'I called Oliver,' Michael said.
'What are you, crazy?'
'It worked, didn't it?'
She looked around at the dead people in the shed. 'Yeah.'
He looked ill for a second, and started to say something, but then the horn honked outside, and he changed it to, 'Ride's here.'
She nodded, and walked out into the dazzling glare. Something brushed by her, moving fast, and then the trunk of the sedan slammed closed before she'd taken more than two steps.
Claire trudged to the passenger side of the car, exhausted and aching and feeling a stupid need to cry, and said nothing at all on the ride home.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Joe Hess was in the run-down house on Spring Street, locked in a closet, filthy, with a broken arm and two broken ribs — Lowe called with the news of his rescue two hours later. Claire tried to be happy, but the crash that had started for her before she left Myrnin's just kept on driving her down. She felt sick and weak and hollow, and she couldn't even summon the energy to go the hospital to see Shane. Michael told Eve that she was sick, which wasn't much of a lie; Claire stayed in bed, shivering, wrapped in layers of blankets even though the room was warm. Everything kept shifting in her head, from dull gray fog to glittering icy clarity, and she didn't know how long it was going to last. She developed a knife-sharp headache sometime during the night, and by the time she finally slept, it was nearly morning.
Her cell phone rang at two p.m. on Sunday. She'd gotten up to visit the bathroom and grab a bottle of water, but no food, and her whole body felt weak and abused. 'Where are you?' the voice on the other end demanded. Claire squinted at the clock and scrubbed a hand through her matted, oily hair.
'Who is it?'
A sigh rattled the speaker. 'It's Jennifer, idiot. I'm waiting at Common Grounds. Are you going to show or what?'
'No,' she said, and then tried again. 'I'm sick.'
'Look, I don't care if you're dying, I've got a mid-term tomorrow for half my grade! Get your ass down here now!'
Jennifer hung up. Claire threw the phone down on the nightstand with a clatter and sat — or fell — onto the bed. I can't. I just want to sleep, that's all.
Someone rapped gently on the door, and then it creaked open. Eve was standing there, with a cracked, much-abused plastic tray in her hands. On it was a frosty glass of Coke, still fizzing, a sandwich, and a cookie.
And a red rose.
'Eat,' she said, and slid the trap onto Claire's lap. 'Man, that's one hell of a hangover.'
'Hangover?' Claire looked at her oddly, and sipped the Coke. It went down sweet and cool, and that helped. 'I'm not hung over.'
Eve just shook her head. 'Been there, CB. Trust me on this. Eat, shower, you'll feel better.'
Claire nodded. She did feel a spark of hunger, distant as it was, and managed to take two bites of the sandwich before weariness overtook her again. She tried the cookie in between.
The shower felt like heaven, and Eve was right about that, too; when she finally got dressed and finished half the sandwich she felt almost alive again.
Her cell phone rang again. Jennifer. Claire didn't even let her get started yelling and threatening. 'Ten minutes,' she said, and hung up. She didn't want to go, but staying in bed didn't seem to be doing much for her. She took the tray downstairs, washed up, and grabbed her backpack on the way out.
'Where the hell do you think you're going?'
Michael. He was standing in the hallway, blocking the door, looking like he was guarding the gates of heaven itself. His hands looked raw and pink — still healing from the burns. She thought about that, about how important his hands were to him, because of the music, and felt a sharp stab of guilt.
'I'm meeting Jennifer at Common Grounds,' she said. 'Tutoring. For money.'
'Well, you're not walking, and I can't take you until dark.'
'I can,' Eve offered. She joined Claire in the hall. 'I need to go in to work anyway. Kim didn't show again, they called a little while ago. Hey, overtime pay. Gotta love it. Maybe we can afford tacos.'
Michael looked exasperated, but it wasn't like there were a lot of choices. He nodded and stepped out of the way. Eve stretched up on her toes to kiss him, and that went on for a while before Claire cleared her throat, checked her watch, and got her moving to the car.
It was a short ride to Common Grounds, but not exactly a comfortable one, because the first thing Eve said was, 'Is it true? Oliver killed the Fentons and Captain Obvious?'
Claire didn't want to talk about it, but she nodded.
'And Michael? Michael was there?'
Again, the nod. Claire looked out the window.
'He got hurt. I saw the burns.' This time she didn't even try to answer. Eve let the silence stretch for a few seconds, then said, 'Don't shut me out, Claire. The four of us, we're all we've got.'
Except that what Claire had couldn't be shared. Not with Michael, not with Eve, and certainly not with Shane.
She was alone, carrying an ugly weight of knowledge she didn't want and couldn't use. And every time she thought about Oliver's icy smile, about him ripping out Christine Fenton's throat, she felt sick. I'm helping him, if I keep working for Myrnin and Amelie. But she was also helping Michael. Sam. Myrnin.
Eve seemed to sense it wasn't time to push; she pulled to a stop in front of the coffee shop and said, 'Stay inside until dark, then Michael will come get you.'
'I'm going to see Shane,' Claire said. 'But I'll get a ride home.'
'Claire, dammit — ' Eve sighed. 'I can't stop you. But if you wait, you and Michael can go together. I'll see you guys tonight. Tacos for dinner, right?'
Nothing sounded very exciting to her right now, but Claire nodded. She got out and walked into Common Grounds, which was a sea of noise and conversation — packed, as always, with college students and a few locals. She was getting used to picking out the gleam of ID bracelets.
Jennifer was sitting at the same table Monica favored, sipping a drink that Claire bet was the same thing Monica drank, wearing an outfit that was probably Monica's hand-me-downs, or at least copied from the same designers. She looked angry, and scowled at Claire as Claire dropped her backpack on the floor and slid into her chair. 'You look like crap,' Jennifer said. 'Sick sick, or hung over?'
'Does it matter?'
'Hung over,' Jennifer said, and grinned. 'And here I thought you were all underage goody-two-shoes.'
The smell of coffee was making her feel queasy, but Claire went to the counter and ordered a mocha anyway. Oliver wasn't on duty, and she didn't know the two working as baristas.
When she turned around, somebody else was sitting at Jennifer's table in the previously empty third chair.
Monica.
Crap. I can't deal with her. Not now. She felt horrible, and the last thing she wanted to do was match wits with the witch-queen.
Monica gave her the x-ray scan, looked at Jennifer and did an over-the-top hand to the forehead. 'I thought the homeless look died in the '90s?'
'Shut up.' Claire slid into her chair, mocha in hand. 'I'm tutoring Jennifer, not you.'
'Bitch, I wouldn't let you tutor me. You'd probably give me all the wrong answers.'
Which was a totally good idea, and Claire saw the fear flash into Jennifer's expression. She sighed. 'I wouldn't,' she said.
'Why not?'
