Layla
I don’t look behind me as I run out of Dalton’s studio. Whatever was in the room with us–I don’t want to see it. The feeling of it watching me—watching us–still drifts over my skin as I grab the banister and slide down the stairs, nearly falling all the way down in my haste to get to Aunt Penny’s room.
I can’t hear myself think over the blaring music. The song plays over, and over, and over, the screeching of the ancient record sending shockwaves through the house.
But I know one thing is true. Dalton isn’t lying. I believe everything he told me. It’s unbelievable, but so is everything that’s happened to me since I arrived at this place, and Dalton has been the only real, tangible thing keeping me grounded.
There has to be a way out of this for both of us.
I yank Penny’s doo
