fascinating map.”

“Thank you.” Your face brightens at the compliment.

“For example, how did you know so much about this area without ever having been here?”

“She told me about it.”

“Your Grampy?”

“No, the woman.”

“Perhaps you overheard your Grampy talking about Nysa with someone else. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

When I speak up, I immediately feel like it’s a mistake. “I’ve never talked about Nysa since I left. Not once. Not with anyone.”

When Tom looks over the couch and finds my gaze in the corner, there’s a flash of annoyance in his eyes. But he defuses it well.

“Were you afraid of her when you first met?” he asks you.

“You mean in the art room?”

Tom nods.

“No,” you say thoughtfully. “There were lots of people around.”

“Did anyone else see her?”

You shrug. “I don’t know.”

Tom pauses, his head cocking to one side. “So if you weren’t afraid of her in the art room, are there ever times when you are afraid of her?”

You take a deep breath, and it comes out in a sigh. “Sometimes.”

“What’s one time you felt afraid?”

“I was afraid today, when I saw her under the water and she told me to follow her.”

“She told you to follow her under the water?”

You nod.

“I can understand why that would be scary,” Tom says, and the conversation dies.

I feel a wave of nausea coming, but I don’t want to miss anything, so I sit there and fight it down. When it passes, I feel exhausted, and the knot is throbbing. The ache streaks down my neck, down my back, all the way to my knees, and I can’t tell which direction the pain is going—up or down.

The pain is me, I think.

“Does this person remind you of anyone you know?” Tom asks.

I can tell by the setting of your shoulders that you don’t want to answer.

“Pearl?” Tom asks quietly.

You reply, but neither Tom nor I hear your answer.

“What was that?”

“You.” Your head ducks.

“Me?” Tom asks, jolted out of his counselor persona.

You nod.

“How does she remind you of me?”

“You’re both good at keeping secrets.”

Tom’s face goes blank, white. The air in the room feels charged, and I grip the armrests of my chair. Darkness leaks in as the sun drops, and now the only light in the house is the lamp beside me. I watch you and Tom in the shadows.

Tom seems to be drifting away, losing himself. You, on the other hand, seem to be finding yourself. When you speak, your voice sounds clear, as though you and Tom have switched roles.

“Shirley saw the same woman,” you say.