Page 54
Across the lot, Uncle Cletus arranges taxidermied squirrels in a wedding scene. The bride squirrel wears a veil, the groom squirrel has a tiny flask, and two child squirrels sit in the front row like they already know this marriage is doomed.
I stare.
Petal follows my gaze. “Don’t make eye contact with Cletus unless you’re prepared to hear about raccoon preservation.”
“I have so many questions.”
“Keep them. Questions feed him.”
A prospect I recognize as Skibidi jogs by carrying a bucket of fake bones. Behind him, Boogie yells, “Not those bones, dumbass. The bobbing bones. The decorative femurs go by the cider booth.”
Skibidi stops dead. “Why are there categories?”
Boogie throws both hands up. “Because we live in a society.”
I laugh so hard the box of tablecloths nearly slips. For a few minutes, the sunshine part of me wins.
Petal and I deliver the tablecloths to the twins’ fortune booth, which has a hand-painted sign that reads THE ADDAMS SISTERS SEE ALL, KNOW SOME, REFUND NONE. Vesper hangs tiny bottles from the corners. Mourning puts Sheriff the rooster in a little black crate beside the table, where he immediately pecks at a sign that says DO NOT TOUCH THE ORACLE.
“Is the rooster the oracle?” I ask.
Mourning looks offended. “Depends on his mood.”
Petal pats my shoulder. “You’re doing great.”
“I’m not sure by whose standards.”
“Mine, and I’m very hormonal.”
Good enough.
Then my phone buzzes.
It is a small sound, barely anything under hammers, laughter, motorcycles, and Boogie yelling about bone categories, but I feel it in my spine. My hand freezes on the edge of the tablecloth.
Petal sees. “Sweet?”
“I’m fine.”
Sure. Fine. Bright voice. Pretty lie.
I turn away from the booth and pull my phone from my apron pocket, already knowing what I’m going to see.
Unknown number.
Cute name. Sweet suits you better than the one I gave you.
The world narrows around the words.
The one I gave you.
I can hear Razor saying the old name in my ear, low and pleased with himself.
Doll.
His doll. His good girl when I obeyed. His stupid girl when I asked questions. His runaway girl when I finally took the cash from under the bathroom sink, left my phone in a gas station trash can, and drove until the road signs stopped looking familiar.
I have had three months without him. Three months of sleeping with a chair under my doorknob, changing grocery stores, telling myself small towns could hide a woman better than cities because everybody saw everything and surely that meant someone would notice if a monster followed.
