Page 12 of Mad Mabel

“Let her stay,” Daphne says, always a soft touch. “She misses Ishaan.”

“At least someone does.”

“Someone will come and get her soon.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine.”

We sit for a moment in silence. But when Daphne makes a noise, I glance over at her.

“What?” I say.

She’s giggling.

“What?” I repeat. I’m already laughing too, preemptively.

“What about when she asked the paramedic if there was any evidence of…” Daphne is laughing so hard she can’t finish.

“Foul play!” I cry.

We double over, in the companionable silence that comes when there is no oxygen left for more laughter. It fills up every part of me until there is no room left for fear or shame or horror. This, I realize, is the true gift of friendship. The lifesaving part of friendship.

“What’s so funny?”

The child appears from nowhere, causing Daphne and me to scream. I clasp a hand to my heart. “Mother of God, child, don’t you have a home?”

“Yes. But I like hanging out with you.”

Daphne beams. “And we like hanging out with you, darling.”

“Mother of—”

“Don’t say ‘Mother of God,’ ” Persephone jumps in. “You need to come up with a better catchcry.”

I close my mouth. Impertinent child.

“You have blood on your shoe.”

“What?”

Persephone is pointing at my right foot where blood has pooled on the top of my navy sneakers. “See?”

“So I have.” I pull up the hem of my trousers. There, just above the ankle, is a deep, ragged cut that appears to be oozing blood. “It must have been from the fence.”

Daph winces. She’s never been good with blood.

Persephone recoils. “I’ll get my mum. She’s a nurse. MUM!”

“Don’t get your mother,” I say, not only because she is not, to my knowledge, a nurse, but because it is entirely unnecessary. But it’s too late, Persephone is out of her seat, headed toward her terrace house.

“Mother of—” I cry, then slap a hand over my mouth. Persephone shakes her head disappointedly.

Roxanne lets herself in through my gate and onto my porch, carrying a white tin medicine box under one arm. She’s a tall woman, at least compared to anyone but me, the kind of scrawny slim of catwalk supermodels. She’s yawning, as per usual.

“Your daughter has been bothering me for hours,” I say, gesturing at Persephone. “You wouldn’t ever consider actually parenting your own child, I suppose?”

“God, no,” Roxanne says, setting down the box. She kneels by my feet. “I assume it’s this ankle?”

“Was it the blood that tipped you off?”