“Should I?” I asked, my discomfort bloating like a corpse in the sun.

And then suddenly I did remember…something.

“Lydia…” I whispered, and she nodded, obviously pleased, while Tod’s focus shifted between us. “You were here when I… And you…did something. You helped me.”

“I tried,” she admitted, and her small smile faltered.

“And now you’re Farrah’s roommate?”

“Yeah. The staff thinks they’re doing us a favor. The residents think it’s a joke. You know, the two mute girls sharing a room…” She shrugged and sank onto her bed staring up at us.

“Because Farrah only talks to ‘real’ people, and you… You didn’t talk either, when I was here.” Or had she? My memory of Lydia was fuzzy, but her voice wasn’t unfamiliar. And the confusion I couldn’t quite see past made me worry that I might not be done with Lakeside after all….

Lydia shrugged. “I don’t say much to the staff because when I do talk, they tend to extend my stay. But you’re not staff.”

“Maybe she can help us. With Farrah,” Tod suggested, and Lydia’s eyes widened in interest.

“We need to know about her baby’s father,” I said, wishing I could sit, but unwilling to let go of Tod’s hand. I didn’t want to be seen by the next aide to walk down the hall. “Do you know who he is?”

Lydia shook her head. “She talks to someone at night sometimes. Someone I can’t see or hear. I’m assuming it’s him, based on the things she says.” Lydia glanced at the floor, cheeks flushed, and I realized she’d gotten quite an earful from the side of the conversation she could hear. “At first, I thought she was talking to him just now, but obviously I was wrong. Unless you…?” She glanced at Tod, and he shook his head once, sharply. I almost laughed.

“If you’ve never seen or heard him, how do you know he’s really there?” Tod asked, and Lydia frowned up at him.

“I know, because she talks to him like she was talking to you guys, and you’re really here.” Lydia turned to me. “How did you do that, anyway? You’re a bean sidhe, right? But bean sidhes can’t…be invisible.”

She knew what I was. She’d probably known before I had, back when I was still a Lakeside resident. Why did it always seem like everyone else knew more about me than I did?

“I’m a reaper,” Tod said, and Lydia’s eyes went round with the first sign of fear I’d seen from her. “Don’t worry,” he added before she could freak out too badly. “I’m off the clock.”

Lydia nodded hesitantly, like she didn’t quite believe him, and I got the feeling she’d liked him better when shecouldn’t see him.

“Does anyone else ever visit Farrah?” I asked, drawing her attention away from the reaper. “Anyone other people can see?”

“Her dad came once, but her mom’s dead, and I get the impression her family doesn’t want anyone to know where she is. Or how sane she isn’t. Not that I blame them.”

“This is so messed up!” I glanced back at Farrah and that ache in my heart flared to life again. “If everyone else could see who she’s talking to, they wouldn’t think she’s crazy!”

“Oh, she is crazy.” Lydia folded her legs beneath herself on the bed. “She just doesn’t hear voices. And that baby’s killing her.” She rubbed both hands over her face, and I realized she was almost as pale as Farrah, the hollows beneath her eyes and cheekbones almost as dark. “I’ve taken what I can, but if I keep that up, the kid’ll just kill us both.”

“What did you take from her?” Tod asked, and Lydia turned to me instead of answering.

“Do you remember?”

“No.” But I was starting to. “You took something from me, too. Pain,” I said, struggling to pull the buried, fuzzy memory to the surface of my mind. “I needed to wail for another patient, and it hurt all the way down…” My free hand found my throat, and I could almost feel the echo of that old agony, so much worse back then, when I hadn’t understood it and couldn’t control it. “You took the pain, and that helped me hold it in.” And if I’d screamed again, they would never have released me. “You got me out of here…”

“I just did what I could,” Lydia insisted. “But there’s not much more I can do for Farrah.” She sighed, and the pain in that sound was beyond the physical. “Maybe I shouldn’t have done anything. She would have lost the baby if I hadn’t helped in the beginning, but at least she would have lived. Now it’s too late for both of them.”

12

“She’s going to die?” My voice was barely a whisper, and I couldn’t stop staring at Farrah, who still flipped pages in her book as if we weren’t even there. She’d tuned us out as soon as we started talking to Lydia—evidently we were now “unreal” by association. “Are you sure?” I asked, and Lydia nodded.

Tod glanced at Farrah. “Why do they keep her here, if she’s so sick?”

“They don’t,” Lydia said. “They take her over to Memorial when she gets too weak, but all the doctors can do is feed her. The tests all come back negative. They have no idea what’s wrong with her. But some of the older nurses say she’s just lost the will to live. They’re kind of right.”