Page 71 of She’s a Doll

“I’ve read about cases like this.”

“Do you think she really believes this bullshit or is she just doing it for attention?”

“Does it matter?”

I was floppy with fear, my limbs loose as my anger fizzled and failed.

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t part of the plan.

A massive hand wrapped around my middle, picking me up off the ground. I managed to kick and flail, stabbing clumsily at the thick, calloused knuckles. The cop yelped and dropped me onto the hardwood, my head snapping back, one leg cracking as the glue gave way.

“Jesus Christ.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The doll moved.”

“The doll?”

“It moved.”

“You feeling all right, Kitcho?”

“Yeah . . . Sorry. It’s been a long shift.”

The cop with the camera snapped a photo of me, made a face at the display screen, and walked away.

I gathered together the watery dregs of my anger and used it to crawl under the sofa, pushing through a thick carpet of dust until I was wedged tightly beneath the wooden frame. I was afraid. I was more afraid than I’d been since I’d died. I was afraid of what would happen if the cops decided to take me into evidence. I was afraid of what they were doing to Nicola down at the station. But more than anything else, I was afraid that this was my fault.

I tried desperately to think of some reason this would be happening that wasn’t the message I’d sent Krissy. Perhaps there was a security camera somewhere that caught something. Maybe Nicola’s license plate had been recorded at the wrong place at the wrong time. Or perhaps it was Kyle.

It wasn’t Krissy. It couldn’t be.

She was my friend. She wouldn’t do that. Except what if she had?

I thought of the woman I’d seen at the park, the pitch of her voice, the way she’d jabbed a finger into Nicola’s chest. I thought of her Instagram page, transformed from someone I knew into someone I didn’t.

“Cannabis,” one of the cops called out from the kitchen.

I squeezed myself down as small as I would go, my insides crumbling, my glue aching, my one eye frozen open, staring. I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t want to even think about it. I just wanted them out. I wanted Nicola back. I wanted none of this to ever have happened. I threw myself into the time stream. It was slow and sluggish. It took everything I had to drag it forward, faster and faster, until the police’s voices sounded like the screeching of alien birds and their footsteps like raindrops on a tin roof.

They slammed the door as they left.

The door slammed again when Nicola returned. It was dark by then, the light from the streetlamp falling through the window, burnt orange and flickering. I could see Nicola’s boots standing on the welcome mat. They stayed there for a long time, black with white socks and frayed yellow laces, only half done up.

“Where are you?” Her voice sounded dry and damaged, like she’d been screaming.

I didn’t answer.

Her boots charged across the room, the heels thudding. The TV stand scraped against the floorboards as it was yanked out.

The boots didn’t stop there. They marched back across the room and out into the hallway, vanishing from view. I heard the kitchen cabinets open, then the drawers.

“Where. Are. You?”

I tried to push myself back into the time stream. It felt like molasses, sticky and slow, clumping onto me, weighing me down. I was too exhausted to fight it. Too wrung out, too small, too afraid.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” Nicola’s voice echoed through the house. “Do you even care? They took my phone. They looked at Instagram.” Something crashed. A bookcase collapsing. “Everyone already knows. They’re already talking about it. The crazy girl. The stupid girl. The mad girl. You’ve ruined my life. Fuck you. Fuck you.” Another crash. “Where are you?!”