“That’s a brilliant idea!” Mimi said. “Oh, Viv, you have to come! Oh my God, Ryan, that’s the best idea you’ve ever had. It’s going to be the prettiest wedding anyone has ever seen! And you can—”

Ryan shut the car door and went around to the other side. As soon as he opened the door I heard:

“—and the cake has seven tiers, can you believe it? All the attendants have to wear black, I’m the only one in white, of course, and . . .”

Caroline told Simon, “Let’s get the jerky as soon as possible—it’s a three-hour drive.” She climbed into the front seat, leaving Simon and me standing there.

“Wind-surfing lesson next time?” he asked.

“Yup. Now get outta here.”

He got in and they sped off, Mimi’s hands waving excitedly as they pulled away. I chuckled for a moment, then headed back inside. It was really quiet in the house now. I finished my coffee, put in my earbuds, and got back to work cleaning.

And I noticed for the first time how big the house was for just one person.

The rest of that day was weird, and ended even weirder. I spent the day clearing out the living room. I’d started to divide things into piles: keep, donate, trash. There was a lot in the donate pile; someone was going to be set for tube socks for years. Aunt Maude was an As Seen On TV shopper if I’d ever seen one. Slap Chops, the WaxVac, the Chillow (which I was keeping, what a great idea!), to say nothing of the entire shrine dedicated to Ron Popeil and his empire. Food dehydrators, rotisserie grills—I even found a box of old-fashioned hair spray in a can.

I wondered again how Aunt Maude turned out the way she did. Fiercely independent, but also, it appeared, fiercely lonely. And not only did I wish that wasn’t the case, I also wished she’d not left quite so much crap behind for someone else to clean up. The Ronco knife sets were great and all, but really . . . five sets? And if she had the money for all this crap, why was there a leaky roof? Especially when she had seventeen tubes of Putty Friend, another As Seen On TV product Maude had ordered for herself and stockpiled . . .

I knocked off cleaning a little early to cook myself a nice dinner. The stove and I were beginning to understand each other, and I wanted to take our relationship to the next level. Nothing fancy, mind you, but perhaps some chicken? A few vegetables? Could I swing some rice? We were going to find out.

After a quick shower, I headed down to the kitchen. Within minutes I had a decent amount of vegetables chopped, a pot of water simmering for rice, and a couple of chicken br**sts in the oven, planning to use the extra one later in the week for lunch or in a salad. No pizza this week, no way, no sir! Time to get into a normal routine!

I opened up the windows in the kitchen, throwing the back door open wide to let in that last little bit of sunshine. The skies to the east were looking gray and the wind was beginning to kick up; it looked like we were going to get a storm. I said a silent thank-you to Ryan and Simon for tying the tarp down; the evening would be much nicer without the rain inside the house.

But the air before a storm always smelled so fresh, so I let it all in. The house was finally beginning to lose that musty closed-up smell after a week of solid cleaning. I’d poured a glass of red wine to sip while I cooked, and with the radio tuned to the oldies station, it made for a cozy night to stay in and cook.

Because I grew up in a large family, it was never a question of whether I would learn to cook or not, it was merely a question of when. For the record, I was eight when I started scrambling my own eggs and making my own toast. Cooking for one had been a bit of an adjustment, since my favorite family recipes were formulated to feed an army. But as I got older and was single longer, I learned that there was something a little special about preparing a meal just for yourself. Setting the table for one was just as important as setting the table for fourteen. So I dug up some pretty china plates, washed them, stacked them in the kitchen, and even lit a candle in the dining room.

Pat on the back for me.

Back in the kitchen, I sizzled and stirred, adding a pinch of this and a sprinkle of that. Rice was in, garlic and onions were sautéing, and I had just added some broccoli to the pan when I heard—

Flap-flap-flap.

Cocking my head sideways, I listened again. What was that? But after a moment, all I heard was vegetables cooking, so I went back to them. Another minute went by. My chicken should be almost done now, I should check it—

Flap-flap-flap-flap

Okay, what the hell was that? My slotted spoon and I headed into the dining room—all clear. Living room? All clear as well. Was I hearing things?

The wind was beginning to really kick up, the curtains were waving in the breeze on either side of the fireplace. Maybe that was the noise I was hearing. But as soon as they were closed, I heard it again, coming from the dining room.

Flap-flap-flap.

I headed for the dining room. Dammit. What the hell was—

A bat!

 It dove at me and I ran screaming out onto the front porch, slotted spoon in one hand, the other clasped over my head.

Flap-flap-flap-flap.

“Get out get out get out get out!” I screamed, stamping my foot and going through the rotten wood again. And this time? It got stuck.

“Sonofawhore!” I cursed, setting down the spoon and trying to pull my foot clear. Nope, it was stuck on something but good. “Cocksucking f**k!” I swore again. Somewhere, my mother most certainly frowned at my choice of words.

Thunder boomed nearby, and from inside the house?

Flap-flap-flap.

I instinctively ducked, even though I was out on the porch. The porch that had been trying to eat me piece by piece since I got here. I tried to calm down; getting frustrated wasn’t going to help. Think, Viv!

I tried to keep my weight off my stuck foot, since every time I pushed down to try and get some leverage, it seemed to get even more wedged in. I started to think about what might be under that porch, what might have ahold of my foot.

One of those dolls . . .

That’s it! My phone was in my pocket, thank God—but who was I going to call? Simon was back in San Francisco by now, and I had no idea how to get hold of Hank. Mr. Montgomery? No, he was too old. I didn’t want to call 911, because while in my own head this constituted an emergency, in the grand scheme of things, it really wasn’t.

You know who you have to call.

Oh, man.

And do it quickly, before the doll takes another bite.

I called the librarian.

“Well, well, well.”

“Lookee what we have here,” I finished, peering up at Clark.