Doubull Indemnity

5

Isla, Open to Talking About Dead Batteries

"Troll nips!"

I sucked the bead of blood off the tip of my punctured finger. Guess my hands weren't so steady with the needle tonight. I'd already stabbed myself five times since Greg walked out on me.

"He sent another photograph!" Phoebe gleefully shouted.

While I sat sewing on the office sofa, she paced the room, empty hand aloft in front of her face as if she were holding a phone. My phone. Occasionally, she'd swipe her index finger from the opposite hand across her palm. Meanwhile, on the coffee table, my device complied with Phoebe's every move. As it signaled the arrival of said photo with another vibration, it unlocked in time with Phoebe's contactless swipe. The screen lit up as she scrolled through my messages.

I learned weeks ago that no passcode on this side of the veil could protect my texts from a bored ghost.

"Let me guess, more horn shots?" I said.

"Oh, no. He's asking if you're in the mood for lobster and it's... is this you?"

"What?"

I dropped the bundle of leather in my lap, pinched the needle between my teeth, and I grabbed my phone.

Oh my lord.

The unexpected laughing fit hit me so hard I spit the needle right out my lips. It embedded itself somewhere in the rug, I'm sure. Covered my mouth to keep from drooling all over the fabric in my lap, but it did nothing to quiet my heaving cackles. Fucking Billy.

It was a photo of me. An old photo. My hair was longer and darker and—gag—teased. (I'd been going through a 70s, Farrah Fawcett sort of phase, leave me alone). I was standing on the railing at Penn's Landing, overlooking the Delaware River, just shy of tumbling off the walkway and into the murky water. Dangling by the tail between my pinched fingers was a fat lobster. One claw was caught in motion as it snapped at me. My face was all scrunched up to the point of nearly being unrecognizable, but I remember Billy taking that pic of me.

We were young. And, on this particular occasion, drunk. Billy offered to take me out. Someplace fancy to celebrate some bullshit monthly anniversary or whatever it was. Surprised me with a swanky seafood joint, the kind with the live lobsters in the tank. Except Billy boy hadn't made a reservation, and us two under dressed barely into our twenties hooligans sure as unicorn shit weren't getting a table. While Billy distracted the host, however, I dunked my hand into the lobster tank and yanked one of those poor sea-cockroaches out myself.

Billy sure was proud of my catch of the day.

But I looked that stupid sea-roach right in its beady eyes and couldn't pull the metaphorical trigger.

(Or maybe I was just mad at Billy for screwing up those reservations).

Ole Billy chased me right down to the river, bitching all the while, arguing with me over what a stupid idea this was as I blamed him for the whole situation in the first place, till he finally captured the moment I set my little lobster pal free. Billy pretended to weep over the loss. I suggested we get burgers instead. Think we wound up sitting on the curb with hoagies.

Course he reminded me later that lobsters were saltwater critters, and I probably just killed the stupid thing for nothing by dumping into that polluted swamp water.

But damn that was still one heck of a fun night.

Phoebe raised a brow at me. "And you last spoke... when?"