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Hush, Hush

Becca Fitzpatrick

  … GOD SPA­RED NOT THE AN­GELS THAT SIN­NED, BUT CAST THEM DOWN TO HELL, AND DE­LI­VE­RED THEM IN­TO CHA­INS OF DARK­NESS, TO BE RE­SER­VED UN­TO JUDG­MENT…

  2 PE­TER 2:4

PROLOGUE

LOIRE VALLEY, FRANCE NOVEMBER 1565

  CHA­UN­CEY WAS WITH A FAR­MER'S DA­UGH­TER ON the grassy banks of the Lo­ire Ri­ver when the storm rol­led in, and ha­ving let his gel­ding wan­der in the me­adow, was left to his own two fe­et to carry him back to the cha­te­au. He to­re a sil­ver buck­le off his shoe, pla­ced it in the girl's palm, and watc­hed her scurry away, mud slin­ging on her skirts. Then he tug­ged on his bo­ots and star­ted for ho­me.
  Ra­in she­eted down on the dar­ke­ning co­untry­si­de sur­ro­un­ding the Cha­te­au de Lan­ge­a­is. Cha­un­cey step­ped easily over the sun­ken gra­ves and hu­mus of the ce­me­tery; even in the thic­kest fog he co­uld find his way ho­me from he­re and not fe­ar get­ting lost. The­re was no fog to­night, but the dark­ness and ons­la­ught of ra­in we­re de­ce­iving eno­ugh.
  The­re was mo­ve­ment along the frin­ge of Cha­un­cey's vi­si­on, and he snap­ped his he­ad to the left. At first glan­ce what ap­pe­ared to be a lar­ge an­gel top­ping a ne­arby mo­nu­ment ro­se to full he­ight. Ne­it­her sto­ne nor marb­le, the boy had arms and legs. His tor­so was na­ked, his fe­et we­re ba­re, and pe­asant tro­users hung low on his wa­ist. He hop­ped down from the mo­nu­ment, the ends of his black ha­ir drip­ping ra­in. It slid down his fa­ce, which was dark as a Spa­ni­ard's.
  Cha­un­cey's hand crept to the hilt of his sword. "Who go­es the­re?"
  The boy's mo­uth hin­ted at a smi­le.
  "Do not play ga­mes with the Due de Lan­ge­a­is," Cha­un­cey war­ned. "I as­ked for yo­ur na­me. Gi­ve it."
  "Due?" The boy le­aned aga­inst a twis­ted wil­low tree. "Or bas­tard?"
  Cha­un­cey uns­he­at­hed his sword. "Ta­ke it back! My fat­her was the Due de Lan­ge­a­is. I'm the Due de Lan­ge­a­is now," he ad­ded clum­sily, and cur­sed him­self for it.
  The boy ga­ve a lazy sha­ke of his he­ad. "Yo­ur fat­her wasn't the old due."
  Cha­un­cey se­et­hed at the out­ra­ge­o­us in­sult. "And yo­ur fat­her?" he de­man­ded, ex­ten­ding the sword. He didn't yet know all his vas­sals, but he was le­ar­ning. He wo­uld brand the fa­mily na­me of this boy to me­mory. "I'll ask on­ce mo­re," he sa­id in a low vo­ice, wi­ping a hand down his fa­ce to cle­ar away the ra­in. "Who are you?"
  The boy wal­ked up and pus­hed the bla­de asi­de. He sud­denly lo­oked ol­der than Cha­un­cey had pre­su­med, may­be even a ye­ar or two ol­der than Cha­un­cey. "One of the De­vil's bro­od," he ans­we­red.
  Cha­un­cey felt a clench of fe­ar in his sto­mach. "You're a ra­ving lu­na­tic," he sa­id thro­ugh his te­eth. "Get out of my way."
  The gro­und be­ne­ath Cha­un­cey til­ted. Bursts of gold and red pop­ped be­hind his eyes. Hunc­hed with his fin­ger­na­ils grin­ding in­to his thighs, he lo­oked up at the boy, blin­king and gas­ping, trying to ma­ke sen­se of what was hap­pe­ning. His mind re­eled li­ke it was no lon­ger his to com­mand.
  The boy cro­uc­hed to le­vel the­ir eyes. "Lis­ten ca­re­ful­ly. I ne­ed so­met­hing from you. I won't le­ave un­til I ha­ve it. Do you un­ders­tand?"
  Grit­ting his te­eth, Cha­un­cey sho­ok his he­ad to exp­ress his dis­be­li­ef-his de­fi­an­ce. He tri­ed to spit at the boy, but it trick­led down his chin, his ton­gue re­fu­sing to obey him.
  The boy clas­ped his hands aro­und Cha­un­cey's; the­ir he­at scorc­hed him and he cri­ed out.
  "I ne­ed yo­ur oath of fe­alty," the boy sa­id. "Bend on one knee and swe­ar it."
  Cha­un­cey com­man­ded his thro­at to la­ugh harshly, but his thro­at const­ric­ted and he cho­ked on the so­und. His right knee buck­led as if kic­ked from be­hind, tho­ugh no one was the­re, and he stumb­led for­ward in­to the mud. He bent si­de­ways and retc­hed.
  "Swe­ar it," the boy re­pe­ated.
  He­at flus­hed Cha­un­cey's neck; it to­ok all his energy to curl his hands in­to two we­ak fists. He la­ug­hed at him­self, but the­re was no hu­mor. He had no idea how, but the boy was inf­lic­ting the na­usea and we­ak­ness in­si­de him. It wo­uld not lift un­til he to­ok the oath. He wo­uld say what he had to, but he swo­re in his he­art he wo­uld dest­roy the boy for this hu­mi­li­ati­on.
