“Hey, enough. Back off,” Shane said, and pulled Claire out of easy reach. “Go sober up, man. And find some kind of rehab, because, damn.”

“I’m not drunk!”

Shane steered Claire away, then across the street to the other sidewalk. Alex just stood there, shouting at them like a crazy man. Shane shook his head. “Man. Frat guys. They really can screw up their lives.”

“I don’t think he was drunk,” Claire said doubtfully. “He didn’t really look drunk.”

“Yeah, because you’d be the expert on that.” Shane sent her an ironic look, and she remembered, with a flash of shame, that he was the expert; his dad had been a drunk, and so had his mom, toward the end. Shane wasn’t exactly a saint, either. “Okay, maybe he wasn’t drinking, but he was definitely wrecked. What are the fratties taking these days? Maybe it was meth.”

Well, Claire really didn’t know anything much about drugs. It wasn’t that she was a prude; she just had a fear of anything that would screw up the way she thought. “This is your brain on drugs” and all that. “He probably needs help,” she decided, and pulled out her phone to dial Chief Moses. She told Hannah about the boy, feeling more than a little like maybe she ought to have minded her own business, but still. That had not been the Alex she’d met at school.

As she put the phone away, Claire remembered hearing that voice—Michael’s voice—through the bathroom door this morning. Mom?

She shivered as a cool breeze skittered by.

But really, it was a beautiful day, and she didn’t know why she was feeling so weird.

Visiting her folks was every bit as awkward as Claire had imagined. First, her mom opened the door, got a look of delight on her face as she saw Claire, and then immediately dimmed it down to a strained welcome when she spotted Shane standing behind her. “Claire, honey, so glad you’re here! And Shane, of course.” Somehow, that last part sounded like a total lie. “Come in; I was just cleaning up the kitchen. I’m grilling chicken for lunch; can you stay?”

That was Mom all over, offering food in the second breath. It made Claire feel at home. She traded a quick look with Shane, and then said, “Well, actually, we’ve already got plans, Mom, but thanks.”

“Oh. Of course.” Her mother was looking better these days—not as thin and haunted as she had been when they’d first come to Morganville. In fact, she looked like she’d gained a little weight, which was good, and she was dressing a bit less like a character in one of those black-and-white movies where women wore pearls to vacuum—more normal. Claire actually kind of liked her shirt. For Mom clothes.

“How’s Dad?” Claire asked, as they followed her down the hall and turned right into the kitchen. It was the exact same layout as the Glass House, since they were both Founder Houses, but the Danvers house had an open entrance to the kitchen, and her mother had painted the room in sunny yellows that cheered it up a lot. Ugh, she still liked the ducks, though. Lots of ceramic ducks. Well, at least it wasn’t the cheesy ceramic roosters; that was an awful memory. Claire and Shane took seats at the small kitchen table—a lot nicer than the battered one they had back at the Glass House—and Mom fussed around with cups and saucers (Shane held up a saucer with his eyebrows raised, like he’d never seen one) and got them coffee.

“Mom? How’s Dad?”

Her mom poured coffee without meeting her eyes. “He’s doing all right, honey. I wish you’d come see us more often.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s been . . . kind of busy these last few days.”

Her mom straightened up, frowning. “Is anything wrong?”

“No.” Claire slurped coffee, which was too hot, and her mom never made it strong enough. It tasted like coffee-flavored milk. “Not now. There was some trouble in town; that was all.”

“Claire killed a vampire,” Shane said. “She had to, but it could have gone bad for her with Amelie. As it was, she had to do a job for the vamps that almost killed her.”

She could not believe that he’d just blurted that out. Shane raised his eyebrows at her again in a silent, What? Like he couldn’t believe she wasn’t going to say all of that herself.

Her mother just stood there, mouth open, holding the steaming pot of coffee.

“It’s not that bad,” Claire said in a rush. “Really. I was just trying to help some people who were in trouble, including Eve. It just turned out . . . well, it turned out okay, in the end.”

Worst. Speech. Ever. And it didn’t seem to reassure her mother at all.

“Mrs. Danvers,” Shane said, and held out his cup for a refill on his coffee, with a smile that, Claire thought, he’d probably learned from Michael; even her mother seemed to warm up to it. “The point is, Claire did something really brave, and probably really important, so you should be proud of her.”

“I’m always proud of Claire.” And that, Claire thought, was true; her mother was always proud of her. Except maybe when it came to Shane, of course. “But it sounds very dangerous.”

“Shane was with me,” Claire said, before he could open his mouth again. “We look out for each other.”

“I’m sure you do. Oh, let me go see what’s keeping your father. I can’t believe he hasn’t been down for coffee yet; that’s a violation of the laws of physics. I know he’s awake.”

Her mother set the pot back on the coffee machine and left the kitchen, heading for the stairs. Shane leaned over to Claire and said, “Does it give you déjà voodoo how alike the houses are?”

“That’s déjà vu, and I hate you right now.”

“For narcing on you to your mom? Wait until you hear what I tell your dad.” From the sly grin on his face, she knew what he was thinking.

“Don’t you even think about it.”

“I could tell him about that time we—”

“Hell, no.”

They were whispering, and on the verge of giggles, when a scream cut through the house like the sound of shattering glass. Claire dropped her cup and jumped to her feet, running for the stairs; Shane was just a couple of steps behind her, and caught up quickly on the stairs as he jumped them three at a time.

Claire’s mom was nowhere in sight, but the door to her dad’s office—which was Shane’s bedroom in the Glass House—was open. Claire dashed for it and skidded to a halt in the opening.

Her mother was on her knees.

Her dad was lying on the carpet, looking small and weak and fragile, and she felt absolute terror shoot through her like lightning. Her knees went weak, and she felt Shane’s hands close around her shoulders.

“Mom?” she asked in a small, shaking voice. Then she swallowed, got it together, and hurried the last few steps to drop down next to her parents.

Her mom had her hand pressed to her dad’s neck, feeling for a pulse, but as badly as her hand was shaking, Claire was sure she couldn’t tell even if she found one. She looked up miserably at Shane, who nodded and got on one knee next to her mom. “Let me,” he said, and gently moved her mother’s hand to feel for a pulse with his own, steadier fingers. It seemed to take forever, but he finally nodded. “He’s okay. He’s breathing, too. I think he just passed out.”

Claire’s mother was crying, but Claire thought she probably didn’t even know she was doing it. She had a frozen, blank expression that Claire thought was scarier than the scream had been. “Th-thank you, Shane. I don’t think we should move him.”

“We should turn him on his side,” Shane said. “Recovery position.”

Claire’s mother looked at him oddly, as if she wondered how exactly he knew all of this. Claire knew, all too well. He’d come home to find his parents passed out a lot, during that nightmare time when they’d been on the road, running from Morganville and memories. Checking for pulse and breathing and making sure they didn’t choke on vomit was just a normal thing to do, for him.