Chapter 27

The morning light is coming through the curtains in golden, dusty streams, lighting up the floorboards beneath me.

Yes, I am still on the third-floor landing.

I’m just about to remember what put me here, what happened the night before, when I hear a voice I haven’t heard since early spring. A voice in a whisper.

The voice seems like it’s coming in with the dawn light, as if sent from the same golden place, gilded with hope and kindness.

“Daffodil . . . you must remember.”

Squinting into the sunlight, again, in a whisper, “Remember . . . remember me.”

The words like a hand reaching out, beckoning, kind, forgiving.

But the voice is unmistakable.

I know that voice. I’d know that voice anywhere. The way that voice says my name. The caress in it.

And a tear comes to my eye, just hearing that voice, that voice I miss with every cell in my body.

That voice.

Zander.

I look up into the sunlight, the hope streaming in, trying to follow the voice. I catch my balance, get up, and make my way into the light coming in, hoping to hear it again.

“Zander?” It’s a desperate plea, held in a whisper.

Maybe this is the whisper of a madwoman.

A madwoman who murders people on the stairs.

“Zander? Is that you . . . ?” I look up into the light coming in, but something has ended, something has passed, and nothing answers.

It’s gone.

That voice.

That hope.

That question.

What is it? What is it I’m supposed to remember? Or is this just a dream, too?

I’m getting so confused now. What is a dream and what is real? What if I put them down? Put them in a column.

Okay, okay.

Let’s just sit down now. Let’s just sit down. And think.

I don’t bother going down the steps. I can’t. I can’t go down there yet.

And, also, this sounds strange, I know. But there’s something keeping me up here. Something in this morning light. Just like the doctor said! Morning light. Daffodil, you must get morning light.

Easy now.

Sit down and let’s figure.

What is the most logical explanation for what is happening here?

What do we know?

We know you’re staying in this house. We know the professor is counting on you to watch over the construction. We know you’re getting paid. A lot.

We also know . . . that you are having bad dreams. Viciously bad dreams. Nightmares. Like the unspeakable nightmare from last night. When you killed someone. But, Daffodil, you did not kill anyone.

That, too, was a dream.

Just like the desolate-house dream.

And now, I console myself. Daffodil . . . you’ve always had vivid dreams. You’re very good at it. Always have been.

What is probably happening . . . if I were my shrink I would say this. What is probably happening is that you are under a lot of stress, with all the changes, with leaving home, with going off to college, with the unspeakable-thing-that-shall-remain-nameless. Perhaps, even, with your ideas of self-destruction. Perhaps this is a kind of defense.