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A huge room opens on my left, but I refrain from entering it; after all, I am not at home. I hear light music, like an old jazz piece. I quickly look around the room and discover on the other side a large record player that plays the soft melody. Large sofas are arranged around a huge stone fireplace in which a fire is crackling.
I feel guilty for being nosy, so I go back to the entrance and wait for Tucker without moving.
“Who are you?”
I stand still as a high-pitched voice rings out to my right.
When I turn my head, my gaze is met with lightning eyes, but it’s not Tucker standing in front of me.
Someone from his family, no doubt. His mother?
She’s in a silk robe, with slumped shoulders and long dark hair. She seems to see me, but I think her mind is elsewhere, disconnected from reality. Her posture is so hunched over that it looks like she’s holding herself back from falling.
“Um…hello,” I begin, not knowing what to say as I look around like I’m just admiring the house.
The woman’s eyes widen as she stares at my face. “Debbie, is that you?” she exclaims.
What? I’ve heard that name before…the other night, in the conversation between Matt and Dan, outside the bar!
I don’t have time to understand what’s going on when she runs to me, arms outstretched.
20. Demon
Iris
I hold back a scream and raise my hands in front of me to stop her.
“You’re mistaken!” I exclaim as I shift back.
Her body stops a few inches from mine. Her breathing is perfectly calm, as if she hadn’t just tried to jump on me a second earlier. What the hell, am I in a madhouse or what?!
Okay, I’m about thirty feet from the front door. Iris, you shut your mouth and run away from this place! I’m about to bolt when the woman’s peculiar eyes fill with tears, pinning me in place.
“Aren’t you Debbie?” she asks me as her voice breaks with that name.
I put my hands down, realizing that she won’t move again. I can’t help but scrutinize her. She has absolutely no makeup on. Her features are mature, yet she keeps a youthful beauty. But what never ceases to disturb me is her eyes, exactly the same as Tucker’s.
I take a step back as a precaution while continuing to observe her. Her silk robe hugs her long, slender figure. She tilts her head to the side, her piercing gaze on me, yet she doesn’t seem to see me. Her body is present, but her mind is not, it seems plunged into madness. She tilts her head to the other side.
Okay, I’m really in trouble. I glance at the entrance to the huge living room, and when no one comes, I raise my hands again and tell her in a calm but firm tone, “I’m not Debbie. I’m Iris Foster.”
I don’t know what kind of madness she’s in, what disease she has, but something is wrong.
She seems to come back to reality at the firmness of my words. A single tear escapes her eyelid and traces its way down her right cheek.
“But I…no. Where is Debbie?”
I don’t know who Debbie is, but this woman is going to go berserk in a second. My lips open on their own. I remember my cognitive psychology class, mentally replay it. Calm her. We have to calm her down.
“She is right next to me,” I lie with a polite smile, making sure to maintain eye contact so that she focuses on me.
“Who’s next to you?” she asks me, as if I had just started a conversation.
My breath stops. Damn it. “Debbie,” I continue in a reassuring tone, “she’s next door.”
The woman frowns then pinches her mouth.
“Of course, she is next door! Where could she be?”
