Page 110 of Heidi Lucy Loses Her Mind
Soren tugs on my arm from behind and pulls me backward, stepping in front of me. I watch as he digs a pocket knife out of his pocket, my brain trying to play catch-up.
“Do you know how to use that thing?” I say, tapping his arm. My voice is hoarse and shaky.
“Not really,” he mutters. I keep my hand on his arm as he lifts it, trying to pry the blade out of the knife.
“Like, at all?”
“Not really,” he says again. “I didn’t think I’d actuallyneedit. Here.” He passes me the knife. “Your nails are longer—”
“No they aren’t!” I hiss, shoving his hand away. “I don’t know how to use one of those things—”
“I’m not asking you to stab anyone,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Just pry the blade out—”
“Youpry the blade out, Man Bun—”
“Shut up!” Elsie shrieks, a shrill sound that causes all of us to freeze. “Just—shut up!”
We shut up.
And it’s interesting, the way your brain begins to cope when it realizes its primary function—toexist—is being threatened. There’s an endless stream of half-baked thoughts flying through my head, none of them good—we could dive out the windowis one,we should engage in a close-quarters knife fight despite having no close-quarters-knife-fight skillsis another—as I take in the room, fashioning everything I see into an escape mechanism of some kind.
But I was not made for life-or-death situations. I was not made for this.
I was made to sell books. I was made to curl up in sunny patches and bask.
This is too much, and I amnotinterested. I have things left to do in this life of mine. I have books to sell and scones to bake, and nowhere in my plans isGet murdered by a psycho.
So on my phone, which is already in my white-knuckled grip, I dial 9-1-1.
Elsie sees me, of course. Everyone sees me, because we’re all standing frozen, staring at each other, our chests heaving, the room totally silent.
But as the operator asks what my emergency is, I drop the phone. Because from downstairs comes the distant sound of the front door opening and closing, followed by the heavy trundle of footsteps up the stairs, and my heart stops as I realize that we’re about to be very outnumbered. Unless—is this someone who will help us?
But the footsteps come closer, heavier, down the hall, unpleasant thuds, until finally someone appears—a large, dark-haired woman, out of breath, pearls askew, eyes blazing.
“I’m here,” she says to Elsie, gasping for breath. “What’s—”
“Thewife?” Soren blurts out, echoing my thoughts as he cuts her off.
But it’s the wrong thing to say. In fact, I think it’s theworstthing he could have said. Because Patrice Riggs is all but spitting fire when she turns her eyes on him.
“That’s all I ever am,” she snaps, her jowls wobbling. “Thewife.The clueless, vapid, well-behaved wife. And yet everyone knows that if you want to get something done, you ask the woman.”
She’s not completely wrong there, I have to admit.
“I’m so confused,” Soren says, and I nod.
“Me too,” I mutter back.
For some reason both of us turn our eyes to Phil, but he just shrinks more miserably into the background.
“Elsie didn’t kill Carmina Hildegarde,” Patrice snaps, and wow, does she command a room; her voice is booming, her presence giant. “Not technically.Idid.”
She drops those words into the utter silence like a stone in water, rings and rings and rings of disturbance as confusion and horror lap over my skin.
“So don’t rob me of that achievement,” Patrice goes on, positively radiating fury. “I killed the self-righteous old bat, and Elsie killed my cheating scum of a husband, and you two have been poking around for far too long.”
“What?” I say, looking at Soren.
