Page 137 of Grim

“She can be cruel,” Kane mumbles.

“Now you’re playing along! That’s my boy.”

I smile wickedly. Because I know what’s coming next. I always do. Which can be tiresome, but it can also be exhilarating. I snap my fingers a third time, and the image on the frame in front of us changes yet again. An image of a large Victorian house comes slowly into focus. The shape, character, and patina of the home are immediately recognizable to Kane—Rue’s house.

His reaction is immediate. His entire body tenses, eyes blown wide, muscles straining uselessly against the bindings.

“Recognize the place?”

“Fuck. You.”

I sigh, shaking my head. “You said that already, Kane. Very unoriginal. Now, shh! Enough babbling. The show is about to begin.”

InevitabilityCalling

Iwalk down the narrow hall that feels too long now. Seek’s absence trails behind me like fog. The paradox of my pain is not lost on me. I helped him cross. I offered solace. He found strength. Now he moves on. The dichotomy of loss aches. Shrouded beauty. It is, as we are, more than one thing at any given moment. The worn leather of my notebook anchors me to the present, to this moment.

The house groans beneath my feet. Old wood creaking out the sounds of even older memories. My bare soles pad along the cold hardwood, but I don’t feel it. I’m too full of splinters.

The phone is exactly where I left it—half hanging off the edge of the table, like it’s ready to make a break for it. The screen blinks, a weak pulse. Low battery. Ten percent.Fitting.Everything’s running out.

I do not want to make this call.Does anyone?That’s not a rhetorical question. I would really like to know the answer. I would like so many more answers.

What I do know is that if I don’t make this call, I’ll never forgive myself. And eternity is a long time to hold on to regret.

It takes three tries to unlock it. My fingers are shaking too hard. I keep hitting the wrong button. Beforecalling, I change the name on the Contact to read simplyMom. Sometimes, so little says so much.

My thumb hovers, then presses the green button.

How does one say goodbye without saying goodbye? How does one leave without letting those they love the most know they’re going?

It rings.

How do I do this?

It rings again.

“Ruby Rue.” The first voice I ever heard singsongs my name. “How’s my only girl who’s too busy to call her only mother?”

“Hi, Mom.” I do everything I can to hide the break in my voice—or was that only my heart that broke on those words?

“And here I thought, I was going to have to buy one of those spirit boards to get ahold of you. After all, death is the only reason to avoid your mother’s calls for days on end.”

I let out a huff of air that might be a laugh. “To quote Monty Python, ‘I’m not dead yet,’” I say in a poor imitation of a British accent and think instantly of Asher. His presence looming.

“Oh, you think you’re funny.” Her voice is tinny through the speaker, but familiar. Home, in the shape of sarcasm. “Do you know how many voicemails I’ve left? I almost drove down there. Had my keys in my hand and everything.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what? Staring at walls? Collecting dust like a haunted porcelain doll?”

Falling in love. Living. Dying,I think to myself.

“If I were a doll, I’d be made of something far tougher than porcelain,” I say instead.How often do we say what we really mean?

“Rue.” She sighs my name. Maternal worry bleeding through the cracks in her bravado, like liquid through cheesecloth.

I push away from the table and start pacing. Movement is easier than stillness.