Page 97 of She Haunts Me Still

“Ruth.”

25

Professor Golden looks surprised to see Mallory at her door for office hours. Possibly because it’s the first time she’s showed up all semester—or because she’s not alone.

“Ms. Webb.” Golden lays her glasses on her desk before glancing toward Saskia. “Ms. Garin. Usually, I meet with one student at a time—”

“It’s not about class,” Mallory says. “It’s, um, personal.”

Golden nods, gesturing to the leather chairs across from her. “Very well.”

Mallory takes a seat, looking around Golden’s small office. The walls are covered in frames—Golden’s BA from Shore, her MFA from Boston Conservatory, various stage production pictures—and her rectangular desk is adorned with elegant pieces of décor. An antique globe. A paperweight made of quartz. A gold plaque readingTomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow.

“So,” Golden says. “What did you want to talk about?”

Mallory looks toward Saskia, who offers a reassuring nod.

“My mother,” Mallory says. “Did you…know her?”

Golden blinks, and for a moment, Mallory panics that shewas wrong. But then her professor’s expression settles into a neutral one.

“Yes. Sorry, I thought you knew when you requested me as your advisor.” She clasps her hands. “I was very sad to hear what happened to her all those years ago.”

Mallory frowns. “Requested you? I didn’t—I didn’t make any requests.”

Now it’s Golden’s turn to frown. “Perhaps I’m remembering incorrectly. Regardless, your mother and I were roommates at Shore. And very good friends—until our fourth year, that is.”

The floor seems to dip beneath her feet. Mallory scrambles to process how close she is to a major revelation, how she’s sitting with someone who was a part of her mother’s life. How she’s been here this entire time.

Mallory leans forward. “Why? What happened?”

“I don’t want to speak any ill toward Jasmine,” Golden says. “She was a good person.”

“I won’t be offended,” Mallory promises. “I’m trying to learn more about her. Anything you can tell me—good or bad—can only help. Please.”

Golden studies them. “That year,” she says, “Jasmine was…preoccupied with something. She spent a lot of time at the library. She was sick a lot, too. Headaches, bouts of dizziness, complaining about smells no one else noticed. The health center referred her to a neurologist, but Jasmine wouldn’t go. She was convinced they’d call her crazy, like everyone else did.”

“She wasn’t crazy,” Saskia pipes in, and Golden raises her eyebrows. “Instead of acting like a woman is nuts, maybe people should try just believing her.”

“I don’t disagree,” Golden says. “But as time went on, it became harder and harder to reach Jasmine.”

“Did she ever talk about what she was researching?” Mallory asks. “At the library?”

Golden nods. “A little. She was very interested in certain legends about Shore’s campus, got hooked on the ghost stories our RA told us that year.”

“From when Shore was a sanitarium?”

“That’s right.” Golden leans back, her chair creaking. “Jasmine wholly bought into it, but she always believed in that sort of thing—superstition, the afterlife, witchcraft. And when she realized her friends didn’t, she found new ones who did.”

At that, Mallory’s skin prickles.

“New friends?” Saskia asks.

“Well,” Golden says, tipping her head, “I suppose justonefriend.”

Mallory’s heart pounds. “Do you remember anything about this friend?”

Golden skews her mouth to the side. “You know,” she says carefully, “sometimes, the past is best left in the past.”