Possess

Panda’s orange chicken, which he proceeded to order two servings of before they found a quiet table near the back window of the food court.
    “I want to talk to—” they said at the same time.
    “Heh.” Bridget laughed. It was so like them to have the same thoughts at the same time. “You first.”
    Hector laid his chopsticks on his napkin. “Is everything okay?”
    Bridget dropped her eyes to her spring rolls. “Yeah, you know. Yeah.”
    “You seem a little . . .”
    Bridget stole a glance at him. Hector shrugged and stabbed at a random piece of chicken.
    “What?” she asked.
    “I don’t know. Off.”
    “Off like different than how I’ve been off for the last year?”
    Hector traced a cascading water droplet down the side of his soda cup with his finger. “Well, yeah.”
    Bridget bit her lip. This was what she wanted, right? To confide in someone about all the weirdness that had started happening in her life? Here was her opportunity, wrapped up with a pretty little bow and delivered into her lap. All she had to do was say the words and make Hector believe them. Just say it. Just tell him.
    Buzzzzz .
    Hector and Bridget reached for their cell phones at the same time.
    “Mine,” Bridget said. She flipped open her phone and groaned out loud. “From Peter.”
    “Uh-oh.”
    Bridget read Peter’s text. “‘Where are you? Who are you with?’” She closed her eyes and shook her head. Bizarro Peter was back.
    “Whoa.” Hector pulled her hand over so he could see the text. “That’s pretty desperate sounding. Even for Peter.”
    “Yeah.” She remembered his face in the hallway, the haunted, obsessed look in his eyes.
    Buzzzzz .
    This time it was Hector’s phone. “Oh, look, it’s Peter,” he said drily. “‘Where are you? Are you with Bridge?’ Wow, you’ve really turned that boy into a grade-A stalker.”
    “I have that effect on people.”
    “It’s your kind and sweet nature.”
    Bridget snorted. “Thanks.”
    They fell silent. Bridget didn’t know what to say about Peter’s recent, disturbing behavior, and Hector seemed lost in thought. Maybe he’d comment on Peter and then she could transition the conversation to what she really wanted to talk about? That would seem totally natural. Maybe Hector would even believe her this time.
    Hector lifted a piece of orange chicken to his mouth and chewed really slowly, like he was buying time, trying to decide whether or not he wanted to say something. Bridget held her breath.
    “I think you’ll look freaking fantastic in that dress,” he said at last.
    Bridget felt deflated. “Thanks.” The moment was gone. Did she really regret it? Telling someone about what had been going on with her would have been such a relief, but was Hector really the person who could handle it?
    She wasn’t sure. The only thing she knew was that, once again, she was on her own.

Nineteen
    R ULE N UMBER F IVE: T HEY LIE .
    It was about the millionth time she’d reminded herself in the past week. Still, the message delivered by Penemuel haunted her, creeping up at odd moments of the day. She tried to fight it back, to remind herself that you couldn’t trust the demons, but it didn’t matter. Again and again she heard Penemuel’s words in her mind:
    Me-yer. Un-der. Un-der. Me-yer.
    Again and again, over and over until she thought she would lose it. And every time her mind would drift to a mental hospital in Sonoma County, where an insane killer was locked away for the murder of Dr. David Liu.
    With a heavy sigh, she leaned closer to the bathroom mirror and ran a wand of liquid eyeliner over her lid, ending with a tiny swoop at the corner. The freckles on her nose and cheeks still peeped through the layers of foundation, powder, and blush, but there wasn’t much she could do about them. She was already wearing more makeup than she’d applied since her mom let her quit Irish step dancing, and short of spackle, those annoying freckles would just have to stay. This was definitely the most effort she’d put into her appearance since before her dad died.
    Bridget squeezed her eyes shut, so tight she thought her eyeballs might pop out the back of her head. She’d done a relatively good job of forcing the memories of the trial from her mind, but in the last few days they’d come rushing back with renewed force. Undermeyer at the defense table, twitchy and erratic. The insanity plea and the parade of mental health professionals who attested to a level of