“Toby, who were you talking to?” Lyla Bristol’s voice was flat, as though she were barely curious enough about the answer to ask the question.
“I wasn’t talking,” Toby said.
Since I’d met Teddy over at Sylvia Maddox’s, the two boys had become mingled in my mind. I was surprised Toby sounded so young, much younger than Teddy.
“Really?” his mother said. “So I guess it was your imaginary friend.”
“Addy isn’t imaginary,” he said.
Addy’s eyes shot to mine. Setting a calming hand atop her foot, I prayed the teen’s quads could hold a bit longer. Also that Lyla Bristol either had a shitty short-term memory or paid as little attention to her child’s ramblings as it appeared.
“Of course she isn’t,” she said, as though trying to humor him, but still with a strangely flat tone. “Do you need to g
