Page 20 of Cracked Doll

"That is not a rash, Ophelia Sorrell." She's grinning now, delighted, scandalized. "Didn't peg you for the type with secrets. Guess the quiet ones really do surprise you."

I say nothing, which she seems to take as confirmation of something, though I couldn't say what.

"Right, give me your number," she says, already reaching for her phone. "So we can plan the next outing properly."

"I don't have a phone."

She stares at me like I've announced I don't have a head. "You're — what, nineteen? What nineteen-year-old doesn't have a phone?" She catches herself, waves it off before I can answer. "Whatever. Doesn't matter, I know where to find you. But God, girl, you really do need to sort yourself out a mobile."

I nod. She leaves in a swirl of denim and perfume, and I stand behind the counter a long while after, turning the whole conversation over and over, wondering how I'd even go about affording a phone when I can't afford anything else that might actually save me.

By evening, I'm in the kitchen making dinner — a simple shepherd's pie, mince and potato, nothing that requires much thought, which is precisely why I've always preferred cooking over almost anything else that fills an evening. Reading settles my mind. Cooking occupies my hands, which is a different kind of mercy on nights like this one.

The old television mutters away in the living room, which means my father's still there, not yet gone to the bar, though it's only a matter of time. I've checked the front door twice already — locked, locked again — some part of me still braced for footsteps that shouldn't be there.

My free hand drifts to my throat without my permission, fingers finding the mark still tender beneath my collar. I remember exactly how it got there. I remember far too much about how it got there.

I've just turned off the stove when the lights go out.

I freeze, spoon still in hand, kitchen plunged into sudden dark. The power company warned us — pay by today or lose it — and I've spent the whole day hoping, foolishly, that they'd simply forget.

I go to the window. Every other house on the street glows warm and lit against the evening. Only ours sits dark.

"Bloody hell—" My father's voice, from the living room, followed by a crash of something knocked over. "Ophelia! Get me a candle!" A pause, more cursing under his breath, and then, "Never mind — sod it, I'm off to the bar anyway. Just get some food in me first."

I sigh and feel my way toward the drawer where we keep the candles, fingers finding wax and then, finally, the little box of matches beside it. I set the candle on the table and strike the first match —

And there he is. Standing directly across from me, watching.

I gasp and drop the lit match, the box tumbling from my other hand, and the flame gutters out the instant it hits the floor, plunging the kitchen back into total dark.

Was that real? Was he actually there? It happened too fast, too bright, gone too quick to trust. My breath comes in short, panicked pulls as I crouch and feel blindly across the floorboards, searching for the fallen matchbox.

My fingers brush something solid. A shoe.

I freeze, yank my hand back with a sharp gasp, and stay frozen, unmoving, for what feels like an eternity.

Nothing happens.

I reach again, slower this time, and find only the matchbox, exactly where it should be. Nothing else. No one else.

I stand quickly, strike a fresh match with shaking hands, and light the candle, holding it up in front of me, turning it slowly to check every corner of the kitchen.

Empty.

I turn — and he's standing directly behind me.

I gasp, mouth already opening to scream, when his finger presses gently against my lips.

"Don't," he murmurs.

"What are you doing here?" I hiss, once his finger falls away. "You can't just — you cannot keep breaking into my house like this—"

"I didn't like how you cried yourself to sleep last night," he says, unbothered, hands sliding into his coat pockets as though we're discussing the weather. "So I sat with you a while. Wiped your last tears before you went under properly. Made sure nothing else came near you."

My stomach drops clean through the floor. "You watched me sleep."

I start backing away, and he lets me, matching my retreat step for unhurried step. "My father's home," I say, voice shaking. "I'll call him. You're a stalker, you cannot keep—"