  "Lord, I be­co­me yo­ur man," Cha­un­cey sa­id ve­no­mo­usly.
  The boy ra­ised Cha­un­cey to his fe­et. "Me­et me he­re at the start of the Heb­rew month of Chesh­van. Du­ring the two we­eks bet­we­en new and full mo­ons, I'll ne­ed yo­ur ser­vi­ce."
  "A…fort­night?" Cha­un­cey's who­le fra­me tremb­led un­der the we­ight of his ra­ge. "I am the Due de Lan­ge­a­is!"
  "You are a Nep­hil," the boy sa­id on a sli­ver of a smi­le.
  Cha­un­cey had a pro­fa­ne re­tort on the tip of his ton­gue, but he swal­lo­wed it. His next words we­re spo­ken with icy ve­nom. "What did you say?"
  "You be­long to the bib­li­cal ra­ce of Nep­hi­lim. Yo­ur re­al fat­her was an an­gel who fell from he­aven. You're half mor­tal." The boy's dark eyes lif­ted, me­eting Cha­un­cey's. "Half fal­len an­gel."
  Cha­un­cey's tu­tor's vo­ice drif­ted up from the re­ces­ses of his mind, re­ading pas­sa­ges from the Bib­le, tel­ling of a de­vi­ant ra­ce cre­ated when an­gels cast from he­aven ma­ted with mor­tal wo­men. A fe­ar­so­me and po­wer­ful ra­ce. A chill that wasn't en­ti­rely re­vul­si­on crept thro­ugh Cha­un­cey. "Who are you?"
  The boy tur­ned, wal­king away, and alt­ho­ugh Cha­un­cey wan­ted to go af­ter him, he co­uldn't com­mand his legs to hold his we­ight. Kne­eling the­re, blin­king up thro­ugh the ra­in, he saw two thick scars on the back of the boy's na­ked tor­so. They nar­ro­wed to form an up­si­de-down V.
  "Are you-fal­len?" he cal­led out. "Yo­ur wings ha­ve be­en strip­ped, ha­ven't they?"
  The boy-angel-who­ever he was did not turn back. Cha­un­cey did not ne­ed the con­fir­ma­ti­on.
  "This ser­vi­ce I'm to pro­vi­de," he sho­uted. "I de­mand to know what it is!"
  The air re­so­na­ted with the boy's low la­ugh­ter.

CHAPTER 1

COLDWATER, MAINE PRESENT DAY

  I WAL­KED IN­TO BI­OLOGY AND MY JAW FELL OPEN. Myste­ri­o­usly ad­he­red to the chalk­bo­ard was a Bar­bie doll, with Ken at her si­de. They'd be­en for­ced to link arms and we­re na­ked ex­cept for ar­ti­fi­ci­al le­aves pla­ced in a few cho­ice lo­ca­ti­ons. Scrib­bled abo­ve the­ir he­ads in thick pink chalk was the in­vi­ta­ti­on:

WELCOME TO HUMAN REPRODUCTION (SEX)

  At my si­de Vee Sky sa­id, "This is exactly why the scho­ol out­laws ca­me­ra pho­nes. Pic­tu­res of this in the eZi­ne wo­uld be all the evi­den­ce I'd ne­ed to get the bo­ard of edu­ca­ti­on to ax bi­ology. And then we'd ha­ve this ho­ur to do so­met­hing pro­duc­ti­ve-li­ke re­ce­ive one-on-one tu­to­ring from cu­te up­per-class guys."
  "Why, Vee," I sa­id, "I co­uld've sworn you've be­en lo­oking for­ward to this unit all se­mes­ter."
  Vee lo­we­red her las­hes and smi­led wic­kedly. "This class isn't go­ing to te­ach me anyt­hing I don't al­re­ady know."
  "Vee? As in vir­gin?"
  "Not so lo­ud." She win­ked just as the bell rang, sen­ding us both to our se­ats, which we­re si­de by si­de at our sha­red tab­le.
  Co­ach McCo­na­ughy grab­bed the whist­le swin­ging from a cha­in aro­und his neck and blew it. "Se­ats, te­am!" Co­ach con­si­de­red te­ac­hing tenth-gra­de bi­ology a si­de as­sign­ment to his job as var­sity bas­ket­ball co­ach, and we all knew it.
  "It may not ha­ve oc­cur­red to you kids that sex is mo­re than a fif­te­en-mi­nu­te trip to the back­se­at of a car. It's sci­en­ce. And what is sci­en­ce?"
  'Bo­ring," so­me kid in the back of the ro­om cal­led out.
  "The only class I'm fa­iling," sa­id anot­her.
  Co­ach's eyes trac­ked down the front row, stop­ping at me. "No­ra?"
  "The study of so­met­hing," I sa­id.
  He wal­ked over and jab­bed his in­dex fin­ger on the tab­le in front of me. "What el­se?"
  "Know­led­ge ga­ined thro­ugh ex­pe­ri­men­ta­ti­on and ob­ser­va­ti­on." Lo­vely. I so­un­ded li­ke I was audi­ti­oning for the audi­obo­ok of our text.
  "In yo­ur own words."
  I to­uc­hed the tip of my ton­gue to my up­per lip and tri­ed for a synonym. "Sci­en­ce is an in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on." It so­un­ded li­ke a qu­es­ti­on.
  "Sci­en­ce is an in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on," Co­ach sa­id, san­ding his hands to­get­her. "Sci­en­ce re­qu­ires us to trans­form in­to spi­es."
