understand.
“Mistress,” said one of the bodyguards. “We should go.” He made it sound as if they had someplace to be, but Claire had the eerie feeling that he was intervening deliberately. Providing Amelie an excuse to back off.
“Yes,” Amelie said. There was a husky tone to her voice Claire had never heard before. “By all means, let us be done with this. You have heard my words, Claire. I warn you, don’t test me on this. You’re valuable to me, but you are not irreplaceable, and you have friends and family in this town who are far less useful.”
There was no mistaking that for anything but an outright threat. Claire nodded slowly.
“Say the words,” Amelie said.
“Yes. I understand.”
“Good. Now don’t bother me again. You may go.”
Claire backed away toward the stairs. She even backed down two steps before turning and hurrying down the rest, and when she was halfway there, she realized that the control to open the door from inside lay at the top, in the couch where Amelie sat.
If Amelie didn’t want to let her out, she wasn’t going anywhere.
Claire reached the landing at the bottom. The door was still closed. She looked back up the stairs and saw shadows moving, but heard nothing.
The lights went out.
“No,” she whispered, and fear came down like a bucket of freezing water, from head to toe. Her hand reached out blindly to stroke the closed door. “No, don’t do this—”
Something had changed in Amelie. She wasn’t the cool, remote queen she’d been before. She was more— animal. More angry.
And Claire finally admitted it to herself: Amelie was more hungry.
“Please,” she said to the dark. She knew there were ears listening. “Please let me go now.”
She heard a sharp click, and the door moved under her fingertips, swinging inward. Claire grabbed the edge with both hands and pulled it open. She was suddenly in the hall, and when she looked back, the door was closing.
She collapsed against the wall, trembling.
That went well, she thought sarcastically. She wanted to scream, but she was almost sure that would be a very, very bad idea.
Downstairs, the front door opened and closed, and Claire heard the clump of heavy shoes on the wood floor.
“Eve?” she called.
“Yeah.” Eve sounded exhausted. “Coming.”
She looked even worse than she sounded. The red outfit that had flattered her so much before seemed to scream now, overpowering her; she seemed ready to drop, and from the state of her makeup, she’d already shed a lot of tears.
“Oh,” Claire said. “Eve . . .”
Eve tried for a smile, but there wasn’t much left. “Pretty stupid to be upset about Monica, right? But I think that’s why it hurts so bad. It’s not like he’s taking somebody halfway nice or anything. He has to pick the walking social disease.” Eve wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. Her eyeliner and mascara had made a true Gothic mess, trickling in dirty streaks down her pale cheeks. “Don’t try to tell me he was ordered to do it. I don’t care if he was—he could have told me first. And why aren’t you arguing with me?”
“Because you’re right.”
“Damn right I’m right.” Eve kicked open the door to her room, walked in, and threw herself facedown on the black bed. Claire clicked on the lights, which mostly consisted of strings of dim white Christmas lights and one lamp with a bloodred scarf draped over the shade. Eve screamed into her pillow and punched it. Claire perched on the corner of the bed.
“I’m going to kill him,” Eve said, or at least that was what it sounded like filtered through the pillow. “Stake him right in the heart, shove garlic up his ass, and—and—”
“And what?”
Michael was standing in the doorway. Claire jumped off the bed in alarm, and Eve sat up with her pillow clutched in both hands. “When did you get home?” Claire demanded.
“Apparently just in time to hear my funeral plans. I especially like the garlic up the ass. It’s . . . different.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not finished,” Eve said. She slithered off the bedspread, dropped the pillow, and faced Michael with her arms crossed. “I’m also going to stake you outside in the sun, on top of a fire ant mound. And laugh.”
“What did I do?”
“What did you do?” Eve’s glare was fierce enough to rip even a vampire’s heart right out of his chest. “You can’t be serious.”
Michael went very still, and Claire thought the expression in his eyes was the definition of busted. “Monica. She told you.”
“Duh. Why wouldn’t she take the chance to rub my face in it, you loser? And speaking of that, Monica? Did you lose a bet or something? Because that’s really the only reason I can think of for you to humiliate me like this.”
“No,” Michael said. His gaze flickered to Claire in an unmistakable plea for her to leave. She didn’t. “I can’t explain, Eve. I’m sorry, I just can’t. But it’s not what it—”
“Don’t you even say it’s not what it looks like, because it’s always what it looks like!” Eve lunged forward, shoved Michael square in the chest, and drove him a foot backward, out of her room. “I can’t talk to you right now. Get out! And stay out!”
She slammed the door and locked it. Not, Claire reflected, that a lock would do any good, considering how strong Michael was. But he probably wouldn’t go around battering down doors in his own house, at least.
“Eve, you have to listen to me. Please.”
Eve threw herself back on the bed, grabbed her iPod from the drawer, and shoved headphones over her ears as she hit the play button. Claire could hear the thundering metal all the way across the room.
“Eve?”
Claire opened the door and looked at Michael. “I don’t think she’s listening,” she said. “You really screwed this up—you know that, right? At least Shane got ordered to do what he did. You chose, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Michael agreed softly. “I chose. But you really don’t have any idea of what my choices were, do you?”
She watched him walk away, enter his room at the end of the hall, and shut the door.
Maybe he was right. Maybe it really wasn’t what it looked like. Not that Eve was going to listen. Claire stood there for a while, listening to the cold and stony silence, and then shook her head and went downstairs.
Chili dogs weren’t the same eaten alone.
Shane got home after dark, and the second Claire saw him, she knew something was wrong. He looked— distracted. Different.
And he barely nodded to her on his way through the living room to the kitchen. She was curled up on the sofa highlighting text in her English book, wondering for the thousandth time why anybody thought knowing about the Brontë sisters was important and multitasking by not really watching a cooking show on cable TV.
“Hey,” she called after him. “I left the chili on for you!”
He didn’t answer. Claire capped her marker pen and went to the kitchen door. She didn’t open it, but she stood and listened. Shane wasn’t making the normal dish noises of a guy desperate for dinner; in fact, he wasn’t making any noise at all.
Claire was debating whether to return to studying when she heard him open the back door of the house. Voices, hushed and muffled. She eased the door open just a little, and listened harder.
“You’re lucky I don’t call the cops,” Shane was saying. “Walk away, man.”
“I can’t. I need to talk to her.”
“You’re not coming near either one of the girls, got me?”
“I’m not going to hurt anyone!”
