Chapter 2 #2
Alone in the exam room, Mallory peers through the arched window at the tree-lined walkway below, the protruding cupola of the library in the distance. I’m sorry for your loss. Everyone always says that. Like her mother is an object she misplaced, rather than the person who once lit up her world.
Mallory traces the brass butterfly in the center of her locket, thinking of the small handful of photographs she has of her mother.
She tries to imagine her here, at Shore.
Seated in the courtyard, brown hair braided down her back.
Bundled in a coat, hurrying down the winding path in an evening snowfall.
Curled up in one of the oversized leather chairs at the library—
Before she can stop them, other images wedge their way in. The ones that circle Mallory’s memory like a fly buzzing over rotting meat.
That cold December morning in the blue house. The stale, unforgiving light that swelled through the gauzy curtains. Her mother’s frozen, unblinking eyes, an unnatural shade of opal.
And the front of her nightgown, covered in red.
Just like her mother’s ghost.
Everything else is a blur—torn-up flesh poking through fabric, blood-soaked bedding, flashing lights outside. The kitchen knife clutched in her mother’s fist. And an EMT’s words forever burned into Mallory’s skull, ones she wasn’t supposed to hear—
It’s like she was trying to cut out her own heart.
“Here we are,” the nurse sings, slipping back into the room. “Mallory Webb. Date of birth March 16, 1980?”
Mallory swallows. “That’s me.”
“Can you confirm everything is correct? Protocol, you understand.”
“Sure.” Mallory scans her birthday and home address, under Current Prescriptions the clonazepam she takes for anxiety and her birth control pills.
But in the next section, there’s something out of place.
Where the rest of the page is formatted in computer font, the space beneath Emergency Contact is filled out in handwritten block letters, each one running into the next. It’s just a first name, one Mallory doesn’t recognize.
LILY
“This isn’t right.” Mallory points. “My emergency contact should be Nancy Thatcher.”
“Your guardian?” the nurse guesses.
Mallory shakes her head. “No. My best friend’s mother.”
Guilt lurches inside her. Aunt Penelope barely blinked when she signed the papers that turned her from family friend into Mallory’s guardian. But that’s where their connection began and ended. A signature. Cold, practical, unflinching.
It didn’t have to be that way. Penelope could have been the one Mallory confided in when she had her first heartbreak, could have taught her to drive, could have molded a new life with brighter colors.
But instead, she’d shipped her off to a boarding school tucked between snowy mountains, where Arden became her family instead.
Even during vacations, Mallory found herself at the Thatchers’ Boston brownstone more than Penelope’s house in Shoreview, folding herself into Arden’s shiny world.
Brunches on Newbury Street, Sunday mornings at church in the South End.
Always feeling slightly out of place, hoping no one else would notice.
The nurse hands Mallory a pen, and she crosses out LILY, jotting Arden’s mom’s name. But those four letters seem to stare beneath the scribbles, demanding to be seen.
Mallory snaps the folder shut. “Here you go.”
“I’ll let you get dressed,” the nurse replies. “I’ll have a prescription slip for you up front.”
Nodding, Mallory slides off the table. She removes the medical gown, tugging on her black blouse and pleated maroon skirt. With a quick fluff of her bangs, she grabs her bag and slips into the hall.
But instead of turning toward the lobby, Mallory casts a careful glance down the shadowed corridor. Her thoughts hum with the idea that’s been taking hold since the nurse called her by her mother’s name. An idea so unlike her normal self it makes her heart beat wildly in her chest.
She came to this school to act—that’s not a lie. But she also came to find out what happened to her mother. A mother who left behind a butterfly necklace and a messy notebook—and so many questions.
Answers could be right here.
Before she can talk herself out of it, Mallory spins on her heel and slinks toward the door marked Records.
The storage room is covered in dust, and Mallory instantly chokes back a cough. She gropes for the light, locking the door behind her.
Gaze whirling, she races from cabinet to cabinet, yanking drawers until she finds her mother’s graduation year. Her black-painted nails fly over weathered plastic tabs, letters blurring. Wallace, Watson, Weaver, Webb.
Mallory snatches her mother’s file without another thought.
The first few pages contain vaccination records and a checklist of family medical conditions.
Under Surgeries, there’s the tonsillectomy Jasmine had when she was six, a broken ankle at seventeen.
Mallory flips and flips, looking for anything that could offer a glimmer of what her mother’s life was like.
And then she reaches the section she needs.
Shore College Health and Wellness Center: Visit Reports.
Mallory knows someone could open the door at any moment, but she’s never been this close to something concrete before. She sinks to the floor, reading frantically. A flu shot. Sprained wrist. Strep throat.
And then something that makes her freeze.
Jasmine came in with symptoms of severe headache, nausea, and phantosmia. Referral given: Ariana Heigl, MD, neurologist.
Mallory’s head snaps up. Phantosmia. Imaginary smells.
Like, she can’t help but think, something burning.
Something rotting.
Just like the odor from last night, and at the blue house.
Mallory shoves the folder into her bag and jumps to her feet, right as her nose tickles. She swipes it—and startles at the wet smear of dirt she finds on her hand.
“What the fuck?” She digs in her bag for a tissue, blowing into it. More dirt, this time tinged with drops of blood.
Concern takes over as she rubs her nose again.
Glancing at her watch, Mallory buries the dirty tissue in her pocket and flies from the room.
Fifteen minutes until theater history, barely enough time to run to her dorm and call this neurologist. She could take a shortcut through the hedge maze to the theater and—
Mallory halts, attention catching on the tall figure in the lobby. A man in a long dark coat, clipboard in hand, pen poised in the air as he stares in her direction.
The assistant director. Ezra.
The bio he recited at auditions echoes in her head. Ezra Pierce. Born and raised in Providence. Started as an acting major before leveling up. Previously attended Grey University. Was on track to graduate last year but needed a change.
Everyone seemed impressed, but Mallory had only felt confused. Grey University is one of the best schools in Rhode Island, if not the entire country. Practically an Ivy, especially for theater.
Everyone tries to transfer in. No one would transfer out.