Page 76 of What Happens at Nightfall

Ingrid chewed on the end of her braid. “I really didn’t expect any of this. I wish I’d never started it. I never thought—I never thought it would come after me.”

She was, Jess realized, trying very hard not to cry. Maybe, Jess thought guiltily, all that about not wanting to go home wasn’t entirely a ruse. If Jess was freaked out about being attacked by a ghost, how would it feel to be possessed by a demon?

“Is there anyone you can call? Anyone you can talk to about this? Family?”

Ingrid snorted. “You mean, like, my sister back home in St. Cloud? She’s an influencer—oh, sorry, a skinfluencer. One million followers and counting.” The scorn burned. “Unless I want to know the correct shade of blush to wear for a demon, she’s kind of a loss.”

“Friends?” Jess ventured.

Ingrid shrugged. “We kind of scattered after third year. People go away on research grants; people drop out. It gets kind of lonely. I mean, not that I’m lonely. I have my work. It’s fine. And there’s always someone to grab a drink with and talk about the Albigensian heresy.”

She glared at Jess as though daring her to correct her.

Jess knew what it was like to be lonely and pretend you weren’t. But she had Kimmy. And Kimmy’s kids. Ingrid didn’t seem to have anyone. Not even a dried-out orchid twig on the radiator. Just an apartment full of burning frogs.

“Hey,” said Jess, caught by an unwilling kinship. “You’re not in this alone anymore. If any more frogs show up, you call me, okay?”

Ingrid blinked hard. “Thanks.”

“Just, please, no more summoning, okay? Except possibly dinner. We should get something to eat.” Jess dug her phone out of her pocket and pulled up the Seamless app. “What kind of takeout do you like?”

“There’s a Thai place I like a few blocks from here . . .” Ingrid unfolded herself from the couch and drifted over to Jess.

The phone buzzed, a comment bubble superimposing itself over the images of pizza and Pad Thai. Got Ben. About to upset my kids by making more chicken. I’ll call you tomorrow.

Three little dots pulsed on the screen.

Melinda says hi.

Jess stared at her screen. After a moment, she typed. Tell Melinda I say hi back.

Ingrid peered over her shoulder. “You two are terrible at flirting.”

“We’re not flirting,” said Jess automatically.

Ingrid snorted.

The phone vibrated in Jess’s hand. Jess was annoyed enough that she pressed accept without looking. “Hello?”

“Jess! I’ve been calling you all day.”

“Hi, Mom.” Jess held up a finger to Ingrid, retreating in the direction of her bedroom.

“I had one of my feelings,” her mom was saying. There was the sound of an old-fashioned teakettle whistling. “Are you okay?”

I’m fine was the standard response, whether Jess was fine or not. It was always easier to brush off the question than tackle how she was actually feeling—it was kinder to them both, Jess had always felt.

But this time, she heard herself saying, “Not really.” Jess pulled the bedroom door shut behind her. “Mom—do you know anything about Grandma’s family?”

There was a pause. Jess could picture her mother, standing in the kitchen of their apartment above the gallery, dunking a red rooibos tea bag in a handmade mug. “You mean my mother’s family?”

“That’s the only grandmother I have,” said Jess tartly. “Unless you’re going to tell me who my father’s mother is.”

“I don’t really know much about my mother’s family.” As usual, thought Jess, her mother skated right past the question of Jess’s parentage. “I know your grandmother was working as a theatrical costumer when she met your Pop. She was a trained opera singer, but jobs were scarce and she was hoping working backstage might be a way in. Or that’s the story Pop told me. The theater hired him to do their accounts, and that was how they met. It was kind of an attraction of opposites.”

“You were born in New York, right, Mom?”

“Born, yes.” Jess could hear her mother relax, back on more familiar ground. “But I consider myself a Californian.”