Page 7 of She Haunts Me Still

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, underCurrent Prescriptionsthe 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 beneathEmergency Contactis 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 familyfriend 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 outLILY,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 motherwho 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 markedRecords.

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. UnderSurgeries,there’s the tonsillectomy Jasmine had when she was six, a broken ankle at seventeen. Mallory flips and flips, looking foranythingthat 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.