Page 54 of Succubus

I almost yell in frustration but bite it off. I don’t want Alice to look up.

Crap.

Crap.

Also, crap.

I wait until she finally leaves. It takes her a minute to settle Bo in his car seat. I see now that she’s parked pretty close to the house. Why didn’t I notice her pull up? Maybe that happened while the Amazon van was blocking my view. I’m apparently not very observant. I’m not the right person for a stakeout. But I’m the only one I’ve got.

By lunchtime, I’m incredibly hungry, I really have to pee, and it’s pretty clear there is no pain demon coming to save me. Or at least, not before my doctor’s appointment. So, not in time. Which is running out.

Time is running out, Joel texts evilly, ignoring the rest of my messages. How did I miss all the signs of his evilness before? Were there any? I think of Mr. Button purring wildly on his lap as Joel watched Ella demonstrate her part of the lumbering dance of the troll princesses that she and her friend Sinai had been practicing. Somehow he’d managed not to laugh. But I saw the laugh he was holding in his eyes when he glanced at me.

I don’t know where my father is, I text back.

You visited him in Florida. I know you know.

He left! I’m serious. I really don’t know.

Figure it out.

How is he planning to kill me? Now that I know who he is, I should have more information about how he does it. But I don’t. I need to think. It might have something to do with the healing ability. But what?

* * *

I forgot something really basic about doctor’s appointments. Sometimes you’re already naked.

“Just change into this, please,” says the nurse, handing me a shapeless mint-green gown. She has already taken my blood pressure, which isn’t at its best at the moment. “It ties in the back. Panties and bra can stay on. The doctor will be in soon.”

I’m like a wild animal in a cage. I’m about to grab a scalpel off a tray and hide it under the paper on the exam table. Not that there’s a scalpel just lying around. Which is why I brought a large hunting knife. It exceeds the legal limit for carryable blade size in the state of New Jersey (sort of a stingy state when it comes to weapons one might conceal), but I’m more focused right now on not dying than on not getting arrested. And no one at the reception desk of the family practice office asked to search my bag, where the knife is. I unfold it until it snaps into readiness and set it carefully on top of my packet of tissues, extra granola bars, and wallet. My bag is on the chair next to the exam table. I can get to it quickly, if I need to.

I think of Dick Face saying demon hunters can heal themselves. Well, maybe it’ll buy me some time at least.

Should I just hold the knife behind my back?

Why am I so bad at this? Then again, why should I be good at planning a knifing?

Breathe, breathe, I tell myself. I may actually be speaking aloud, alone in the room, it’s hard to tell. There’s a picture of a sunflower in a frame on the wall. A computer, cabinets, a sink in a dull Formica counter—the usual stuff. I hear footsteps and tense, standing, the gown in my hands. They pass by.

When has a doctor ever been on time?

Never.

I probably have twenty minutes. I would feel a lot better if Dee was in the waiting room, backing me up. If anyone knew where I was. And then I can’t stop myself, I text Dee: If I’m not back in two hours send cops to . . . I send the address. Also I love you and I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you everything.

Except it doesn’t go through.

I am stunned at the realization that I’m totally, completely alone here in the lion’s den because of central New Jersey’s random pockets of zero cell coverage.

I force myself to breathe slowly. Meditative breaths. Then I strip quickly and put the knife on the table so I can stuff my clothes into my bag, Thinx included. I pull the gown on and tie it loosely. I put the knife back in the bag, adjust the opening around it so it’s obscured. I run a hand through my hair, shake off the strands that fall out and wind around my fingers.

I told the receptionist I’d forgotten my wallet and that I was having a really bad day, and it worked. She told me to send her a photo of my ID later, once I’m home. I didn’t even have to use the rest of the story I’d prepared, which went deep into a thing about a custody battle with a fictional ex. I’d also prepped a statement about someone stealing my purse out of the shopping cart when I left it for a second at ShopRite, as a more detailed alternative to the simpler “forgot my wallet” narrative. . . . Maybe I overthought it.

I put my phone on the table, hop up so I’m sitting on the edge. The paper is unpleasantly thin and the vinyl on either side adheres to my skin.

Time is passing. I look at the clock again. And again.

I’ve been in the room twelve minutes . . . fifteen.