“Sorry.” She bit her lip. “I don’t get it. Is the demon just going to, like… jump into her or something? Is Olivia going to breathe it in like… like inhaling a germ?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t know how it works. But I do know that it wants her.”
Izzy nodded. “Did you tell Dad all this?”
“No,” I admitted. “I didn’t tell him because I know he wouldn’t believe me.”
I thought about Paul. Of how he’d learned the truth the day before he died; a truth that filled him with fear and made him try to run. I wished I could bring him back, wished he were still with us, wished I could ask him to help me figure it all out, help me find a way to stop Azha.
I looked at my daughter. “What do you think?” I asked. “Do you believe me?”
Please, I thought.Please.
She bit her lip, looked down at her phone, then back at me. “I thinkthere’s a lot of fucked-up stuff in the world. Stuff we don’t always understand. So yeah, I guess I believe it’s possible.”
I leaned over and threw my arms around her. “Thank you,” I said, relief flowing through me. “So will you help me?”
“How?” Izzy asked, sounding unsure. Like she had regrets already.
“Keep filming the two of them. Look for clues. Anything that might help. The more we learn about the demon, the better our chances of foiling its plan.”
“Okay.”
“And, Iz—don’t let on that you know anything. Don’t try to talk to the demon. Don’t say the name Azha. It can’t know you suspect anything.”
“Mom. You know I won’t.”
“And in the meantime, keep a close eye on your sister when she’s with Grandma. I’m doing the same, but with someone else on the lookout, we can keep her safer while we figure this out.
“And most importantly, don’t tell your father or your sister or even Theo. No one else can know. Promise me.”
“I promise,” she said.
And I hugged her again, grateful to have at least one person on my side.
THIRTY-SIX
MOM?” OLIVIA ASKED INa voice thick with sleep. I moved some of her stuffed animals aside to make room for myself on the bed.
“Shh, little mouse,” I whispered into her hair.
She smelled like apple shampoo. Like milk and cookies. Like a warm blanket dried in the sun. Like everything good in life all rolled into one little being. Sometimes, like right now as I held her close, it was hard to believe something so perfect had come from me.
“I love you,” I whispered. And I did. I loved her so much, I felt like my chest might explode.
The room was illuminated by her ladybug night-light.
Ladybug, ladybug fly away home, your house is on fire, your children alone.
I hoped the light would be enough to see by. I pulled back the covers, lifted her nightgown. My fingers trembled.
I had to do this. Had to try.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“We’re going to play the word game,” I said, trying to keep my voice cheerful, light. The same game I’d played once with my own mother. The game where one person’s fingertips traced letters on the back of another.
“?’Kay,” she said sleepily.
