Stephanie tied her hair in a glittery, gold elastic as she gave her reflection a studied glare, nerves quivering at the edges of her eyes.

Hiding in the bathroom wasn’t a viable option, not with guests present. She gathered a deep breath, plastered her expression with a broad smile, and opened the dining-room door.

The powerful and calming scent of lilacs flooded her senses.

“Max, Debbie, so sorry to keep you waiting,” she announced with a lilt.

The table looked flawless, capped by a floral centerpiece that radiated grace and charm.

Stephanie had spent extra effort earlier, hand-picking each flower from a clearing in the woods.

She hoped it didn’t go unnoticed.

At the head of the table, a wooden ventriloquist’s dummy slumped, the paint defining his face chipped and faded.

Opposite that, a Victorian doll perched aloft a stack of old yellow pages in another high-backed chair.

Stephanie had inherited the doll from her grandmother, its once-curly blonde locks long since chopped away.

The dummy’s origin remained an unsolved mystery.

Stephanie raised her voice an octave. “Oh, Steph, I can’t believe I’ve never been inside your home before. It is lovely, lovely, lovely.”

She placed her fingers on her cheeks, as if blushing. “Why, thank you, Debbie.”

Stephanie, lowering her voice into its deepest register, muttered, “I didn’t think we should come.”

Back to a squeak: “Max! We discussed this.”

Stephanie released a sigh, pulling a chair for herself at the center of the table. She gazed at the pink and blue hydrangeas clustered in a vase. “I understand. You’re angry,” she offered in her normal voice.

“Damn right we are,” she snapped with her deeper voice.

Stephanie bit her lower lip, fearing that the day was already going astray, so much faster than even her worst fears. She reached for a plate of chocolate chip cookies, baked yesterday, and selected the largest one for herself, but upon biting into it, she discovered it was crumbling and bitter. A touch burned. If she’d sampled them yesterday, she’d have realized they were near-inedible, and could have whipped up a fresh batch. Now it was too late. This would spoil the entire afternoon.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, sliding the cookies towards the centerpiece.

“For what, Steph?” she asked in her lower voice. “For what?”

“Max, honey, what’s happening?” The sound of her voice so high and squeaky was making Stephanie angry.

“I hoped we could enjoy a pleasant lunch.” Stephanie used her normal voice.

“A pleasant lunch, Steph? All you’re serving is goddamned burned cookies. Cookies, of all things! This is not a normal lunch.”

“Max, Stephanie’s extending a peace offering here—” The higher voice said.

“Deb, for the love of all that’s holy, quit playing dumb. It wasn’t cute when we were alive, and it’s not cute now.”

“You’re right, I can’t keep up this charade.” The treble voice cracked as it spoke.

“Debbie, is there something you’re itching to discuss?” Stephanie asked in her own voice, turning towards the old doll.

“I know you tried to seduce my husband.”

Stephanie gazed down at the platter of cookies. She should have at least chipped away the burned parts. So stupid. “Is that what Max told you?” she asked, resigned.

“I didn’t need Max to tell me. I tried to be your friend. You seemed lonely over here. But I knew you’d want more. You know you’ll never be happy until you can cultivate some female friendships without getting competitive.” The upper-range voice was reed-thin by this point.

“Yes, you’re right. You’re so right. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry!” she shouted in her lower voice. “Jesus. Are we not even addressing the goddamned cookies?”

“The cookies? I’m sorry, I—” Stephanie pulled the plate onto her placemat and gazed at them once more. She should have tasted them before the party. Such sloppiness.

“Not these cookies, you psycho bitch,” the deep voice rumbled.

“Max—”

“No. I’m tired of being polite. I never liked you, Stephanie. I was only nice to you because Debbie felt bad for you. Somehow you twisted that around.” As the lower voice spoke it kept raising in intensity until it resembled Stephanie’s normal tone. After a breath, it returned to the lower register. “We did not deserve this, and a goddamned fake tea party won’t change that.”

Stephanie shoved herself from the table, tears streaming along her face, and bolted outside into the backyard. She continued running until she’d sprinted a distance into the woods. As she caught her breath, she turned back and saw her house peeking behind rows of trees. Next to it, Max and Debbie’s house remained vacant months after their disappearance. She wanted to run further, but she let herself crumple to the ground.

It was a mistake to think they would forgive her. Not so soon, anyway. She could try again in late summer, already envisioning a centerpiece with buddleia spires, some wild chicory. Would foxgloves be too on-the-nose?

She wiped her eyes and stood, brushing pine needles from her skirt. Back inside, she’d shelve the dolls and toss those ruined cookies straight in the trash. This was a mistake. Too soon. She could venture a second attempt in a few months. They’d forgive her. She was certain.

Charlie Rogers is a writer, photographer and amateur hermit who lives in New York City with the ghosts of some cats. His short fiction has appeared in Intrinsick, Pif Magazine, and the TL;DR anthology Endless Pictures.