Which made her wonder why it hadn’t been locked before…oh. Of course. The cops had come in through the kitchen.

She took some deep breaths, rinsed the taste of that sweaty hand off her lips, and picked up the coffee cups.

Her hands were shaking so badly, there was no way she could carry anything liquid. She put them back down and went back to the door to call through, “Making some fresh!’”

She poured out the rest of the pot, loaded it again, and, by the time the machine finished, had mostly gotten herself under control.

Mostly.

Claire had a break between classes—it couldn’t really be called a lunch break, because it fell at ten a.m.—and she walked over to the University Center for coffee. The UC was large and kind of seedy; the carpet was ancient, and the furniture had seen the eighties, at least, and maybe the seventies. It was one large, open atrium filled with couches, chairs, and even—tucked in one corner—a grand piano. Student-activity banners, most badly painted, draped overhead and fluttered in the weak air-conditioning.

Most of the couch groupings were already claimed by students talking or separately studying. Claire had her eye on an open study table near the corner, but she’d have to hurry; there were plenty of people looking for places to settle.

She hurried to the coffee bar at the back of the atrium, and smiled and waved as she spotted Eve behind the espresso machine. Eve waved back, pulled two shots at the same time, and dumped them into steamed milk. The line was about five deep, and Claire had plenty of time to think about what Shane’s dad had said. And what he hadn’t.

What was he doing there today? Really? Maybe he’d come to fetch Shane, but she wasn’t sure. Shane’s dad seemed to have a plan, but she had no idea what it was. Maybe Shane would know, but she didn’t want to ask.

Michael. She’d tell Michael everything, as soon as he appeared.

“Large mocha,’” Claire said, and dug out the required three-fifty from her jeans pocket. It was a huge expense for her, but she figured it was only right to celebrate Eve’s first day on the job. The cashier—a bored-looking guy who was probably wishing he were anywhere else—took her cash and waved her on to the line for drinks.

She was standing there, thumbing through her English-lit book, when she heard muffled laughter, and then a wet dull thud as a drink tipped over on the counter. She looked up to see a ring of guys standing around a spilled drink, which was dripping off both sides of the counter.

“Hey, zombie chick,’” one of them said to Eve, who was standing next to the counter, still pulling shots and very obviously ignoring them. “Wanna clean that up?’”

A muscle fluttered in Eve’s jaw, but she silently got a handful of paper towels and began to mop up the mess. Once the counter was clean, she raised the hinged section of the bar and cleaned the floor on both sides.

The boys continued to snigger. “You missed a spot,’” said the one who’d spilled the drink. “Over there.’”

Eve had to bend over to get to the spot where he was pointing. He quickly stepped up behind her and began banging his crotch against her butt. “Oh, baby!’” he said, and they all laughed. Laughed. “You’re so fucking hot for a dead girl.’”

Eve calmly straightened up, turned around, and stared at him. Not a word. One thing Claire could say for Goth makeup, at least it covered up blushes…. She was blushing, furiously, on Eve’s behalf. And shaking.

“Excuse me,’” Eve finally said, and moved him aside with one hand flat against his chest. She got behind the bar again and slammed down the hatch, took the two espresso shots and dumped them into a fresh cup, stirred, put a lid on it, and put it on the bar. “Here. On the house.’”

The creep reached out, grabbed the cup, and squeezed. The top popped off. Coffee went everywhere, splattering Eve, the counter, the floor, the guy holding it. His buddies burst into open laughter when he said, “Oops. Guess I don’t know my own strength.’”

Eve looked at the guy at the register, but he just shrugged. She took a deep breath, smiled—not, Claire saw, her normal smile at all—and said, “You ought to see a doctor about that, Bullwinkle. Plus the crotch rash. Next! I have a mocha for Claire!’” Eve thumped down another cup and vigorously scrubbed the counter.

Claire hurried up. “Oh my God!’” she whispered. “What do you want me to do? Get somebody?’”

“Who?’” Eve rolled her eyes. “It’s my first day—it’s a little early to run tattling like a girlie girl. Leave it alone, Claire. Just take your coffee and go on. I’ll be fine. I’ve got a PhD in taking shit from jocks.’”

“But—Shane? Should I call Shane?’”

“Only if you want to be cleaning up blood instead of coffee—’”

“Hey, bitch, where’s my drink?’” the guy asked loudly from behind Claire. She felt him crowding up against her a second before he body-slammed her hard against the bar. “Oops, sorry, little girl, didn’t see you there.’” He didn’t move back. “Since when do we have kindergarten classes, anyway?’”

Her mocha had—of course—tumbled out of her hand and was rolling across the counter, bleeding coffee. Eve caught it and set it back upright. “Hey!’” Claire squirmed to get free; he just kept her pinned.

“Hey! Asshole!’” Eve echoed, louder, and pointed a finger over Claire’s head, glaring. “Back off, man, or I call the campus cops.’”

“Yeah, they’ll really come running.’” Still, he backed up enough to let Claire twist away from him, clutching her mocha. He wasn’t even looking at her. He was a big guy—Shane-big—with black gelled hair in the latest cool style and fierce blue eyes. A nice face, good lips, high cheekbones. Altogether too pretty for his own good, Claire thought. “Get me my damn coffee. Some of us have class around here.’”

Claire grabbed paper towels and began mopping up the spill on the customer side of the counter, so Eve didn’t have to come around. Eve gave her a grateful look and began to pull shots. She assembled the drink in record time, slapped the top on it, and handed it to her tormentor.

Who grinned at her, tasted it, and put it back on the counter. “Sucks,’” he said. “Keep it.’”

He high-fived with his friends, and they all walked away.

“What a jerk!’” Claire said, and Eve just raised her eyebrows, took the latte, and poured it out down the sink.

“No, he was right, it did suck,’” she said. “But then, he paid three bucks for it, so I win. How’s the mocha?’”

Claire swallowed a mouthful and gave her a thumbs-up. “I’m sorry. I wish there was something—’”

“Gotta fight our own battles, Claire Bear. Go on. I’m sure you’ve got some kind of studying to do.’”

Claire backed away as Eve began to pull another set of drinks; the line continued to queue up in front of the register.

The guy picking up his latte next—a tall, kind of awkward-looking boy with a round face and big brown eyes—made a point of thanking Eve, who dimpled at him and winked. He looked much nicer than the hard-bodied jerks who’d just left, although Claire noticed that he was wearing a fraternity shirt.

“Epsilon Epsilon Kappa?’” she read out loud. “EEK?’”

He gave her an apologetic smile. “Yeah, well, it’s kind of a joke. Because of the town. You know, creepy.’” He blinked and focused on her, and smiled wider. “I’m Ian, by the way. Ian Jameson. From, ah, Reno.’”

“You’re a long way from home, Ian Jameson,’” Claire said, and stuck out her hand. He shook it. “Claire Danvers. From Longview.’”

“I’d say you were a short way from home, but everything’s far from this place,’” he said. “So, you’re—a freshman?’”

“Yes.’” She felt the dreaded blush creeping up again. “Early admission.’”

“Yeah? How early?’”

She tried to shrug it off. “Couple of semesters. No biggie.’”

“What’s your major?’” Ian took the top off his coffee and blew on it to cool it down, then took a sip. “Thanks again, by the way, this is really good.’”