  Put that way, sci­en­ce al­most so­un­ded fun. But I'd be­en in Co­ach's class long eno­ugh not to get my ho­pes up.
  "Go­od sle­ut­hing ta­kes prac­ti­ce," he con­ti­nu­ed.
  "So do­es sex," ca­me anot­her back-of-the-ro­om com­ment. We all bit back la­ugh­ter whi­le Co­ach po­in­ted a war­ning fin­ger at the of­fen­der.
  "That won't be part of to­night's ho­me­work." Co­ach tur­ned his at­ten­ti­on back to me. "No­ra, you've be­en sit­ting be­si­de Vee sin­ce the be­gin­ning of the ye­ar." I nod­ded but had a bad fe­eling abo­ut whe­re this was go­ing. "Both of you are on the scho­ol eZi­ne to­get­her." Aga­in I nod­ded. "I bet you know qu­ite a bit abo­ut each ot­her."
  Vee kic­ked my leg un­der our tab­le. I knew what she was thin­king. That he had no idea how much we knew abo­ut each ot­her. And I don't just me­an the sec­rets we en­tomb in our di­ari­es. Vee is my un-twin. She's gre­en-eyed, minky blond, and a few po­unds over curvy. I'm a smoky-eyed bru­net­te with vo­lu­mes of curly ha­ir that holds its own aga­inst even the best fla­ti­ron. And I'm all legs, li­ke a bar sto­ol. But the­re is an in­vi­sib­le thre­ad that ti­es us to­get­her; both of us swe­ar that tie be­gan long be­fo­re birth. Both of us swe­ar it will con­ti­nue to hold for the rest of our li­ves.
  Co­ach lo­oked out at the class. "In fact, I'll bet each of you knows the per­son sit­ting be­si­de you well eno­ugh. You pic­ked the se­ats you did for a re­ason, right? Fa­mi­li­arity. Too bad the best sle­uths avo­id fa­mi­li­arity. It dulls the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­ve ins­tinct. Which is why, to­day, we're cre­ating a new se­ating chart."
  I ope­ned my mo­uth to pro­test, but Vee be­at me to it. "What the crap? It's Ap­ril. As in, it's al­most the end of the ye­ar. You can't pull this kind of stuff now."
  Co­ach hin­ted at a smi­le. "I can pull this stuff cle­ar up to the last day of the se­mes­ter. And if you fa­il my class, you'll be right back he­re next ye­ar, whe­re I'll be pul­ling this kind of stuff all over aga­in."
  Vee scow­led at him. She is fa­mo­us for that scowl. It's a lo­ok that do­es everyt­hing but audibly hiss. Ap­pa­rently im­mu­ne to it, Co­ach bro­ught his whist­le to his lips, and we got the idea.
  "Every part­ner sit­ting on the left-hand si­de of the tab­le-that's yo­ur left-mo­ve up one se­at. Tho­se in the front row-yes, inc­lu­ding you, Vee-mo­ve to the back."
  Vee sho­ved her no­te­bo­ok in­si­de her back­pack and rip­ped the zip­per shut. I bit my lip and wa­ved a small fa­re­well. Then I tur­ned slightly, chec­king out the ro­om be­hind me. I knew the na­mes of all my clas­sma­tes… ex­cept one. The trans­fer. Co­ach ne­ver cal­led on him, and he se­emed to pre­fer it that way. He sat slo­uc­hed one tab­le back, co­ol black eyes hol­ding a ste­ady ga­ze for­ward. Just li­ke al­ways. I didn't for one mo­ment be­li­eve he just sat the­re, day af­ter day, sta­ring in­to spa­ce. He was thin­king so­met­hing, but ins­tinct told me I pro­bably didn't want to know what.
  He set his bio text down on the tab­le and slid in­to Vee's old cha­ir.
  I smi­led. "Hi. I'm No­ra."
  His black eyes sli­ced in­to me, and the cor­ners of his mo­uth til­ted up. My he­art fumb­led a be­at and in that pa­use, a fe­eling of glo­omy dark­ness se­emed to sli­de li­ke a sha­dow over me. It va­nis­hed in an ins­tant, but I was still sta­ring at him. His smi­le wasn't fri­endly. It was a smi­le that spel­led tro­ub­le. With a pro­mi­se.
  I fo­cu­sed on the chalk­bo­ard. Bar­bie and Ken sta­red back with stran­gely che­er­ful smi­les.
  Co­ach sa­id, "Hu­man rep­ro­duc­ti­on can be a sticky su­bj­ect-"
  "Ewww!" gro­aned a cho­rus of stu­dents.
  "It re­qu­ires ma­tu­re hand­ling. And li­ke all sci­en­ce, the best ap­pro­ach is to le­arn by sle­ut­hing. For the rest of class, prac­ti­ce this tech­ni­que by fin­ding out as much as you can abo­ut yo­ur new part­ner. To­mor­row, bring a wri­te-up of yo­ur dis­co­ve­ri­es, and be­li­eve me, I'm go­ing to check for aut­hen­ti­city. This is bi­ology, not Eng­lish, so don't even think abo­ut fic­ti­ona­li­zing yo­ur ans­wers. I want to see re­al in­te­rac­ti­on and te­am­work." The­re was an imp­li­ed Or el­se.
  I sat per­fectly still. The ball was in his co­urt-I'd smi­led, and lo­ok how well that tur­ned out. I wrink­led my no­se, trying to fi­gu­re out what he smel­led li­ke. Not ci­ga­ret­tes. So­met­hing ric­her, fo­uler.
