“I can make sure that Gretchen and Hans don’t make any follow-up visits,’” Hess said. “I can keep most of the cops away from you, maybe not all. I can put out the word—widely—that you’re not just under a Founder’s seal; Travis and I are keeping an eye on you. That’ll keep anybody else from trying to win friends by smacking you around.’”
“Anybody human, he means,’” Lowe amended. “The vamps, they’ll scare the shit out of you if they can, but they won’t hurt you. Not unless you screw up and that Founder’s seal goes away. Got me?’”
Which had already happened, really. The screwing-up part. Well, technically, she supposed Shane’s dad hadn’t broken any laws—yet—because Michael hadn’t really died.
Except that he had.
God, Morganville made her head hurt.
A door slammed upstairs, and Eve came clattering down the stairs, fully dressed in Goth finery: a purple sheer shirt over a black corset thingie, a skirt that looked like it had gotten caught in a shredder, hose with skulls woven in, and her black Mary Janes. Very fierce. Her makeup was back in full force, ice white face, black-rimmed eyes, lips like three-day-old bruises.
“Officer Joe!’” Eve practically flew across the room to hug him. Shane and Claire exchanged a look. Yeah, this wasn’t something they were going to see every day. “Joe Joe Joe! I’ve been wondering where you were!’”
“Hi, Skippy. You remember Travis, right?’”
“Big T.!’” Another hug. This, Claire thought, had tipped over the edge into the surreal, even for Morganville. “I’m so glad to see you guys!’”
“Ditto, kid,’” Lowe said. He was smiling, and it transformed his face into something that was almost angelic. “You’ve still got the numbers, right?’”
Eve slapped her hand on the mobile phone strapped to her belt in a coffin-shaped holder. “Oh yeah. Speed dial. But there hasn’t been—um—’”
Claire had the sudden weird feeling that Eve had something she couldn’t talk about in front of them. The cops seemed to think so, too, because their eyes met briefly, and then Hess said, “You want an update? How about showing us to your coffeepot?’”
“Sure!’” Eve said brightly, and led them off into the kitchen.
“Well,’” Shane said as the door shut behind them, “that’s bizarre.’”
“Did I miss a chapter?’” Claire asked. “And are there Cliff’s Notes?’”
“No idea.’”
The sound of conversation drifted in from the kitchen, music without words. Claire fidgeted, then got up and tiptoed over.
“Hey!’” Shane protested, but he followed.
Hess was talking about somebody named Jason. Shane reacted, putting his hand on Claire’s shoulder and lifting his finger to his lips.
What? she mouthed silently.
I want to hear.
Detective Lowe was talking. “—you probably would want to know that he’s getting out today. Now, before you say anything, he’s been warned. He’s not about to go near you or your parents. He’ll be monitored.’”
“Monitored.’” Eve sounded shaken. “But—I thought he was going to be in jail for a long time! What about that girl…?’”
“She withdrew the complaint,’” Hess said. “We couldn’t keep him locked up forever, honey. I’m sorry.’”
“But he’s guilty!’”
“I know. But now it’s your word against his, and you know how that gets decided. You’re not sworn to anybody, Eve. He is.’”
Eve cursed. It sounded like she was trying not to cry. “Does he know where I am?’”
“He’ll find out,’” Hess said. “But like I said, he’s being monitored, and we’ll keep an eye on all of you kids here. You leave Jason alone, he’ll leave you alone. Okay?’”
If Eve agreed, she did it silently. Claire nearly tipped backward as Shane tugged on her shoulder; then she caught her balance and followed him back to the couch. “Who’s Jason?’” She couldn’t even wait until they were seated to ask.
“Crap,’” he sighed. “Jason’s her brother. Last I heard, he was in jail for stabbing somebody. He’s kind of a psycho, and Eve turned him in. No wonder she’s freaked.’”
“Her older brother?’” Because Claire was picturing some Gothed-out muscular football type about ten feet tall, with a steroid habit.
“Younger,’” Shane said. “Seventeen, I guess. Skinny, creepy kid. I never liked him.’”
“Do you think—?’”
“What?’”
“Do you think he’ll come here? Try to hurt Eve?’”
Shane shrugged. “If he does, he’ll be regretting it all the way to the hospital.’” He said it in a matter-of-fact kind of way that made Claire feel strangely warm. She fought to catch her breath. If Shane noticed, he didn’t show it. “As long as we stay here, we’re safe.’” He looked up at the blank ceiling. “Right, Michael?’”
A chill drifted over Claire’s skin. “Right,’” she said, on Michael’s behalf.
But she wondered.
5
The cops left, Shane played some video games, and Claire studied. It was a normal kind of day, all things considered. Shane had the TV on, looking for any news that might show a clue as to what his dad was up to, but Morganville’s local station (it had only one) seemed bland, vanilla, and content-free even on the newscast.
The night came; Michael drifted back into human form; they had dinner.
Normal life, such as it passed for in a place like Morganville. In the Glass House.
It was only at midnight, when Claire was drifting off to sleep to the distant, sweet sound of Michael’s guitar, that she started wondering about what she was going to do in the morning. She couldn’t just hide, no matter what Michael thought. She had a life—sort of—and she’d already missed enough classes this semester. It was go or withdraw, and withdrawing would make things worse. She’d never get her academic life together and go on to the Ivy League schools she was dreaming about.
She fell asleep thinking of vampires, fangs, pretty girls with mean smiles and cigarette lighters. Of fires and screaming. Of Shane’s mom floating in the bathtub.
Of Shane, huddled in a corner, crying.
Not a great night. She woke up at first light, wondering if Michael was already gone again, and yawned and struggled her way out of bed and to the bathroom. Nobody else was up, of course. The shower felt good, and by the time she’d dried her hair and pulled on a plain white shirt and blue jeans and sneakers, and loaded up her backpack with the daily essentials, she felt ready to face the outside world.
Shane was asleep on the couch downstairs. She tiptoed past him, but a squeaky floorboard made it a useless exercise; he came bolt upright and stared at her with wild, uncomprehending eyes for a few seconds before he blinked and sighed. “Claire.’” He swung his legs off, sat up, and rested his head on the palms of his hands. “Ow. Man, remind me that two hours of sleep doesn’t really cut it.’”
“I think you just reminded yourself. What were you doing up?’”
“Talking,’” he said. “Michael needed to talk.’”
Oh. Guy stuff. Stuff Michael hadn’t wanted to share with the girls. Okay, fine, not her business. Claire hitched up her backpack and edged toward the hallway.
“Where are you going?’” Shane asked without lifting his head.
“You know where I’m going.’”
“Oh no, you’re not!’”
“Shane, I’m going. Sorry, but you don’t get to tell me what to do.’” Technically, she supposed he could; he was older, and in Michael’s absence he was sort of the owner and operator of the house. But…no. Not even then. Once she started letting that happen—or happen again—she’d lose whatever independence she’d earned. “I have to go to class. Look, I’ll be fine. Amelie’s Protection’s still good, and the campus is neutral ground, you know that. Unless I screw up, I’ll be okay.’”
“It’s not neutral ground for Monica,’” he said, and looked up. “She tried to kill you, Claire.’”
True. Claire gulped down a hard little bubble of fear. “I can handle Monica.’” She didn’t think she could, but at least she could avoid her. Running was always an option.