Page 119 of Cackle

“Annie,” Sophie says, turning to me, “I was worried.”

Panic sits on my chest.

Worried about what?

I prop myself up on the couch, my hangover announcing itself with some feral yelling.

“What do you mean?” I ask, releasing a cloud of my breath. I suspect someone could get drunk from merely smelling it.

She stares at me. “It’s Saturday. You always come over on Saturdays, pet. I thought something might have happened to you.”

“Oh,” I say. “No, no, I’m fine. Just . . . overslept.”

I follow her eyes to the half-empty bottle of whiskey, to the small remaining mound of chocolate cake.

She opens her palm and Ralph climbs into her hand. He cuddles her thumb.

“Annie,” she says, still smiling, “I know that’s not true.”

My throat constricts.

“I . . . It is. I didn’t . . . I mean, I did. I overslept.”

She settles herself next to me on the couch. She smells like violets. “I’m not angry with you. I’m concerned.”

She begins to stroke my hair with her free hand, Ralph still in the other. My hair snags on one of her rings. I whimper. “So sorry, darling.”

She doesn’t sound sorry.

“I have to pee!” I blurt out.

I bolt into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I need a minute to think, to collect myself. Also, I really do have to pee.

I sit on the toilet, self-conscious because of the trickling sound despite knowing I have bigger, more pressing concerns.

I can’t forget about last night, what I overheard. When it comes to Sophie, I’ve always been keen to let certain things slide for the sake of our friendship, but it’s at the point now where I can no longer ignore my mounting distrust.

There’s also the issue of Sam.

I broke my promise. I told her that I was done with him, but then I went and told him that I missed him.

And he said it back.

He misses me.

If there’s a chance that Sam and I can make things work, that I can go back to him and my magnificently normal, uncomplicated life, that I can escape this Grimm-worthy mess I currently find myself in, isn’t that a chance I have to take?

I need to get rid of Sophie. I’ve got too much to figure out. I can’t have her here.

But I can’t risk pissing her off. She has magic.

A voice speaks quietly from somewhere inside me. Yes, it whispers. But you have some, too.

I flush, wash my hands with an emphatic lather and take a series of deep breaths.

When I open the door, Sophie’s gone. So are the cake, the bottle of whiskey . . .

“Sophie?”