Page 62 of She Haunts Me Still

Saskia stares at her, eyes rounded. “Holy shit. How did you find that—”

“I also think,” Mallory continues, cutting her off, “that every woman in every generation afterward died in a way that mimics what happened to Lily’s corpse. By stabbing themselves in the heart. Like you said in the library—it’s some kind of curse.”

Saskia considers this. “But why would someone put a curse on their own family?”

Mallory falls quiet, recalling the bone-chill when she heard Rebecca say the name Jacob with such venom. The way she gestured to the line of blood-soaked women and hissed,Doyouseewhat’sbeendonetothem all?

“Maybe,” Mallory starts, “we’ve been thinking about this the wrong way. I always thought Lily was the source of my mother’s suffering. Of my own torment. But maybe she isn’t in control at all. Maybe someone put the curse onher.”

“But why? And who?”

Mallory thinks of her other nightmares, the men in bird masks chanting around a fire. Like they were casting a spell.

Or summoning something.

“I don’t know. I think there are major pieces we’re still missing.”

“Wait, wait.” Saskia leans forward, elbows on her knees. “How did you come to this conclusion, anyway? About Lily being your ancestor?”

Mallory’s gaze falters, realizing there’s no way to explainthis without also telling Saskia about Ezra. She thinks of Arden’s voice in the greenroom—Do you have any idea what people are saying about you?—and conjures a neutral expression to reply, “It’s too complicated to get into right now.”

Saskia examines her, as if she can see through her words. But she only offers, “Alright. Let’s get coffee and hit the library. Maybe we can find more—”

Mallory shakes her head. “I can’t leave.”

“You’re going tostayhere?” Saskia’s eyebrows shoot up. “In the room that used to be amorgue?”

A roll of thunder punctuates her question, and Mallory apprehensively eyes the darkening clouds. “I need to warn Ezra. This room isn’t safe for him, either.”

Saskia’s expression shifts into understanding. The air suddenly seems thicker, and heat floods Mallory’s cheeks.

“We could meet before rehearsal,” Mallory rushes to say. “Or tomorrow after my morning psych class, or—”

“Easy, Nancy Drew,” Saskia says, cracking a smile. “Before rehearsal is fine.” She slings her bag over her shoulder, glancing at the ivy-wrapped dormitory. “For what it’s worth, I’m not judging you—you can quit blushing about it. But if you don’t want people to know”—she reaches up, and Mallory’s breath hitches as Saskia brushes a reddened bruise below her ear—“you should probably cover this.”

Mallory stares back, shuffling through a flurry of emotions before landing on gratitude—at simply being seen without judgment. Combined with another, more confusing warmth at the gentle press of Saskia’s fingers. The way her hand lingers confidently, like Saskia has no issue touching her in a place that’s been branded by another person’s kiss.

“You keep these,” Saskia says, reaching for the blueprints.The first raindrops pelt the stone steps as she adds, “In case you need an escape route.”

Two hours later, Ezra still hasn’t returned to Thorne Hall.

The sky has cracked open, unleashing a raging storm. Sheets of rain cascade down the windows, turning the world outside a blur of gray and black. Mallory paces the shadowed dorm, her steady calm replaced by mounting worry. Every clap of thunder sends her pulse spiking, and when the lights start flickering, her apprehension morphs into panic.

She shouldn’t be here.

Just as she begins contemplating running to the theater in the storm, the door opens and Ezra steps through, shaking out an umbrella. Mallory practically pounces on him.

“You have to change rooms,” Mallory blurts.

Ezra closes the door, blinking as he peels off his coat.

“What?”

She tugs the sleeves of his sweatshirt over her hands. “You can’t stay in this dorm, Ezra. It’s not safe. You could move off-campus. You could get an apartment, we could—”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” Ezra says, hands folding around her shoulders. He sweeps his gaze over her and smiles. “I like seeing you in my clothes.”

Mallory glances down, and for the first time registers what sweatshirt she’d grabbed. All black,The Caligo Groupwritten across the front in red cursive. Her stomach twists, both at the reminder of Ezra’s future in London and the way he readily agreed to manipulate her for his father in order to get there. She fleetingly wonders if the sting from feeling used will ever go away.