  Ci­gars.
  I fo­und the clock on the wall and tap­ped my pen­cil in ti­me to the se­cond hand. I plan­ted my el­bow on the tab­le and prop­ped my chin on my fist. I blew out a sigh.
  Gre­at. At this ra­te I wo­uld fa­il.
  I had my eyes pin­ned for­ward, but I he­ard the soft gli­de of his pen. He was wri­ting, and I wan­ted to know what. Ten mi­nu­tes of sit­ting to­get­her didn't qu­alify him to ma­ke any as­sump­ti­ons abo­ut me. Flit­ting a lo­ok si­de­ways, I saw that his pa­per was se­ve­ral li­nes de­ep and gro­wing.
  "What are you wri­ting?" I as­ked.
  "And she spe­aks Eng­lish," he sa­id whi­le scraw­ling it down, each stro­ke of his hand both smo­oth and lazy at on­ce.
  I le­aned as clo­se to him as I da­red, trying to re­ad what el­se he'd writ­ten, but he fol­ded the pa­per in half, con­ce­aling the list.
  "What did you wri­te?" I de­man­ded.
  He re­ac­hed for my unu­sed pa­per, sli­ding it ac­ross the tab­le to­ward him. He crump­led it in­to a ball. Be­fo­re I co­uld pro­test, he tos­sed it at the trash can be­si­de Co­ach's desk. The shot drop­ped in.
  I sta­red at the trash can a mo­ment, loc­ked bet­we­en dis­be­li­ef and an­ger. Then I flip­ped open my no­te­bo­ok to a cle­an pa­ge. "What is yo­ur na­me?" I as­ked, pen­cil po­ised to wri­te.
  I glan­ced up in ti­me to catch anot­her dark grin. This one se­emed to da­re me to pry anyt­hing out of him.
  "Yo­ur na­me?" I re­pe­ated, ho­ping it was my ima­gi­na­ti­on that my vo­ice fal­te­red.
  "Call me Patch. I me­an it. Call me."
  He win­ked when he sa­id it, and I was pretty su­re he was ma­king fun of me.
  "What do you do in yo­ur le­isu­re ti­me?" I as­ked.
  "I don't ha­ve free ti­me."
  "I'm as­su­ming this as­sign­ment is gra­ded, so do me a fa­vor?"
  He le­aned back in his se­at, fol­ding his arms be­hind his he­ad. "What kind of fa­vor?"
  I was pretty su­re it was an in­nu­en­do, and I grap­pled for a way to chan­ge the su­bj­ect.
  "Free ti­me," he re­pe­ated tho­ught­ful­ly. "I ta­ke pic­tu­res."
  I prin­ted Pho­tog­raphy on my pa­per.
  "I wasn't fi­nis­hed," he sa­id. "I've got qu­ite a col­lec­ti­on go­ing of an eZi­ne co­lum­nist who be­li­eves the­re's truth in eating or­ga­nic, who wri­tes po­etry in sec­ret, and who shud­ders at the tho­ught of ha­ving to cho­ose bet­we­en Stan­ford, Ya­le, and… what's that big one with the #?"
  I sta­red at him a mo­ment, sha­ken by how de­ad on he was. I didn't get the fe­eling it was a luck) gu­ess. He knew. And I wan­ted to know how-right now.
  "But you won't end up go­ing to any of them."
  "I won't?" I as­ked wit­ho­ut thin­king.
  He ho­oked his fin­gers un­der the se­at of my cha­ir, drag­ging me clo­ser to him. Not su­re if I sho­uld sco­ot away and show fe­ar, or do not­hing and fe­ign bo­re­dom, I cho­se the lat­ter.
  He sa­id, "Even tho­ugh you'd thri­ve at all three scho­ols, you scorn them for be­ing a clichй of ac­hi­eve­ment. Pas­sing judg­ment is yo­ur third big­gest we­ak­ness."
  "And my se­cond?" I sa­id with qu­i­et ra­ge. Who was this guy? Was this so­me kind of dis­tur­bing joke?
  "You don't know how to trust. I ta­ke that back. You trust-just all the wrong pe­op­le."
  "And my first?" I de­man­ded.
  "You ke­ep li­fe on a short le­ash."
  "What's that sup­po­sed to me­an?"
  "You're sca­red of what you can't cont­rol."
  The ha­ir at the na­pe of my neck sto­od on end, and the tem­pe­ra­tu­re in the ro­om se­emed to chill. Or­di­na­rily I wo­uld ha­ve go­ne stra­ight to Co­ach's desk and re­qu­es­ted a new se­ating chart. But I re­fu­sed to let Patch think he co­uld in­ti­mi­da­te or sca­re me. I felt an ir­ra­ti­onal ne­ed to de­fend myself and de­ci­ded right then and the­re I wo­uldn't back down un­til he did.
  "Do you sle­ep na­ked?" he as­ked.
  My mo­uth thre­ate­ned to drop, but I held it in check. "You're hardly the per­son I'd tell."
  "Ever be­en to a shrink?"
  "No," I li­ed. The truth was, I was in co­un­se­ling with the scho­ol psycho­lo­gist, Dr. Hend­rick­son. It wasn't by cho­ice, and it wasn't so­met­hing I li­ked to talk abo­ut.
  "Do­ne anyt­hing il­le­gal?"
  "No." Oc­ca­si­onal­ly bre­aking the spe­ed li­mit wo­uldn't co­unt. Not with him. "Why don't you ask me so­met­hing nor­mal? Li­ke… my fa­vo­ri­te kind of mu­sic?"
