Glass Houses

She hesitated for a second, then pressed it. The panel across the hallway clicked open, letting out a breath of cold air, and she quickly slipped inside, latched it back, and went up the stairs.

Shane was lying on the couch, feet on the curved polished-wood armrest, one arm flung over his eyes.

“Go away,” he said. Claire eased herself down on the couch next to him, because his voice didn’t sound, well, right. It was quiet and a little bit choked. His hand was shaking. “I mean it, Claire, go.”

“The first time you met me, I was crying,” she said. “You don’t have to be ashamed.”

“I’m not crying,” he said, and moved his arm. He wasn’t. His eyes were hot and dry and furious. “I can’t stand that she pretends to know. She was Lyssa’s friend. If she knew, if she really knew, she should have tried harder.”

Claire bit her lip. “Do you mean she—?” She couldn’t even say it. Do you mean she tried to tell you? And he couldn’t admit it if she had. If he admitted that much…maybe his sister didn’t have to be dead.

No, Claire couldn’t say that. And he couldn’t hear it.

Instead, she just reached out and took his hand. He looked down at their clasped fingers, sighed, and closed his eyes. “I’m drunk and I’m pissed off,” he said. “Not the best company right now. Man, your parents would kill us all if they knew about any of this.”

She didn’t say anything, because that was absolutely true. And something she didn’t want to think about. She just wanted to sit here, in this silent room where time had frozen still, and be with him.

“Claire?” His voice was quieter. A little smeared with sleep. “Don’t do that again.”

“Do what?”

“Go out like you did tonight. Not at night.”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

He smiled, but didn’t open his eyes. “No dates? What is this, the Big Brother house? Anyway, I didn’t come back to Morganville to hide.”

She was instantly curious. “Why did you come back?”

“Michael. I told you. He called, I came. It’s what he’d do for me.” Shane’s smile faded. He was probably remembering Michael not answering the phone, not coming to the hospital. Not having his back.

“It’s more than that,” she said. “Or else you’d have just taken off by now.”

“Maybe,” Shane sighed. “Leave it, Claire. You don’t have to dig into every secret around here, okay? It’s not safe.”

She thought about Michael. About the way he’d looked at Miranda across the séance table. “No,” she agreed. “It’s not.”

They talked for hours, about pretty much nothing—certainly not about vampires, or sisters dying in fires, or Miranda’s visions, obviously. Shane delved into what Claire had always thought were the Boy Classics: debates about whether Superman could take Batman (“Classic Batman or Badass Batman?”), movies they liked, movies they hated. Claire tried him on books. He was light on the classics, but who wasn’t? (She wasn’t, but she was a freak of nature.) He liked scary stories. They had that in common, too.

Time just didn’t seem to pass at all in that little room. The talk seemed to keep going, spinning out of them on its own, gradually getting slower as the minutes and hours slipped away. She got cold and sleepy, and dragged an afghan off the arm of a nearby chair, spread it around her shoulders, and promptly dropped off to sleep sitting on the floor with her back against the settee, where Shane was lying.

She woke up with a start when the settee creaked, and she realized that Shane was getting up. He blinked, yawned, rubbed at his hair (which did very funny things when he did) and checked his watch.

“Oh, God, it’s early,” he groaned. “Hell. Well, at least I can grab the bathroom first.”

Claire jumped to her feet. “What time is it?”

“Nine,” he said, and yawned again. She reached over him, pushed the hidden button, dashed past him to the door, barely remembering to shed the afghan on the way. “Hey! Dibs on the bathroom! I mean it!”

She wasn’t worried about the bathroom so much as being caught. After all, she’d spent the entire night with a boy. A boy who’d been drinking. Most of that was against the house rules, she figured, and Michael would have freaked out if he’d known. Maybe…maybe Michael was too distracted from what Miranda had been spilling to worry about it, though, because she had to admit, Miranda had known exactly what she was talking about.

Just not by name, really.

Well, Michael was back to incorporeal in the light of day, so at least she didn’t have to worry about running into him…but she did need to decide what to do about school. This was already the worst academic week of her life, and she had the feeling it wasn’t going to get any better unless she acted quickly. Shane had made a deal with the devil; it only made sense to take advantage of it, until she could find a way to cancel it. Monica and her girls wouldn’t be after her—not in a lethal way. So there was no reason not to get her butt in the library.

She grabbed her clothes and jumped in the bathroom just as Shane, still yawning, stumbled out of the hidden room.

“But I called dibs!” he said, and knocked on the door. “Dibs! Damn girls don’t understand the rules….”

“Sorry, but I need to get ready!” She cranked up the shower and skinned out of her old clothes in record time. The jeans really needed washing, and she was down to her last clean pair of underwear, too.

Claire was in and out of the shower fast, trusting that the waterproof bandage they’d put on her back would hold (it did). In under five minutes she was fluffing her wet hair and sliding past Shane in a breathless rush to grab her backpack and stuff it with books.

“Where the hell are you going?” he asked from the doorway. He didn’t sound sleepy now. She zipped the bag shut, hefted it on the shoulder that wasn’t aching and complaining, and turned toward him without answering. He was leaning on the doorframe, arms folded, head cocked. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding. What’ve you got, some kind of death wish? You really want to get knocked down another flight of stairs or something?”

“You made the deal. They won’t come after me.”

“Don’t be dense. Leave that to the experts. You really think they don’t have ways around it?”

She walked up to him, staring up into his face. He looked enormously tall. And he was big, and in her way.

And she didn’t care.

“You made a deal,” she said, “and I’m going to the library. Please get out of the way.”

“Please? Damn, girl, you need to learn how to get mad or—”

She shoved him. It was dumb, and he had the muscle to stay right where he was, but surprise was on her side, and she got him to stumble a couple of steps back. She was already out the door and heading out, shoes in hand. She wasn’t about to stop and give him another chance to keep her nice and safe.

“Hey!” He caught up, grabbed her arm, and spun her around. “I thought you said you wouldn’t—”

“At night,” she said, and turned to go down the stairs. He let go…and she slipped. For a scary second she was off-balance, teetering on the edge of the stairs, and then Shane’s warm hands closed around her shoulders and pulled her back to balance.

He held her there for a few seconds. She didn’t turn around, because if she did, and he was right there, well, she didn’t know…

She didn’t know what would happen.

“See you,” she gulped, and went down the stairs as fast as she dared, on shaking legs.

The heat of the morning was like a toaster oven, only without any yummy food smells; there were a couple of people out on the street. One lady was pushing a baby stroller, and for a second, while Claire was sitting down to put on her battered running shoes, she considered that with a kind of wonder. Having babies in a town like this. What were people thinking? But she guessed they did it anywhere, no matter how horrible it was. And there was a bracelet around the woman’s slender wrist.

The baby was safe, at least until it turned eighteen.

Claire glanced down at her own bare wrist, shivered, and put it out of her mind as she set off for campus.