Page 47 of She Haunts Me Still

Maybe she is. Slowly being coaxed toward death until her body is identical to her mother’s, lifeless and ripped apart.

A clicking snags her attention, and Mallory turns just in time to see a stall open—

Where Saskia emerges. “Did you hear all that?” Mallory asks, and Saskia nods, crossing to the sink.

Mallory studies Saskia as she washes her hands. Her wintery hair is pulled back in a little ponytail, and she’s dressed casually in a ribbed T-shirt and wide-leg jeans, making Mallory feel out of place in her Juliet nightgown.

“I’m not a bad friend,” Mallory blurts, and Saskia tilts her head at her in the mirror.

“I’m sure you’re not.”

“And I’m not—” She swallows. “I’m not the kind of person who sleeps with a director for a role.”

Saskia reaches for a paper towel, eyebrows raised. “Noted.”

“Just—don’t tell anyone what you heard, okay?”

For a moment, Saskia’s quiet, holding Mallory’s stare as she carefully dries her hands. Finally, she tosses the towel in the trash and replies, “I won’t say a word.”

Saskia starts for the door.

“Wait.” Mallory doesn’t mean to say it. But she’s suddenlystruck with the urge not to be alone, not when this crushing isolation is threatening to consume her whole.

“Who,” she whispers, “is Lily?”

Saskia freezes, a hand on the doorknob. “I told you. I was wrong about that.”

“You said I looked like her,” Mallory presses. “Is she someone from home? High school?”

Saskia shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“A former classmate?” Mallory tries, taking a step forward. “Someone you did theater with?”

Saskia’s gaze skitters around the room as she answers. “No.”

Mallory walks closer, and Saskia steps back, her spine connecting with the door.

“Saskia,” Mallory says, “is Lily even a person at all?”

At that, Saskia’s jaw tightens at the corners.

Mallory inhales sharply. She’s so close, so close to something. She can feel it—an answer, a clue, a puzzle piece. “Saskia,please—”

“Shewasa person,” Saskia says finally. “Once.”

Mallory’s eyes widen. “Because she’s dead, right?”

Saskia’s attention floats toward the mirrors. Every muscle in her face flattens into fear. “Not really,” she says. “She’s standing right behind you.”

Mallory whirls. She follows Saskia’s terrified stare toward the mirror, into the shadows pooling in the fluorescent reflection. She blinks once. Twice.

The third time, the woman in white slips into view.

She looms in the distance, husked beneath the ashy dark. The shape of her is murky, like she’s obscured behind smoke, but it’s her: Long, stringy hair. Face like a bees’ nest. White dress, her chest a mess of blood. Just like Mallory’s mother.

Just like Mallory might be one day.

Mallory’s breath rushes out as the realization catches up to her. “You can see her, too.”