Page 83 of Twice as Twisted

“No,” I say, glowering at her and leaning away. “Besides, what do you care? You tried to run away. You don’t want to be with me.”

“That doesn’t mean I want you dead.”

“What difference does it make?” I ask. “If you’re not with me, I might as well be dead. You’d never see me. You might even prefer it. That way, you’d know I’m never going to find you again. That I can’t come back.”

She just shakes her head and crosses her arms, staring out the window.

I swerve into the lot of the small convenience store on the corner, hopping a curb and scraping the bottom of the low car.

“You can’t go in like that,” Mabel says. “You reek of smoke, and they’ll know.”

“Know what?”

“That it’s arson,” she says. “If they can’t already figure it out.”

“It’s not illegal to burn down your own house,” I say. “It’s only illegal if you try to claim insurance. So don’t do that.”

I get out of the car and stumble inside. A few minutes later, I’m back with a bag of snacks.

She’s sitting in the driver’s seat.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re drunk,” she snaps. “I’m not letting you kill us both.”

I shake my head at her, but I can see there’s no use arguing, telling her I’ve driven when I was in much worse condition than this, and I haven’t killed anyone yet. This time, I let her have it and slide in, holding up the bag.

“I brought snacks,” I say, offering her my most winning smile. “Just like the first time we burned down a house together.”

“I didn’t help you burn this one,” she says, but when I hand her a cup of soda, she takes it.

“It’s diet,” I say. “You said it’s crisper.”

She won’t look at me, but she smiles and takes a sip before she pulls out of the lot. Then we’re on our way back, and even though she’s still mad, I know I can thaw her. I take out one item at a time, laying them on my lap and naming them as I go.

Lemon cake. A honey bun. Pretzels. A little red can of Pringles. A glass bottle of strawberry soda. Strawberry Pop Tarts. A Rice Crispie Treat. A Klondike bar.

“I’ll go into a sugar coma if I eat all that,” she says when we turn into our driveway.

“You don’t have to eat it all at once,” I say. “I want you to know your favorites are all here, so you don’t have to go anywhere else.”

She turns off the car, then sits staring at our rental for a minute.

Baron’s not home.

A little dart of panic goes through me—what if he never comes home? What if Jane shot him? What then?

“You talked to Jane,” I say. “What did she say?”

“What did she say to you?”

“That you talked.”

Mabel makes a noncommittal sound. “I’m going to take a shower,” she says. “I stink too.”

She gets out of the car, then leans down and snags her cup of soda from the holder. “Thanks, Duke.” This time, she smiles at me.

Baron comes in while she’s in the shower. He looks from me, to the pile of snacks on the table, to the hallway with the closed bathroom door.

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