“You want me to wash your clothes?”

The backpack brushed my leg again. I knew what was inside—a file folder filled with stolen newspaper articles. He would never understand why I had those.

“No, thanks. I’ll take care of things.”

IT SEEMED LIKE the man would never give me space now that I’d come back from an unapproved mini vacation. Everywhere I turned, he was lurking just behind, looking at me over his glasses, passing me in the hallway, asking me through the bathroom door if I wanted a snack. He did it under the guise of “cleaning house,” but it felt like more than that to me.

It felt like surveillance.

Did he already know? Had he seen that the articles were gone? How could he? What reason would he possibly have for noticing they were missing? Had Angry Elephant called him, told him there was a couple snooping around the studio, asking questions about Eleven?

I tried to keep myself busy to take my mind off it. I popped a bag of popcorn and parked myself on the couch and watched TV, every single show reminding me somehow of Chris.

That actor looks like Chris, only with blue eyes.

That police station doesn’t look anything like Chris’s station.

That girl is eating her fries in clusters of three. Just like Chris does.

It was disgusting, and the carpet began to puff up in brick-brown shame. I was such a hopeless freak. Introducing new Crush Nikki!* A Confused Asshole Doll with Trust Issues. *Understanding and kindness not included.

After what seemed like forever, Dad finally disappeared into his bedroom, and a few minutes later, I heard the shower turn on. I bolted from the couch to his office.

Tomato, tomato, tomato.

Eleven.

The number that never was.

I lowered myself to the floor and scooted on my belly under Dad’s desk until I could reach the black box. A part of me was surprised it was still there. Things had a way of disappearing—or dying—the minute I got a handle on them. I spun the dial.

Problem.

Eleven was one number. A tomatoey, juicy, delicious number, but still. One number.

Maybe if I split it up. Brown, brown. 1-1. Nope, I still needed a third number. I tried a third 1. The box didn’t open. Damn it. I put a zero in front of the eleven. Still nothing.

I heard the pipe rattle of Dad turning the shower off. Shit. Now I had to really move. Think, Nikki, think. Honeydew nagged at the back of my mind.

Ten. Of course. Ten. The player had murdered ten, but was working on eleven. What if the number was a combination of those two?

I tried 1-0-1. Still the damn box wouldn’t budge.

1-1-0. Nothing.