Page 39 of She’s a Doll

OK. Fine. Nighty ni⁠—

“That’s worse. That’s way worse.”

Don’t let the bedbugs b⁠—

“‘Have a good night,’” she said, holding up a finger, “‘see you in the morning’”⁠—another finger⁠—“and ‘sleep well.’” She waved her three fingers toward me. “Those are the three ways you’re allowed to wish me a good night. Nothing spooky. Nothing weird.”

Sleep well, Nic, I sang out in my creepiest voice. Have a good night. I let my head flop unnaturally to the side. I’ll see you in the morning.

She rubbed her face. “I want my forty cents back.”

14

I didn’t bring it up the first day.

Or the second.

Or the third.

It was tricky, holding my metaphorical tongue, but I wanted to establish myself a little better in Nicola’s house first. For her to become comfortable with my presence⁠—or as comfortable as anyone with a haunted doll for a housemate could be⁠—before I started asking for any favors.

The fourth and fifth days were easy. They blurred by in a blink before I managed to grapple the time stream back under control. The sixth day was spent in recovery, lying in a heap on the floor, mumbling out apologies every time Nicola had to step over me. Finally, seven days after I’d been moved from the shed to the home, while we were sitting on the sofa, watching The Walking Dead again, I brought it up, as casually as I could.

So . . . do you know where Kyle is?

Nicola’s eyes flicked toward me, steady and unblinking. It was the careful, calculating sort of look people give flimsy bridges and large, unrestrained animals. Risk assessment in progress. Analysis complete. Danger level: critical.

Is he still in town? I pressed.

She put her microwave meal aside.

Still running the family business?

“I think we need to talk.”

Figures. His genius tech start-up wasn’t worth the mouth it came out of. Where is he?

“It doesn’t matter.”

Unless he’s in the cemetery, it matters.

“You can’t murder him.”

You’re right, I agreed, the thought crisp and clear in my mind. It’s not murder if he did it first.

“Lu.”

He killed me.

“That doesn’t matter.”

To shit it doesn’t. Putting down a rabid dog isn’t murder. It’s just what needs to be done. Killing Kyle isn’t murder, it’s just taking out the trash.

Nicola raked a hand through her hair. It stuck up at odd angles, a halo of spiky brown.

Where does he live? I pressed. Is it still in his parents’ house? The basement, I bet.

“No. He doesn’t live with them anymore.”