Page 11 of Mad Mabel

“I agree,” I say. “But do you really think she could kill someone? She’s just a child.”

Persephone gives me the stink eye.

“Joan,” Pete says, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I think that’s enough.”

Joan shrugs him off. “Why is no one listening to me?”

“Because Elsa isn’t dangerous,” Persephone explains. “She’s toooldto be dangerous.”

Mother of God…

“What iswrongwith you people,” Joan cries, fully descending into madness. “Don’t you knowwho she is?”

Silence falls upon the little group.

As Joan’s gaze travels slowly and purposefully toward mine, I feel the knowledge settle over me—as quick and heavy as a storm cloud. The reason Joan scurries away every time she sees me. The reason she’s hell-bent on trying to force me out of the street. I’m a fool for not seeing it sooner.

Joan has known who I am all this time.

I open my mouth, praying for something clever and cutting to fall out of it. I’m a long study in clever and cutting. Instead, there’s only a noise—something like a croak. For a moment I think—horrifically, ridiculously!—that I might cry. It’s an indignity of old age, the way your body can betray you in an instant like this, with no warning.

Daphne puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Joan,” Pete says firmly. “Enough.”

This is the moment the police car pulls onto the street.

7

I’d planned to head straight inside, but by the time I make it up my front steps I fear my legs might give out on me, so Daphne insists I sit.

“Would you like to do some deep breathing together?” She starts inhaling.

“I’m fine,” I say to her.

Daphne keeps inhaling like a lunatic.

“For the love of God, Daphne, stop that before you hyperventilate.”

The police and the coroner are inside Ishaan’s house. In the laneway, Peter and Joan are speaking in hushed whispers. The idea that Joan knows who I am is unsettling, but Peter knowing is mortifying. Peter is a good man and a good neighbor. The idea of him being aware of such a thing about me humiliates me to my very core.

“Forget her,” Daphne says. “Miserable old cow.”

“Forget who? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Daphne rolls her eyes. “You’re shaking, darling.”

“She was the one then,” I say. “Who put the article under the door.”

“But we already knew that, didn’t we?” Daphne says.

I nod. “Now we also know she told Peter.”

“We don’t know that. Maybe Peter already knew?”

I shake my head. Oddly—unreasonably—I feel like I would have known if he did. It would have displayed itself through awkward, stilted conversations rather than the ease and comfort of our day-to-day acquaintance. In the end, I suppose, it doesn’t matter.

“Shoo!” I say, when I look down and see Nugget at my feet. “Shoo, you stupid dog.”