  "I'm not go­ing to ask what I can gu­ess."
  "You do not know the type of mu­sic I lis­ten to."
  "Ba­ro­que. With you, it's all abo­ut or­der, cont­rol. I bet you play… the cel­lo?" He sa­id it li­ke he'd pul­led the gu­ess out of thin air.
  "Wrong." Anot­her lie, but this one sent a chill rip­pling along my skin. Who was he re­al­ly? If he knew I pla­yed the cel­lo, what el­se did he know?
  "What's that?" Patch tap­ped his pen aga­inst the in­si­de of my wrist. Ins­tinc­ti­vely I pul­led away.
  "A birth­mark."
  "Lo­oks li­ke a scar. Are you su­ici­dal, No­ra?" His eyes con­nec­ted with mi­ne, and I co­uld fe­el him la­ug­hing. "Pa­rents mar­ri­ed or di­vor­ced?"
  "I li­ve with my mom."
  "Whe­re's dad?"
  "My dad pas­sed away last ye­ar."
  "How did he die?"
  I flinc­hed. "He was-mur­de­red. This is kind of per­so­nal ter­ri­tory, if you don't mind."
  The­re was a co­unt of si­len­ce and the ed­ge in Patch's eyes se­emed to sof­ten a to­uch. "That must be hard." He so­un­ded li­ke he me­ant it.
  The bell rang and Patch was on his fe­et, ma­king his way to­ward the do­or.
  "Wa­it," I cal­led out. He didn't turn. "Excu­se me!" He was thro­ugh the do­or. "Patch! I didn't get anyt­hing on you."
  He tur­ned back and wal­ked to­ward me. Ta­king my hand, he scrib­bled so­met­hing on it be­fo­re I tho­ught to pull away.
  I lo­oked down at the se­ven num­bers in red ink on my palm and ma­de a fist aro­und them. I wan­ted to tell him no way was his pho­ne rin­ging to­night. I wan­ted to tell him it was his fa­ult for ta­king all the ti­me qu­es­ti­oning me. I wan­ted a lot of things, but I just sto­od the­re lo­oking li­ke I didn't know how to open my mo­uth.
  At last I sa­id, "I'm busy to­night."
  "So am I." He grin­ned and was go­ne.
  I sto­od na­iled to the spot, di­ges­ting what had just hap­pe­ned. Did he eat up all the ti­me qu­es­ti­oning me on pur­po­se? So I'd fa­il? Did he think one flashy grin wo­uld re­de­em him? Yes, I tho­ught. Yes, he did.
  "I won't call!" I cal­led af­ter him. "Not-ever!"
  "Ha­ve you fi­nis­hed yo­ur co­lumn for to­mor­row's de­ad­li­ne?" It was Vee. She ca­me up be­si­de me, jot­ting no­tes on the no­te­pad she car­ri­ed everyw­he­re. "I'm thin­king of wri­ting mi­ne on the inj­us­ti­ce of se­ating charts. I got pa­ired with a girl who sa­id she just fi­nis­hed li­ce tre­at­ment this mor­ning."
  "My new part­ner," I sa­id, po­in­ting in­to the hal­lway at the back of Patch. He had an an­no­yingly con­fi­dent walk, the kind you find pa­ired with fa­ded T-shirts and a cow­boy hat. Patch wo­re ne­it­her. He was a dark-Le­vi's-dark-Hen­ley-dark-bo­ots kind of guy.
  "The se­ni­or trans­fer? Gu­ess he didn't study hard eno­ugh the first ti­me aro­und. Or the se­cond." She ga­ve me a kno­wing lo­ok. "Third ti­me's a charm."
  "He gi­ves me the cre­eps. He knew my mu­sic. Wit­ho­ut any hints what­so­ever, he sa­id, 'Ba­ro­que.' "I did a po­or job of mi­mic­king his low vo­ice.
  "Lucky gu­ess?"
  "He knew… ot­her things."
  "Li­ke what?"
  I let go of a sigh. He knew mo­re than I wan­ted to com­for­tably con­temp­la­te. "Li­ke how to get un­der my skin," I sa­id at last. "I'm go­ing to tell Co­ach he has to switch us back."
  "Go for it. I co­uld use a ho­ok for my next eZi­ne ar­tic­le. 'Tenth Gra­der Fights Back.' Bet­ter yet, 'Se­ating Chart Ta­kes Slap in the Fa­ce.' Mmm. I li­ke it."
  At the end of the day, I was the one who to­ok a slap in the fa­ce. Co­ach shot down my plea to ret­hink the se­ating chart. It ap­pe­ared I was stuck with Patch.
  For now.

CHAPTER 2

  MY MOM AND I LI­VE IN A DRAFTY EIGH­TE­ENTH-cent­rury farm­ho­use on the outs­kirts of Cold­wa­ter. It's the only ho­use on Hawt­hor­ne La­ne, and the ne­arest ne­igh­bors are al­most a mi­le away. I so­me­ti­mes won­der if the ori­gi­nal bu­il­der re­ali­zed that out of all the plots of land ava­ilab­le, he cho­se to const­ruct the ho­use in the eye of a myste­ri­o­us at­mosp­he­ric in­ver­si­on that se­ems to suck all the fog off Ma­ine's co­ast and transp­lant it in­to our yard. The ho­use was at this mo­ment ve­iled by glo­om that re­semb­led es­ca­ped and wan­de­ring spi­rits.
