Page 39 of Play Nice

“Still are.”

“Clio, right?”

“That’s me,” I say, reaching out and offering him my hand to shake. He takes it. His hand is warm, his skin soft. “Next time you want to come over, knock.”

“Next time, huh?”

“I’m going inside now,” I say, standing up and collecting the first aid kit. “Good night, Baker. Good night, Austin.”

“Sorry again,” Baker says. Austin helps him to his feet.

“Me, too, kid. A rocky start to your life of crime,” I say, climbing the stairs up to the deck. I step inside and close the sliding doors behind me, lock them.

I flop back onto the couch and pull the blanket up to my chest. I text my sisters on our group thread.

Do you remember a neighbor kid named Austin?

Neither responds. Not surprising: it’s late. Daphne must still be working, and Leda must be asleep—she and Tommy probably share a nightcap of MiraLAX and pass out by nine thirty.

I turn onto my side. My sketchpad is on the coffee table next to the bottle of vodka.

Something nags at me, but I can’t figure out what.

I sit up and look over at the sliding doors. I left the back light on.

I get up to turn it off, then go to the bathroom to brush my teeth and do my p.m. skincare routine.

Earlier in the day, I’d made up one of the twin mattresses in Daphne and Leda’s room for me to sleep on. I don’t want to sleep in my room because the combination of boot prints on the carpet leading in and the rumpled sheets imply the disturbing possibility that Mom might have died in my bed—something I still don’t care to confirm—and that’s where I saw the mouse, so just overall it’s not ideal. I also don’t want to sleep in Mom’s room because it’s too weird. She probably had sex with demonologist Roy in that bed. Daphne and Leda’s room is really the only option other than the couch, which isn’t particularly comfy.

I retrieve my new favorite blanket from the couch for extra warmth, drape it over my shoulders, and waltz down the hall. It feels wrong to be in Leda and Daffy’s room without them. Like I’m breaking a sacred law. Like at any moment they’ll burst in and scream at me to get out.

It makes it difficult to relax into sleep. And it’s way too quiet. Even quieter than at Dad’s. The crickets around here must be bashful.

Half an hour passes before I give in and get up, trek back to the living room for my portable speaker. I bring it into my sisters’ room, connect to Bluetooth, and pull up “City Sounds Ambience for Sleep” on YouTube. I shimmy under the covers as the generic city sounds stretch to touch the walls, fill the space. I close my eyes and wait for sleep.

I’m almost there when I notice it.

Among the chorus of traffic and faraway conversations, there’s a distinct voice. It comes and it goes, like it’s part of the loop, but it doesn’t totally match the rest of the track. It’s a whispering that’s somehow loud enough to hear over the car horns. Always the same, saying the same thing.

Hello hello.

It’s so good to see you again.

Hello hello.

It’s so good to see you again.

It’s unnerving at first, but eventually the repetition becomes hypnotic. Lulling me to sleep.

Hello hello.

It’s so good to see you again.

Hello hello.

It’s so good to see you again.

Hello hello.