“I’d rather not,” she said lightly. “I’ll stay here and see if Drew will talk.”
“You’re sure?”
“And I’m starving.”
“Put this in your pocket,” Ella Dane said, handing her an amethyst crystal. “Strong protection.”
“See you later,” Lacey said in a cheerful tone. She didn’t want Drew to see her afraid. Ella Dane left, and Lacey went into the kitchen to fry up a couple of eggs and call Eric, to let him know that Lex Hall might be in trouble. The chunk of amethyst pulled her sweater down on the left. “You want an egg?” she said to the empty kitchen, and Drew did not answer.
Chapter Twenty-six
ERIC’S PHONE WENT STRAIGHT TO VOICE MAIL, so maybe he was already on his way to Lex’s, or home. Lacey didn’t leave a message. When she turned from the refrigerator with two eggs in her left hand, she came face-to-face with Drew. Usually he slid up behind her, or beside her, and she felt him before she saw him. This time, he flicked into existence without warning, dazzling like a camera flash. She flung her hands up, and the eggs splashed on the floor. “Don’t do that,” she snapped. “Look what you made me do.”
“Let’s finish the game.”
“Let me . . .” No, not that voice—she sounded like a frantic child. She opened the back of her throat and let the teacher voice rise out, alto and firm. “Let me get these eggs cleaned up.”
“I was winning. I want to finish.”
On her first day of practice teaching, her mentor had warned that children, like feral dogs, could sense fear and would eat her alive if they had the chance. She stopped herself from agreeing with Drew, anything he wanted if he promised not to hurt her and the baby, and she held the teacher voice, the voice that ruled the room. “You see those eggs on the floor,” she said.
“So?”
“So dried egg is way harder to clean than wet egg. It won’t take a minute.”
“So?”
“So I’m going to clean them up, and then we’ll play.” It was important to appear normal, to keep Drew in the mode of ordinary child, not angry ghost, until she worked out what to do next. She tried a smile and hoped it worked; the muscles above her lip didn’t seem to be moving right.
“You’re just scared of losing,” Drew said. “Scaredy scaredy scaredy.”
“Sweetie, it’s Chutes and Ladders, not the Super Bowl. I’ll get over it.” Lacey scooped up the eggs in a paper towel, sprayed cleaner on the floor, and scrubbed with another paper towel. Bibbits patted in, busy little feet rapping on the floor. He stood on his hind legs and turned a circle for her, then stood up, with his front paws paddling in the air. Ella Dane had gone out without feeding him. And he was on another brown-rice-and-vinegar purge, poor thing.
“Let’s see.” Lacey opened the pantry. To appear normal—feeding the dog, that was a thing she’d normally do. “There’s tuna, maybe.” Bibbits dropped to the floor and stood with his head down, panting. That short dance had exhausted him; there’d been days when he skipped from room to room on his back feet, poor old boy. She wished she had something better than tuna to give him.
“Play with me,” Drew chanted at the kitchen table, “play with me, play with me.”
“I’m just going to feed the dog.”
He stuck out his lower lip. “You said you’d just clean up the eggs.”
“And now I’m just going to feed the dog. It won’t take a minute.”
“You said you’d play with me. You promised.” Bibbits, seeing the can in Lacey’s hand, was dancing again. “Stupid dog.” Drew kicked out at Bibbits, and the dog’s feet slid away from him. He fell heavily on his side, with a yelp.
“Drew!” Lacey picked Bibbits up and felt along his sides. He wriggled in her arms, trying to lick her hands. “Drew, sweetie, we don’t hurt animals.”
“You promised.”
She popped the can of tuna and dumped it into a plate, stealing a chunk for herself and spreading the rest around with her finger for Bibbits. Her imitation of normalcy began to seem real. She was any woman on Forrester Lane, a woman with house, husband, child, and dog; she was feeding the dog, then she would play with the child. Bibbits had trouble with tuna, unless she broke apart the big pieces for him. He’d swallow it in chunks, only to regurgitate later, in her bed. “Almost done,” she said cheerfully.
“And then there’ll be something else that won’t take a minute. Like your stupid husband might call, or your stupid baby might kick, or your stupid dog might need to go out, and then something else and something else, and you promised.”