  I spent the eve­ning plan­ted on a sto­ol in the kitc­hen in the com­pany of al­geb­ra ho­me­work and Do­rot­hea, our ho­use­ke­eper. My mom works for the Hu­go Re­nal­di Auc­ti­on Com­pany, co­or­di­na­ting es­ta­te and an­ti­que auc­ti­ons all along the East Co­ast. This we­ek she was in ups­ta­te New York. Her job re­qu­ired a lot of tra­vel, and she pa­id Do­rot­hea to co­ok and cle­an, but I was pretty su­re the fi­ne print on Do­rot­hea's job desc­rip­ti­on inc­lu­ded ke­eping a watch­ful, pa­ren­tal eye on me.
  "How was scho­ol?" Do­rot­hea as­ked with a slight Ger­man ac­cent. She sto­od at the sink, scrub­bing over­ba­ked la­sag­na off a cas­se­ro­le dish.
  "I ha­ve a new bi­ology part­ner."
  "This is a go­od thing, or a bad thing?"
  "Vee was my old part­ner."
  "Humph." Mo­re vi­go­ro­us scrub­bing, and the flesh on Do­rot­hea's up­per arm jig­gled. "A bad thing, then."
  I sig­hed in ag­re­ement.
  "Tell me abo­ut the new part­ner. This girl, what is she li­ke?"
  "He's tall, dark, and an­no­ying." And eerily clo­sed off. Patch's eyes we­re black orbs. Ta­king in everyt­hing and gi­ving away not­hing. Not that I wan­ted to know mo­re abo­ut Patch. Sin­ce I hadn't li­ked what I'd se­en on the sur­fa­ce, I do­ub­ted I'd li­ke what was lur­king de­ep in­si­de.
  Only, this wasn't exactly true. I'd li­ked a lot of what I'd se­en. Long, le­an musc­les down his arms, bro­ad but re­la­xed sho­ul­ders, and a smi­le that was part play­ful, part se­duc­ti­ve. I was in an une­asy al­li­an­ce with myself, trying to ig­no­re what had star­ted to fe­el ir­re­sis­tib­le.
  At ni­ne o'clock Do­rot­hea fi­nis­hed for the eve­ning and loc­ked up on her way out. I flas­hed the porch lights twi­ce to say go­od-bye; they must ha­ve pe­net­ra­ted the fog, be­ca­use she ans­we­red with a honk. I was alo­ne.
  I to­ok in­ven­tory of the fe­elings pla­ying out in­si­de me. I wasn't hungry. I wasn't ti­red. I wasn't even all that lo­nely. But I was a lit­tle bit rest­less abo­ut my bi­ology as­sign­ment. I'd told Patch I wo­uldn't call, and six ho­urs ago I'd me­ant it. All I co­uld think now was that I didn't want to fa­il. Bi­ology was my to­ug­hest su­bj­ect. My gra­de tot­te­red prob­le­ma­ti­cal­ly bet­we­en A and B. In my mind, that was the dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en a full and half scho­lars­hip in my fu­tu­re.
  I went to the kitc­hen and pic­ked up the pho­ne. I lo­oked at what was left of the se­ven num­bers still tat­to­o­ed on my hand. Sec­retly I ho­ped Patch didn't ans­wer my call. If he was una­va­ilab­le or un­co-ope­ra­ti­ve on as­sign­ments, it was evi­den­ce I co­uld use aga­inst him to con­vin­ce Co­ach to un­do the se­ating chart. Fe­eling ho­pe­ful, I ke­yed in his num­ber.
  Patch ans­we­red on the third ring. "What's up?"
  In a mat­ter-of-fact to­ne I sa­id, "I'm cal­ling to see if we can me­et to­night. I know you sa­id you're busy, but-"
  "No­ra." Patch sa­id my na­me li­ke it was the punch li­ne to a joke. "Tho­ught you we­ren't go­ing to call. Ever."
  I ha­ted that I was eating my words. I ha­ted Patch for rub­bing it in. I ha­ted Co­ach and his de­ran­ged as­sign­ments. I ope­ned my mo­uth, ho­ping so­met­hing smart wo­uld co­me out. "Well? Can we me­et or not?"
  "As it turns out, I can't."
  "Can't, or won't?"
  "I'm in the mid­dle of a po­ol ga­me." I he­ard the smi­le in his vo­ice. "An im­por­tant po­ol ga­me."
  From the backg­ro­und no­ise I he­ard on his end, I be­li­eved he was tel­ling the truth-abo­ut the po­ol ga­me. Whet­her it was mo­re im­por­tant than my as­sign­ment was up for de­ba­te.
  "Whe­re are you?" I as­ked.
  "Bo's Ar­ca­de. It's not yo­ur kind of han­go­ut."
  "Then let's do the in­ter­vi­ew over the pho­ne. I've got a list of qu­es­ti­ons right-"
  He hung up on me.
  I sta­red at the pho­ne in dis­be­li­ef, then rip­ped a cle­an she­et of pa­per from my no­te­bo­ok. I scrib­bled Jerk on the first li­ne. On the li­ne be­ne­ath it I ad­ded, Smo­kes ci­gars. Will die of lung can­cer. Ho­pe­ful­ly so­on. Ex­cel­lent physi­cal sha­pe.
  I im­me­di­ately scrib­bled over the last ob­ser­va­ti­on un­til it was il­le­gib­le.
  The mic­ro­wa­ve clock blin­ked to 9:05. As I saw it, I had two cho­ices. Eit­her I fab­ri­ca­ted my in­ter­vi­ew with Patch, or I dro­ve to Bo's Ar­ca­de. The first op­ti­on might ha­ve be­en temp­ting, if I co­uld just block out Co­ach's vo­ice war­ning that he'd check all ans­wers for aut­hen­ti­city. I didn't know eno­ugh abo­ut Patch to bluff my way thro­ugh a who­le in­ter­vi­ew. And the se­cond op­ti­on? Not even re­mo­tely temp­ting.
