Page 31 of Creeping Beautiful

“I guess. But I’ll give it a try.” I grab my phone off the small dinette table and flip through my contacts to find his name, then press send.

It rings. And rings. And rings…

“This is Dr. Couture. I’m not on call at the moment, so if this is a medical emergency please call nine one one or find your way to the nearest emergency room. If this is personal, please leave a message.”

“Donovan… uh.” I turn away from the bedroom and lower my voice. “I need you to call me. Indie is here and she needs to talk with you.” I hesitate. I have a lot more to say to this guy, but… probably not the best time to get into all that. So I just end the call.

“He didn’t pick up?”

I spin around and see Indie standing in the hallway. Leaning against the wall like she was listening.

She’s already dressed. The clothes are far too big for her. But she absently ties a knot in the extra length of the t-shirt and cinches it tight until her belly is showing above the folded-over waistband of the pants. The elastic around the ankles has been slipped up to her knees and the overall effect of all these alterations is one of familiarity.

Indie, age sixteen. Happy, seemingly well-adjusted teenager. God. I wish I could go back in time and do it all again.

“No. But he’ll call back. Don’t worry. Are you hungry?”

She sighs again. This time loudly. “Sure.”

“Go sit down. I’ll warm up some pizza for you.”

“You don’t have to feed me like a kid, McKay. I’m not your responsibility anymore.”

“You’re always gonna be my responsibility, Indie.”

She goes into the kitchen, opens the fridge, and helps herself to a Ziploc bag of leftover pizza. Doesn’t heat it up, or even bother to get a plate. Just takes the whole baggie over to the couch and flops down. Two seconds later she’s shoving cold pizza in her mouth and smiling at me.

She thrusts the baggie in my direction. “Want some?”

“Nah.” I walk over to the chair opposite her and sink into it. Rest my elbow on the arm and prop my head up with my hand as I watch her eat. “I went out to eat earlier.”

“I know.” She chews. “I saw you.” Then she tugs at her t-shirt and says, “You ate here. Burger, well done. And fried pickles on the side. That shit will kill you, ya know. Is Babette your special friend?”

I can’t tell if she’s joking, or jealous, or angry. “Did you see Babette?”

“I didn’t get anyone’s names, if that’s what you’re asking.” And when she says this her acquired Southern accent is more pronounced.

“She’s like eighty-seven years old.”

“So you’re not into her?” She says this around a mouthful of pizza, trying to hide her smile.

Joking then.

“No. I’m not.”

“Good to know. God, I’m so hungry. When was the last time I ate?”

“How long have you been watching me?”

“Why? Does it make you nervous?”

“No,” I lie. “Just asking.”

“Hmmm.” She chews. “About ten days?”

Ten. Fucking. Days. She’s been stalking me for ten days and I never saw a thing.

“I’m damn good at my job.” Her words echo my thoughts.