Page 9 of I Hope This Email Finds You in Hell

“I’m fine.”

The words come out cool and snappy, more so than I mean them to. I slide into my car, letting my hair block my face as I buckle my seat belt so she doesn’t see the guilt across it.

“Angel, you can talk to me. What’s going on?”

I bite my lip, scrambling for an excuse. My phone lights up with the perfect one.

“My ex-fiancé,” I admit. Not a lie, though not the current truth. “He keeps texting me, and I keep ignoring him. It’s a whole thing.”

“Oh shit, I’m sorry. What kind of texts?”

“Nothing bad, just…I kind of broke up with him abruptly before I moved here and he’s not getting that I don’t want to talk.” I swipe into my messages and read the most recent text.

Do you have someone to spend Thanksgiving with? You should come home.

As if I have a home to go back to.

“Tell him you’re spending Thanksgiving with me.” Krystal brightens. “You are, right?”

The air between us freezes with the bite of an autumn breeze. “I appreciate the offer so much, but that’s okay. Thank you, though. Really.”

Her crestfallen expression is nearly enough to make me backtrack, but I hold firm. “Of course,” she finally says. “You remind me so much of my sister.”

“How so?” I didn’t know she had a sister.

Her expression turns something between wistful and far away. “You’re like a walnut.”

A dramatic gasp escapes me. “Did you just compare me to the worst kind of nut?”

“You’re tough to crack.” Krystal shakes out a laugh, returning to the here and now.

I nod at my phone. “I’m just going to keep ignoring my ex. He’ll take the hint eventually. See you in a few hours.” With a wave, I close my door and put the car in reverse.

I’ve only made it halfway out of the lot when I stop and roll down my window. “Krystal?”

She perks up from beside her car. “Yes?”

“Super random, but—” I pause, wondering if asking this is a mistake. “Do you believe in demons?”

Four

“Of course I believe in demons. I’m Colombian and grew up Catholic. My mom couldn’t place the fear of God in me without including his satanic counterpart.”

Krystal’s response plays in my mind on a loop as I google demons and lore according to different cultures before she comes over for our Love Island marathon. She said it like a joke, and I laughed as if it was one. But nearly four hours plus one box of subpar Thai takeout later and I have yet to shrink the pit inside me that’s been yawning open since Friday afternoon. Nothing quells my anxiety. Sure, I can load up on salt to line my apartment (did that) or burn sage (nearly set off the fire alarm Saturday night with that one), but there’s no conclusive way to get rid of demons or sniff them out or even know for sure that I myself am not already possessed. I’m 99 percent sure I’m not, though I wouldn’t mind blaming my panic order of $200 in clothes on a greater being who also happened to memorize my credit card number.

I’m drifting off halfway through an article on Colombian witches who deal with demonic entities when my buzzing phone jerks me awake.

I nearly silence it but realize the area code is local.

“Hello?” I ask, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice at being woken up.

“Is this Brie Benson?”

The voice is familiar, but I can’t place it. The question is punctuated by a sniffle, like the other person has been crying.

“This is,” I confirm. “And you are…?”

“Amelia. Krystal’s wife.”