  I de­la­yed ma­king a de­ci­si­on long eno­ugh to call my mom. Part of our ag­re­ement for her wor­king and tra­ve­ling so much was that I act res­pon­sibly and not be the kind of da­ugh­ter who re­qu­ired cons­tant su­per­vi­si­on. I li­ked my fre­edom, and I didn't want to do anyt­hing to gi­ve my mom a re­ason to ta­ke a pay cut and get a lo­cal job to ke­ep an eye on me.
  On the fo­urth ring her vo­ice ma­il pic­ked up.
  "It's me," I sa­id. "Just chec­king in. I've got so­me bi­ology ho­me­work to fi­nish up, then I'm go­ing to bed. Call me at lunch to­mor­row, if you want. Lo­ve you."
  After I hung up, I fo­und a qu­ar­ter in the kitc­hen dra­wer. Best to le­ave comp­li­ca­ted de­ci­si­ons to fa­te.
  "He­ads I go," I told Ge­or­ge Was­hing­ton's pro­fi­le, "ta­ils I stay." I flip­ped the qu­ar­ter in the air, flat­te­ned it to the back of my palm, and da­red a pe­ek. My he­art squ­e­ezed out an ext­ra be­at, and I told myself I wasn't su­re what it me­ant.
  "It's out of my hands now," I sa­id.
  De­ter­mi­ned to get this over with as qu­ickly as pos­sib­le, I grab­bed a map off the frid­ge, snag­ged my keys, and bac­ked my Fi­at Spi­der down the dri­ve­way. The car had pro­bably be­en cu­te in 1979, but I wasn't wild abo­ut the cho­co­la­te brown pa­int, the rust spre­ading unc­hec­ked ac­ross the back fen­der, or the crac­ked whi­te le­at­her se­ats.
  Bo's Ar­ca­de tur­ned out to be fart­her away than I wo­uld ha­ve li­ked, nest­led clo­se to the co­ast, a thirty-mi­nu­te dri­ve. With the map flat­te­ned to the ste­ering whe­el, I pul­led the Fi­at in­to a par­king lot be­hind a lar­ge cin­der-block bu­il­ding with an elect­ric sign flas­hing BO'S AR­CA­DE, MAD BLACK PA­INT­BALL & OZZ'S PO­OL HALL. Graf­fi­ti splas­hed the walls, and ci­ga­ret­te butts dot­ted the fo­un­da­ti­on. Cle­arly Bo's wo­uld be fil­led with fu­tu­re Ivy Le­agu­ers and mo­del ci­ti­zens. I tri­ed to ke­ep my tho­ughts lofty and nonc­ha­lant, but my sto­mach felt a lit­tle une­asy. Do­ub­le-chec­king that I'd loc­ked all the do­ors, I he­aded in­si­de.
  I sto­od in li­ne, wa­iting to get past the ro­pes. As the gro­up ahe­ad of me pa­id, I squ­e­ezed past, wal­king to­ward the ma­ze of bla­ring si­rens and blin­king lights.
  "Think you de­ser­ve a free ri­de?" hol­le­red a smo­ke-ro­ug­he­ned vo­ice.
  I swung aro­und and blin­ked at the he­avily tat­to­o­ed cas­hi­er. I sa­id, "I'm not he­re to play. I'm lo­oking for so­me­one."
  He grun­ted. "You want past me, you pay." He put his palms on the co­un­ter, whe­re a pri­ce chart had be­en duct-ta­ped, sho­wing I owed fif­te­en dol­lars. Cash only.
  I didn't ha­ve cash. And if I had, I wo­uldn't ha­ve was­ted it to spend a few mi­nu­tes in­ter­ro­ga­ting Patch abo­ut his per­so­nal li­fe. I felt a flush of an­ger at the se­ating chart and at ha­ving to be he­re in the first pla­ce. I only ne­eded to find Patch, then we co­uld hold the in­ter­vi­ew out­si­de. I was not go­ing to dri­ve all this way and le­ave empty-han­ded.
  "If I'm not back in two mi­nu­tes, I'll pay the fif­te­en dol­lars," I sa­id. Be­fo­re I co­uld exer­ci­se bet­ter judg­ment or mus­ter up a tad mo­re pa­ti­en­ce, I did so­met­hing comp­le­tely out of cha­rac­ter and duc­ked un­der the ro­pes. I didn't stop the­re. I hur­ri­ed thro­ugh the ar­ca­de, ke­eping my eyes open for Patch. I told myself I co­uldn't be­li­eve I was do­ing this, but I was li­ke a rol­ling snow­ball, ga­ining spe­ed and mo­men­tum. At this po­int I just wan­ted to find Patch and get out.
  The cas­hi­er fol­lo­wed af­ter me, sho­uting, "Hey!"
  Cer­ta­in Patch was not on the ma­in le­vel, I jog­ged downs­ta­irs, fol­lo­wing signs to Ozz's Po­ol Hall. At the bot­tom of the sta­irs, dim track ligh­ting il­lu­mi­na­ted se­ve­ral po­ker tab­les, all in use. Ci­gar smo­ke al­most as thick as the fog en­ve­lo­ping my ho­use clo­uded the low ce­iling. Nest­led bet­we­en the po­ker tab­les and the bar was a row of po­ol tab­les. Patch was stretc­hed ac­ross the one fart­hest from me, at­temp­ting a dif­fi­cult bank shot.
