Page 65 of Cackle

I close the door, undress as fast as I possibly can, flinging my wet bathing suit across the room. It lands on top of the canopy. A problem for later. I put on my underwear, my bra, then the pants and sweater. They’re both incredibly soft. The pants are too short.

I’m too afraid to check my reflection. I don’t know whom else I’ll see in the mirror.

As I go to power walk past the staircase, I remember that my phone is still downstairs on the dining room table.

Retrieving it would mean journeying solo through the ghost house. But it would also mean I can text Sam back. See what he wants.

Maybe he’ll apologize for our last conversation.

Maybe he misses me.

I turn and travel quietly down the steps. I don’t want Sophie to hear me. I don’t think she would approve.

I run on tiptoes through the mirror hallway, looking only at the floor. When I get to the dining room, I see my phone on the table. I pick it up. The text from Sam hangs there on my home screen. Hey.

I lower my thumb down to unlock my phone.

“Annie.”

I drop my phone.

Sophie is sitting at the table, looking thoroughly unamused.

“Sophie! You startled me!”

“Well,” she says. She opens her hand and my phone flies into it.

“I was just getting my phone,” I say.

She raises an eyebrow.

“I wasn’t going to text him back.”

She raises the other eyebrow.

“Sophie.”

“Annie.”

“I’m being honest,” I say. “I just like to have my phone. I feel weird without it.”

“I’ve heard that happens,” she says. She hands me my phone. “As long as you’re not tempted.”

“I’m not,” I say. I feel bad lying to her. I feel even worse for my own weakness. “It’s just . . . I think the hardest part about a breakup is not talking to the one person you’ve always talked to. About everything.”

“Pet,” she says, softening. She stands up and puts her arms around me.

“It’s like breaking a habit. It’s hard.”

“It’s not something I’ve experienced,” she says. “But I can see that you’re struggling. Why don’t we go back upstairs? I can show you some of my old dresses from back when. Then maybe we can make dinner. Relax in the library.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And I can walk you home after,” she says. “Or you can stay. Whatever you like.”

I really can’t imagine ever sleeping here again after what happened in the pool, but I don’t want to come out and say that to her.

I nod politely and follow her back to her closet, where we spend hours going through all of her dresses, some that date back to the seventeenth century. And her hats! She has an extensive collection of hats.