“So no zombies,” Juniper says, happily oblivious to my inner dilemma. “Only skeletons.”
“All right.” I nod, then direct my gaze to the sky. “Only skeletons.”
We listen to the piece on repeat for long enough that I lose track of time. And when Juniper’s head nods onto my shoulder some time later, I remove the headphone from her ear. Then I pick her up and stand as gently as possible, carrying her in my arms all the way back to the car. I carry her from the car to her bed once we arrive back at the house, and she doesn’t wake up once—not even when I remove her shoes and place the covers over her.
I can only assume she’s dreaming of dancing skeletons.
Once I’m done tucking her into her bed, I go back downstairs and make a phone call.
And here’s something you should know about me: I hate talking to people on the phone.Hateit. I find it stressful to have to respond in real time without being able to sit and think of a reply. I am not my best self on the fly. I am at my best when I can mull things over, look at all sides, maybe do some research.
It’s a trait I keep thinking I should grow out of at some point, but so far that hasn’t happened. If anything, my aversion to talking on the phone has only grown the older I’ve gotten.
But it’s Rodriguez I need to talk to right now, and unfortunately, Rodriguez is the opposite of me. He hates texting, and he rarely checks his text messages.
So call me stupid, but I make a list of things I want to ask about before I call him. I do the same thing before I go through the drive-thru. Preparing ahead of time helps me feel less frazzled when the time for action comes. Because when I get put on the spot, I end up either looking like an idiotor letting my true personality shine through—impatient and slightly abrasive. I don’tmeanto come off that way; I just get flustered and those things come out.
So yeah. Preparation is best. I make my list, dial his number—just kidding, I have exactly one phone number memorized, and it’s my mom’s; I pull up Rodriguez’s contact info—and wait as it rings.
And when he answers, I jump right in with my question: “Hey. What do you know about hunger banquets?”
When Juniper comes downstairsa few hours later, messy haired and bleary eyed, I’m several texts deep into a very one-sided conversation with Rocco.
It started when I messaged him after I got off the phone with Rodriguez—who was surprisingly helpful, by the way. All I meant to do was tell Rocco I met his brother, and that he was right about him. He’s a creep.
I didn’t expect our conversation to spiral, but it did, his texts coming in one after the other, questions and warnings and general wishes of ill will on his brother. And maybe I should have expected it; Rocco has somestrongfeelings about Lionel.
But it sends a prickle of fear through me, a chill on the back of my neck that has me shifting in my kitchen chair to look around the kitchen.
No one is here, of course. I’m being stupid. It’s just…what does Rocco know about his brother that we don’t, for him to be warning us so thoroughly?
It’s not something I can really focus on at the moment; not if I want to get any sleep. So I reassure Rocco I’ll be careful. Then I set my phone aside.
I watch Juniper shuffle sleepilyover to the refrigerator, where she pulls out a carton of orange juice with her name scrawled across the front. My nose wrinkles as she unscrews the top, puts it to her lips, and drinks straight from the container. Then she sits down at the table across from me, eyeing my half-eaten orange with interest; I stand up and grab her one from the basket on the counter.
“Hungry?” I say, returning to the table and plunking the orange down in front of her.
“Mmm,” she mumbles as she begins to peel it. “I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep.”
“A lot on your mind?” I say vaguely as I watch her. With the way she’s peeling, I think she’s going to demolish that entire piece of fruit in less than one minute.
“Yeah, but also insomnia.”
“Oof,” I say sympathetically.
I watch every single bite she takes. She barely seems to notice me after we’re done talking. And when she trails back up the stairs, looking like she’s headed to bed again, she doesn’t see me smile.
But the nextmorning takes any pleasant feelings from the day before and stomps all over them. Because when I open the door to go to work, the first thing my eyes land on is something small and fluffy and wrong.
There, lying on the welcome mat, is a chicken—head at a horribly crooked angle, blood matting its brown feathers.
From somewhere behind me, Juniper screams.
20
IN WHICH JUNIPER REFUSES TO LIVE IN FEAR
The buzz of squad cars and the attention of curious neighbors are more than I feel like dealing with, so I scurry up to my room to hide. Aiden is talking with Sheriff Garrity; there’s nothing I can really contribute at this point anyway. I just open my window, keeping my ears tuned for any relevant snippets that might float up toward me.?*
