“We did that last night, son. Wherever these guys go, they’re going someplace we can’t follow.’” The mayor’s red-rimmed eyes fastened back on hers. He cracked his knuckles. He had big hands, like his son. Hard hands. “Oliver wants this over. He wants to move up the timetable, burn the kid tonight and get them out in the open. It’s not a bad plan. Call their bluff.’”

“You think Frank Collins is bluffing?’” Richard asked.

“No,’” the mayor said. “I think he’ll do exactly what he said he’d do, only a whole lot worse than we can imagine. But what Oliver wants…’”

“You’re just going to let him do it? What about Monica?’”

“Oliver doesn’t know they’ve got her. Once I tell him—’”

“Dad,’” Richard said. “It’s Oliver. He’s not going to give a crap and you know it. Acceptable losses. But it’s not acceptable to me, and it shouldn’t be to you, either.’”

Father and son exchanged looks, and Richard shook his head and continued to pace. “We need to find a way to get her back. Somehow.’”

“You.’” The mayor pointed a thick finger at Claire. “Tell me the whole thing again. Everything. Every detail, I don’t care how minor. Start from the first time you saw these men.’”

Claire opened her mouth to answer, and caught herself just in time. No, you idiot! You can’t tell them the truth! The truth gets Shane fried for sure…. She wasn’t a good liar, she knew that, and there was too much time slipping by while she was scrambling around in her head, trying to pick up the threads of where to start the story….

“I guess—I saw some of them when they broke into the house,’” she said tentatively. “You know, when we called the cops about the home invasion? And then I saw…’”

She froze and closed her eyes. She’d seen something important. Very important. What was it? Something to do with Shane’s dad…

“Start with the van,’” Richard said, and short-circuited her attempt at catching the memory. She dutifully recounted it all again, and then again, answering specific questions as fast as she could. Her head ached, and despite the cold Coke, her throat did, too. She needed sleep, and she wanted to roll up in blankets and cry herself into a coma. Oliver wants to move up the timetable, burn the kid tonight. No. No, they couldn’t let it happen, they couldn’t….

But they could. Without question.

“Let’s start over,’” Richard said. “From the beginning.’”

She burst into despairing tears.

It took hours before they were done with her. Nobody offered to drive her home.

Claire walked, feeling like she was drifting half out of her body, and made it all the way home without a single incident. It was still daylight, which helped, but the streets seemed unnaturally quiet and deserted. Word was out, she guessed. Humans were keeping their heads down, hoping the storm would pass.

As Claire slammed the door, Eve came bolting down the stairs, raced to her, and wrapped her in a breathless full-body hug. “Bitch!’” she said. “I can’t believe you scared the crap out of me like that. Oh my God, Claire. Can you believe those jerks at the police station wouldn’t even take my statement? I even had a wound! A real wound with blood and everything! How’d you get away? Did Monica hurt you?’”

Eve didn’t know. Nobody had told her at the police station.

“Shane’s dad stopped the van,’” Claire said. “He took Monica as a hostage.’”

For a second, neither one of them moved, and then Eve whooped and held up her hand for a high five. Claire just stared at her, and Eve compensated by clapping both hands over her head. “Yesssss!’” she said, and did a totally geeky victory dance. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer psycho!’”

“Hey!’” Claire yelled, and Eve froze in midcelebration. It was stupid, but Claire was angry; she knew Eve was right, knew she had no reason at all to think Monica was ever going to be anything but a gigantic pain in the ass, but…“Shane’s dad’s going to burn her if they go through with the execution. He has a blowtorch.’”

The glee dropped out of Eve’s expression. “Oh,’” she said. “Well…still. Not like she didn’t ask for it. Karma’s a bitch, and so am I.’”

“Oliver’s trying to get them to kill Shane tonight. We’re out of time, Eve. I don’t know what to do anymore.’”

That knocked the last of Eve’s smugness right out from under her. She didn’t seem to know, either. She licked her lips and said, “There’s still time. Let me make some phone calls. And you need to get some food. And some sleep.’”

“I can’t sleep.’”

“Well, you can eat, right?’”

She could, as it turned out—and she needed to. The world had taken on a gray color, and her head was aching. A hot dog—plain except for mustard—chips, and a bottle of water solved some of that, though not the ache in her heart, or the sick feeling that had nothing to do with hunger.

What are we going to do?

Eve was on the phone, calling people. Claire slumped on the couch, tipped over, and curled up under the blanket. It still smelled like Shane’s cologne.

She must have slept for a while, and when she woke it was almost as though someone had flipped a switch or whispered in her ear, Wake up! Because she was upright in seconds, heart racing, and her brain was running to catch up. The house was quiet, except for the usual ticks and pops and moans that old houses got. A breeze rattled dry leaves outside.

And it took Claire a second to realize that she couldn’t see the tree that shaded the window because it was dark.

“No!’” She catapulted off the couch and raced to find a clock. It was exactly what she’d feared. No eclipses or sudden unexplained collapses of the normal day-night continuum; no, it was just dark because it was night.

She’d slept for hours. Hours. And Eve hadn’t woken her up. In fact, she wasn’t even sure Eve was still in the house.

“Michael!’” Claire went from room to room, but he was nowhere to be seen. “Michael! Eve! Where are you?’”

They were in Michael’s room. He opened the door, and he was half-dressed—shirt open, jeans hanging low-slung around his hips, revealing a chest and abs that even now Claire had to notice—and Eve was curled up in the bed, under the covers.

Michael quickly stepped out, buttoning his shirt. “You’re awake.’”

“Yeah.’” Claire suppressed a burst of pure fury. “If you’re done screwing around, maybe we can talk about Shane dying tonight.’”

Michael dipped his chin a little, staring her straight in the eyes. “You do not want to go there, Claire,’” he said flatly. “You really don’t. You think I don’t know? I don’t care? Fuck. What do you think Eve’s been doing all day while you—’”

“Slept? Yeah, I fell asleep! You could have woken me up!’”

He came forward a step. She backed up a step, then another, because his eyes…not Michael’s usual expression. Not at all.

“So you could sit and rip your guts out, too?’” he asked softly. “Enough of that going around, Claire. You needed to sleep. I let you sleep. Get over it.’”

“So what’s the brilliant plan you guys came up with while I was napping, then? What is it, Michael? What the hell do we do now?’”

“I don’t know,’” he said, and whatever tight control he’d been hanging on to ripped loose at the roots. “I don’t know!’” It was a yell, and it came right out of his guts. Claire backed up another step, feeling an icy flush race over her skin. “What the hell do you want me to do, Claire? What?’”

Her eyes filled up with tears. “Anything,’” she whispered. “God, please. Anything.’”

He grabbed her and hugged her. She sagged against him, trembling, not quite crying but…not quite not, either. It was a hopeless sort of feeling, as if they were loose and drifting and there was no land in sight.

Like they were lost. All lost.

Claire sniffled and stepped back, and when she did, she saw Eve standing in the doorway, watching them. Whatever Eve was thinking, it wasn’t good, and it wasn’t anything that Claire ever wanted to see again.