Page 83 of Cackle

“Yeah,” I say. “You, too.”

I take the coffee and step out onto Main Street. I start toward the woods, toward Sophie’s, but my body is reluctant, my legs suddenly rubber.

What did Oskar mean?

Does he not know that I know the truth about Sophie? Is that what that was about?

I guess if I knew only what Sophie was and not who she was, I’d fear her, too.

I continue in a daze toward the woods.

It requires a lot of focus to walk through the woods holding two large lattes. It’s a feat of balance, especially on rubbery legs.

I also have never gone to Sophie’s without having Sophie herself to guide me, so I have to pay close attention to every familiar tree, every distinct dip in the ground, every unique rock. I get myself to the well. Part of me is tempted to peer in to see how far down it goes, but I’m afraid to get too close.

And the hut, too. I’m curious to look inside, see what it’s like, but I don’t have the nerve.

The circle of headstones I’m totally good with avoiding. All set there.

When I walk down the hill to her house, I see the front door is already open, and she’s standing there in a black gown with a plunging neckline. She’s waving to me. Waving me in.

“I’m coming,” I say.

“I’m impatient,” she says.

“I brought coffee,” I say, handing her one of the cups.

“My sweet! Come, let’s drink it in the parlor. I’ve cleaned it up.”

She leads me to a room I’ve never been in before, one with silky wallpaper and dainty furniture. There’s a baby white marble fireplace, an excess of reedy plants, a few watercolors depicting bucolic landscapes. We sit on two pretty but uncomfortable chairs, drinking our lattes.

Sophie tells me about her week, about a new balm she made for her cuticles and about how Monday is Halloween and no one in town likes to celebrate because of her.

“I don’t know what they think,” she says. “I threw a party one year, and nobody came! I like those tiny little chocolate bars just as much as the next person. It’s beyond aggravating.”

“Yeah,” I say, debating whether to disclose Oskar’s weird comment.

“There’s such a stigma,” she says, sighing. “You know I don’t believe in self-pity, but if I give myself one night a year to feel sorry for myself, that’s the one. I’ll probably mix myself a cocktail in a cauldron and get bloody drunk.”

“A cauldron?” I ask, because I can’t help myself.

“Mm,” she says.

I don’t have a response, which results in an awkward pause. The quiet recalls Oskar’s voice. Some people go out there and they don’t come back.

I look up at Sophie, and she’s looking back at me. Her amber eyes have gone dark.

“What is it, pet?” she asks, her chin ascending.

“Um, no-nothing,” I stammer. The coffee cup begins to crumple in my hands. I’m clutching it too tightly.

“Oh, I don’t believe that,” she says. “You can tell me.”

“Really, it’s nothing.” Why would Oskar say that to me? Why would he say it if he didn’t have good reason?

Have I been too accepting? Have I glued on my blinders for the sake of this friendship?

I always thought I was an exceptional judge of character. That I could see people for who they really are deep down. But isn’t that the kind of arrogant thinking that gets people called to the witness stand? Ted Bundy had a wife, didn’t he?