Page 70 of Play Nice

I leave him on read and scroll through socials for forty-five minutes, until Leda knocks on my door and lets herself in.

“Put some clothes on,” she says. “Come back down. You’re being rude.”

“I’m not. You just miss me,” I say, getting out of bed and stepping back into my sundress. “Zip me up.”

“Amy’s drunk,” she says, being too rough with my zipper. “She keeps asking me if I still love her.”

“Good thing the answer is yes,” I say, spinning around so my dress floats up. “So you don’t have to lie.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “What’s going on with you?”

“I’m getting bullied by my big sister.”

“I’m not bullying you.”

“Then leave,” I say.

She puts her hands on her hips. “You’re so mean. Being a brat will only get you so far in life, Clio.”

I sit back on my bed, cross my legs. “It’s gotten me pretty far so far.”

She frowns, and I can tell that she is, unfortunately, legitimately upset.

“I don’t want to go back down there,” I say. “The small talk gets so exhausting. And you know Dad will get mad if I try to mix things up, make it interesting. Bring up Area 51 and see what happens. It’s no fun. I’m not having fun.”

“I’m not either,” she says, turning to the door. “I’m not having any fun at all.”

She slams it behind her in a very Mom move.

Our mother’s presence is everywhere, her influence. Her ghost is us.

After a lazy moment, I get up to go chase after Leda.

I make my way downstairs with every intention of rejoining the party.

But the light is on in Dad’s study. The door is open. It’s always open, but I’m not typically compelled to go in. The compulsion feels absolute, and I’m suddenly briefly above myself, watching as I slip inside.

It’s rare that I’m alone in here.

There are bookshelves all around, a heavy oak desk, leather chairs, a filing cabinet. A giant Mac. I hover behind his desk and start to open drawers.

I don’t even have time to wonder what it is I’m looking for before I find it. Half of a beat-up old paperback. An annotated copy of Demon of Edgewood Drive. The other half of my copy.

Did some part of me know that it was here? That he had found it when he went to the house without me, stumbled across it in my room sometime after I’d run out post–initial mouse sighting but before I returned two weeks later to look for it? Did some part of me know that he took it? Was hiding it from me, or keeping it for himself? Or did I piece it all together just now, before I came in? I don’t know. It seems obvious in retrospect.

I reach for it. It’s in my hands, and I hear heavy footsteps.

They’re mine.

I’m storming out into the hall, through the kitchen, the sunroom. I’m standing at the back door. I’m yelling.

“Dad! Dad!”

Eventually, the chatter quiets until it’s just me. Me and Bruce. Born to run.

“Clio?” Dad says.

“What the fuck is this?” I shout, holding up the book.