Page 70 of She’s a Doll

I couldn’t hear anything.

I pulled the spongy earmold up against my head and tried again. Hello.

Still nothing, not even a pop of static.

For a brief, awful moment I thought it had all been for nothing. I’d stolen Nicola’s hearing aid in some desperate, half-baked bid for control, but it didn’t matter. I was as powerless as I’d been in her bag, as I’d been on the shelf in Trash N’ Treasure, as I’d been when⁠— I curb stomped that thought before it could take hold, pushed the hearing aid against the phone’s microphone, and pressed the speaker icon. A boxy wavelength started scrolling along the bottom of the screen.

Hello, I said again, the thought as loud as I could make it. Hello.

The wavelength jumped, a tiny blip.

My stuffing tight, my limbs shaking, I paused the recording and pressed playback.

“Hello.”

It was the first time I’d heard my voice since I’d died. I sounded strange. I sounded young. A girl, a ghost, calling out from some faraway place. But despite that, it sounded like me.

I’d done it. I wasn’t sure how I’d done it, but I had. I’d stolen the magic out from under Nicola’s nose, seized a little piece of that power, and done with it what she told me I couldn’t do. I didn’t even feel bad about it, because despite what Nicola said, it was my voice, mine, and I was going to use it. I knew Krissy would help us. She wouldn’t defend Kyle, not once she knew what he’d done.

I let myself imagine it. Krissy’s face twisting with rage, her voice rising with it. She wouldn’t waste time with Plan B. With her, it’d be bloody, it’d be brutal, it’d be beautiful.

I unpaused the recording. The wavelength returned, slow and creeping. Suddenly, I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t thought this far ahead. I honestly hadn’t thought about anything other than speaking to her again, having that chance. Now that it was here . . .

“I’m sorry,” I finally managed, watching the audio wavelength shape my words. “I . . . I know you’re not going to believe this at first but . . . it’s me, Krissy. It’s me. It’s Lucy. I need your help.”

I told her everything. I told her details I hadn’t told Nicola. I told her things I hadn’t even let myself dwell on. I told her I wasn’t sure if his face had really been as red as I remembered it, or if that had been my capillaries bursting. I told her how I’d clawed at him so hard I thought one of my nails came off, but I couldn’t feel it. I told her that I couldn’t hear anything in that final moment. Not even my own heart.

“It was Kyle. He murdered me. I don’t know what he did with my body. Please. I know this is a fucked-up thing to hear, but it’s the truth. It’s the truth. Kyle killed me. Kyle also did whatever Nicola said he did to her. I wasn’t there, but I believe her. I don’t know if he’s broken inside, if alcohol changes him, or what. I don’t care. He did it. He’ll do it again if we don’t stop him. He’ll do it to Ginger. I know he’s your twin. I know you love him. I know he used to be good, when we were little, but he isn’t anymore. I’m sorry.”

When I’d finished the recording, it was almost fifteen minutes long. Two buttons flashed below it, one pink, the other gray. Send. Delete.

I stared at those two buttons for a long time, hesitation frothing like bile inside me, tightening my stitches and twisting my Bubble Wrap into a shrunken, deformed lump. I thought about everything I’d said, and all the ways I could say it better. I thought of all the memories we’d shared, and which ones I should’ve reminded her of. I thought of her yelling at Nicola in the park and Nicola throwing me into her backpack.

The pipes had stopped rattling.

The shower was off.

“Lu?” Nicola called out. “Where’d you go?”

I hit send.

24

The police came two days later, in the morning, before Nicola left for work. They didn’t knock on the door the way police do in movies. No pounding. No shouting. No barking dogs. None of the things that Hollywood had trained me to expect. Instead, they came with a soft knock, a nice knock, the knock of a neighbor asking for a cupful of sugar.

There was something sadistic about that. It meant when Nicola opened the door, she did it with a curious smile, still holding her half-eaten unbuttered toast. She wasn’t prepared for a uniform, a badge, or papers with her name written on them.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” the first police officer said.

“We know this is a delicate matter,” the second added.

“We have to take you down to the station,” the first continued.

“We’re very sorry about this,” the second concluded.

I don’t know what happened to Nicola at the police station, but I do know what happened at her house while she was gone. Police officers, some of them in uniform, some plainclothed, walked around, looked inside cupboards and drawers, unpacked her backpack, and unzipped all the sofa cushions. They took photos of everything they found. The spray paint, the missing-person posters, the small whiteboard with Plan B on it.

“It’s so sad.”