Michael. Claire swallowed hard. “Michael wants to talk to you.’”
Amelie nodded. Her expression didn’t change.
“What do I tell him?’” Claire asked.
“That is entirely your affair. Tell him the truth—that you did not care enough to deliver his message.’” Amelie waved a hand without even looking toward her. “Go.’”
Lisa was sitting in the living room, frowning, arms folded, when Claire came back down the hall. She still looked fierce, never mind the bunny slippers, as she stood up to open the locks on the front door. Warrior princess on vacation, Claire thought. She guessed you grew up tough in Morganville, especially if you lived in a house Amelie could visit any time she felt like it.
“Bad news,’” Lisa said. “Right?’”
Did it show that much? “Right,’” Claire said, and wiped at her eyes again with the handkerchief. She shoved it in her pocket and sniffled miserably. “But I’m not giving up.’”
“Good,’” Lisa said. “Now, when I open this door, you’re gonna want to hurry. Go straight to the car out there. Don’t look left or right.’”
“Why? Is there something—?’”
“Morganville rules, Claire. Learn them, live them, survive them. Now go!’” Lisa yanked open the door, put a hand flat on Claire’s back, and propelled her out onto the porch. A second later, Lisa slammed the door, and Claire heard the rattle of the locks being turned. She got her balance, jumped down the steps, and hustled down the dark path and through the picket gate, and yanked open the passenger door of the car. She scrambled in and hit the lock, and then relaxed.
“I’m okay,’” she said, and turned to Detective Hess.
He wasn’t there.
The driver’s seat was empty. The keys were still in the ignition, the engine was idling, and the radio was playing softly. But the car was completely empty, except for her.
“Oh God,’” Claire whispered. “Oh God oh God oh God.’” Because she could drive the car, but that would mean stranding Detective Hess, if he’d gone off doing police things. Stranding him without his partner to help him. She’d seen enough cop shows to know that wasn’t a good idea. Maybe he’d just gone off to talk to somebody and was coming right back…or maybe he’d been snatched out of the car by some hungry vamp. But didn’t Hess have some kind of special Protection?
She had no idea what to do.
While she was thinking about it, she heard voices. Not loud, but a steady stream of conversation. It sounded like Detective Hess, and he wasn’t far away. Claire cautiously rolled down the window and listened hard; she couldn’t make out any words, but there were definitely voices.
Claire unlocked her door and eased it open, straining to catch the words, but they were just sound, no meaning. She hesitated, then slipped out of the car, eased the door shut, and hurried toward the sound of the voices. Yes, that was Detective Hess; she recognized his voice. No question about it.
She didn’t even realize where she was going—she was so intent on listening—until she realized how dark it was, and the words weren’t getting any clearer, and she wasn’t at all sure now that was Detective Hess’s voice after all.
And she was halfway down an alley with tall, rough board fence on both sides, trapping her.
She’d gone into the alley. Why the hell had she done that? Hess had warned her. Gramma had warned her. And she hadn’t listened!
Claire tried to turn around, she really tried, but then the whispers came again, and yes, for sure that was Detective Hess, there was no safety back there in the car, the car was a trap waiting to spring, and if she could just get to the end of the alley she’d be safe, Detective Hess would keep her safe, and she’d be—
“Claire.’”
It was a cold, clear voice, falling on her like ice down her back, and it shocked her right out of the trance she’d fallen into. Claire looked up. On the second story of Gramma’s house, bordering the alley, a slender white figure stood in the window, staring down.
Amelie.
“Go back,’” she said, and then the window was empty, curtains blowing in the wind.
Claire gasped, turned, and ran as fast as she could out of the alley. She could feel it at her back, pulling at her—it, whatever it was, it wasn’t a vampire as she understood vamps in Morganville; it was something else, something worse. Trapdoor spider, that was how Gramma and Lisa had described it. Panic whited out its song in her head, and she made it—somehow—to the end of the alley and burst out into the street.
Detective Hess was standing at the car, looking straight at the alleyway. Gun drawn and held at his side. He visibly relaxed at the sight of her, came around, and hustled her to the passenger side of the car. “That was dumb,’” he said. “And you’re lucky.’”
“I thought I heard you,’” she said faintly. Hess raised his eyebrows.
“Like I said. Dumb.’” He shut the door on her, came around, and put the car in gear.
“Where’d you go?’”
He didn’t answer. Claire looked back. There was something in the shadows in the alley, but she couldn’t tell what it was.
Just that its eyes reflected the light.
It was coming up on deep night, when most sensible people were fast asleep in their beds with their doors bolted and windows securely locked, and Claire was knocking on the door of Common Grounds. It had a CLOSED sign in the window, but the lights were on in the back.
“You’re sure you want to do this,’” Hess said.
“You sound just like my subconscious,’” Claire said, and kept knocking. The blinds twitched and tented; locks rattled.
Oliver opened the door of the coffee shop, and the smell of espresso and cocoa and steamed milk washed over her. It was warm, welcoming, and so very wrong, considering what she knew about him.
He looked very humanly harassed at her arrival. “It’s late,’” he said. “What is it?’”
“I need to talk to you about—’”
“No,’” he said very simply, and looked at Hess over her head. “Detective Hess, you need to take this child home. She’s lucky to still be alive today. If she wants to continue that winning streak, then she ought to be a little more cautious than to run around Morganville in the dead of night, knocking on my door.’”
“Five minutes,’” Claire promised. “Then I’ll go. Please. I never did anything to hurt you, did I?’”
He stared at her for a few cool seconds, and then stepped back and held the door open. “You, too, Detective. I hate to leave anyone with a pulse outside of shelter this evening.’”
I’ll bet, she thought. Oliver’s peace-and-love hippie act no longer worked on her. Amelie had a kind of noble dignity that let her get away with pretending concern; Oliver was different. He was trying to be like Amelie, but not quite making it.
And I’ll bet that pisses him off, too.
Hess urged her across the threshold and followed her in. Oliver locked up, walked to the coffee bar, and, without being asked, began to put together three drinks—cocoa for Claire, strong black coffee for Detective Hess, and a pale tea for himself. His hands were steady and sure, the activity so normal that it lulled Claire into relaxing just a little as she sat down at a table. She ached all over with exhaustion and the tension she’d run through her body at Amelie’s.
“Miles to go before you sleep,’” Oliver said, as he stirred the cocoa. “Here. Steamed milk and spiced cocoa. Hot peppers. It does have an amazing effect.’”
He brought it to the table and handed it off to her, put Hess’s coffee down, and retrieved his own brewing teacup before sitting. All very normal-life casual.
“You’re here about the boy, I would suppose,’” Oliver said. He dunked his tea bag and watched the results critically. “I really must get a new supplier. This tea is pathetic. America just doesn’t understand tea at all.’”
“He’s not the boy. His name is Shane,’” Claire said. “And he’s not guilty. Even Amelie knows that.’”
“Does she?’” Oliver raised his gaze to fix it on hers. “How interesting, because I, in fact, don’t. Brandon was hideously and cruelly tortured, then murdered. He might have had his flaws—’”