Chapter 6
BLAIR
The first thing I know when I slowly being to rouse is I’m no longer on the couch in the library. I’m in my bed.
The realization hits slowly, like bathwater turning cold.
My eyes open to the same ceiling I’ve stared at every morning for weeks, the same thin crack of light inching through the partially opened door.
The sheet is pulled up to my chin, and my sundress has twisted around my waist, and one strap has slipped off my shoulder.
Between my thighs the ache is deeper now, a low, insistent throb that feels like it’s been building while I slept.
I sit up too fast and my head feels fuzzy, the way it gets after sleeping too hard, too long. Hypersomnia can be both a blessing and a curse. My father used to call me Briar Rose, as if it were a tool he could use to his advantage. The deep-sleeping princess, he’d say.
I remember the library…I was sitting on the couch with the book I never opened, and I remember the way my eyelids grew heavy as the sun slanted lower across the shelves. Then I remember closing my eyes, just for a moment.
And now I’m here. In the bed, still dressed and covered carefully with the sheet. I don’t remember returning. I certainly didn’t walk up the stairs.
Someone carried me.
The thought lands hard and with no room for doubt.
Instinctively, I look down at my arms to check for something…
anything. But there are no marks or any sign of a struggle, only the faint gooseflesh that prickles when I think of powerful hands sliding under my legs, beneath my shoulders, and lifting me like I weighed nothing.
I press my thighs together against the renewed pulse there, embarrassed by how my body responds to the image.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand on the cold floor, my bare feet making no sound as I cross to the door and turn the knob slowly.
The hallway is empty and quiet except for the distant, rhythmic crash of waves.
It’s a sound of comfort and the only thing I’ve had to grip onto since arriving.
But now it feels wrong. As I move down the stairs and into the kitchen, I check for anything different. Any clue that I’m not alone. The counter is clean. No whiskey glass to be seen, so I check the dishwasher, the fridge, and even the trash. There’s nothing.
I open cabinets I’ve never touched before, examining neat stacks of plates and rows of glasses that look expensive and unused. There’s no evidence. No fingerprints. No sign anyone had ever been here except me.
Padding softly, I move through the rooms and down the hallway, inexplicably drawn to the library. The door is closed now, so I hesitate with my hand on the knob, and my heart thunders loudly in my ears.
When I push it open, the couch is empty, the book I was holding placed neatly back on the shelf as if it was all just a fever dream. I walk to it and run my fingers along the spine, hoping for an answer. There’s no warmth in the room, no crease in the cushion where I sat on the couch.
Nothing, almost as if it had never happened. But I know it happened. I was asleep in the library, then I woke up in my bed.
I stand in the center of the room and speak aloud, my voice thin against the silence.
“I know you’re watching me.”
The words feel ridiculous the moment they leave my mouth, crazy and paranoid. The house answers with nothing but the low groan of settling wood and the endless murmur of the ocean.
I laugh once, and it comes out sharp and almost jarring. I’ve spent so long in silence I’ve forgotten what I sound like.
Since I can’t settle, and I know something is off, I can’t help but spend the day wandering. I check corners I’ve checked before; I press on walls, tap baseboards looking for seams or secret cupboards. Anything that would hide evidence of someone’s presence.
But I come up blank. No cameras, no wires…no trace of anyone but me.
By late afternoon I’m exhausted and unsettled in a way that makes my skin crawl. I decide to take a long shower, standing under the water until my fingers prune, then dress in soft pajamas, nothing provocative, nothing inviting. I tell myself I’m being sensible and I’m not waiting.
Night falls early this time of year, and the house grows quiet with the familiar solitude. I eat standing at the counter, crackers and cheese and a glass of water, then carry a notebook and pen upstairs.
I sit on the bed and lean back against the headboard with my knees drawn up, and the lamp casting a warm circle of light across the page.
I’m take a breath and try to calm my nerves as I guide the pen across the page.
I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but I know you were in the library today. I know you carried me to bed.
I pause, the pen hovering over the page. The next words feel dangerous, like giving away something I can’t take back.
If you’re watching me, leave the whiskey glass on the kitchen counter tomorrow morning. Please, just one glass so I know I’m not crazy.
I stare at the words until they blur, then fold the note once, twice, and place it on the nightstand, directly under the lamp so it’s visible.
I turn off the light and slide under the covers, my heart beating too fast, and body still humming with that low, persistent ache. I lie on my side, facing the door, with my arms wrapped around myself.
The house is silent around me as I close my eyes, and I wait…for footsteps, for the soft click of a door, or even the weight of someone watching. For proof that I’m not alone. That I’m not losing my mind.