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.

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.

Shane stared at her with bloodshot, tired eyes for a few long seconds, then shook his head and flopped back against the couch cushions, arms spread wide. “Whatever,’” he said. “Call if you get into trouble.’”

Something in his tone made Claire want to shed the backpack and crawl up on the couch next to him, cuddling close, but she straightened her spine and said, “I will,’” and marched to the door.

Two hard, fast chills swept over her. Michael, telling her a firm no.

“Bite me,’” she said, shot the brand-new locks that Shane had installed, and exited into the warm Texas morning sun.

English class was boring, and she’d already read through everything in the curriculum, so Claire spent her time writing out her thoughts in the back of her journal. A lot of them centered on Shane, and Shane’s lips, and Shane’s hands. And curses on the fact that she wasn’t eighteen yet, and that it was a stupid rule anyway.

She was still thinking about the injustice of all that after class, when she ran into trouble.

Literally.

Claire turned the corner, head down, and collided with a tall, firm body that instantly grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her, hard, backward. Claire nearly lost her balance, but skidded to a shaky and upright halt, bracing herself against the wall. “Hey!’” she yelled, more in shock than anger, and then her brain caught up with her eyes and she thought, Oh, crap.

It was Monica.

Monica Morrell looked polished and perfect, from her shining straight hair to her flawless makeup to the cute, trendy sheer top over baby doll T she was wearing. No backpack for Monica. She had a designer bag, and she looked Claire up and down, glossed lips twisting in disdain. Of course, she wasn’t alone. Monica never went anywhere without an entourage, and today it was her usual wing girls, Jennifer and Gina, as well as a hovering flock of hard-bodied boys, most of them athletes of some kind or other.