  "Patch!" I cal­led out.
  Just as I spo­ke, he shot his po­ol stick, dri­ving it in­to the tab­le-top. His he­ad whip­ped up. He sta­red at me with a mix­tu­re of surp­ri­se and cu­ri­osity.
  The cas­hi­er clom­ped down the steps be­hind me, vi­sing my sho­ul­der with his hand. "Upsta­irs. Now."
  Patch's mo­uth mo­ved in­to anot­her ba­rely-the­re smi­le. Hard to say if it was moc­king or fri­endly. "She's with me."
  This se­emed to hold so­me sway with the cas­hi­er, who lo­ose­ned his grip. Be­fo­re he co­uld chan­ge his mind, I sho­ok off his hand and we­aved thro­ugh the tab­les to­ward Patch. I to­ok the first se­ve­ral steps in stri­de, but fo­und my con­fi­den­ce slip­ping the clo­ser I got to him.
  I was im­me­di­ately awa­re of so­met­hing dif­fe­rent abo­ut him. I co­uldn't qu­ite put my fin­ger on it, but I co­uld fe­el it li­ke elect­ri­city. Mo­re ani­mo­sity?
  Mo­re con­fi­den­ce.
  Mo­re fre­edom to be him­self. And tho­se black eyes we­re get­ting to me. They we­re li­ke mag­nets clin­ging to my every mo­ve. I swal­lo­wed disc­re­etly and tri­ed to ig­no­re the qu­e­asy tap dan­ce in my sto­mach. I co­uldn't qu­ite put my fin­ger on it, but so­met­hing abo­ut Patch wasn't right. So­met­hing abo­ut him wasn't nor­mal. So­met­hing wasn't… sa­fe.
  "Sorry abo­ut the hang-up," Patch sa­id, co­ming be­si­de me. Re­cep­ti­on's not gre­at down he­re."
  Ye­ah, right.
  With a tilt of his he­ad, Patch mo­ti­oned the ot­hers to le­ave. The­re was an une­asy si­len­ce be­fo­re any­body mo­ved. The first guy to le­ave bum­ped in­to my sho­ul­der as he wal­ked past. I to­ok a step back to ba­lan­ce myself and lo­oked up just in ti­me to re­ce­ive cold eyes from the ot­her two pla­yers as they de­par­ted.
  Gre­at. It wasn't my fa­ult Patch was my part­ner.
  "Eight ball?" I as­ked him, ra­ising my eyeb­rows and trying to so­und comp­le­tely su­re of myself, of my sur­ro­un­dings. May­be he was right and Bo's wasn't my kind of pla­ce. That didn't me­an I was go­ing to bolt for the do­ors. "How high are the sta­kes?"
  His smi­le wi­de­ned. This ti­me I was pretty su­re he was moc­king me. "We don't play for mo­ney."
  I set my hand­bag on the ed­ge of the tab­le. "Too bad. I was go­ing to bet everyt­hing I ha­ve aga­inst you." I held up my as­sign­ment, two li­nes al­re­ady fil­led. "A few qu­ick qu­es­ti­ons and I'm out of he­re."
  "Jerk?" Patch re­ad out lo­ud, le­aning on his po­ol stick. "Lung can­cer? Is that sup­po­sed to be prop­he­tic?"
  I fan­ned the as­sign­ment thro­ugh the air. "I'm as­su­ming you cont­ri­bu­te to the at­mosp­he­re. How many ci­gars a night? One? Two?"
  "I don't smo­ke." He so­un­ded sin­ce­re, but I didn't buy it.
  "Mm-hmm," I sa­id, set­ting the pa­per down bet­we­en the eight ball and the so­lid purp­le. I ac­ci­den­tal­ly nud­ged the so­lid purp­le whi­le wri­ting De­fi­ni­tely ci­gars on li­ne three.
  "You're mes­sing up the ga­me," Patch sa­id, still smi­ling.
  I ca­ught his eye and co­uldn't help but match his smi­le-bri­efly. "Ho­pe­ful­ly not in yo­ur fa­vor. Big­gest dre­am?" I was pro­ud of this one be­ca­use I knew it wo­uld stump him. It re­qu­ired fo­ret­ho­ught.
  "Kiss you."
  "That's not funny," I sa­id, hol­ding his eyes, gra­te­ful I didn't stut­ter.
  "No, but it ma­de you blush."
  I bo­os­ted myself on­to the si­de of the tab­le, trying to lo­ok im­pas­si­ve. I cros­sed my legs, using my knee as a wri­ting bo­ard. "Do you work?"
  "I bus tab­les at the Bor­der­li­ne. Best Me­xi­can in town."
  "Re­li­gi­on?"
  He didn't se­em surp­ri­sed by the qu­es­ti­on, but he didn't se­em ove­rj­oyed by it eit­her. "I tho­ught you sa­id a few qu­ick qu­es­ti­ons. You're al­re­ady at num­ber fo­ur."
  "Re­li­gi­on?" I as­ked mo­re firmly.
  Patch drag­ged a hand tho­ught­ful­ly along the li­ne of his jaw. "Not re­li­gi­on… cult."
  "You be­long to a cult?" I re­ali­zed too la­te that whi­le I so­un­ded surp­ri­sed, I sho­uldn't ha­ve.
  "As it turns out, I'm in ne­ed of a he­althy fe­ma­le sac­ri­fi­ce. I'd plan­ned on lu­ring her in­to trus­ting me first, but if you're re­ady now
  Any smi­le left on my fa­ce slid away. "You're not imp­res­sing me.
  "I ha­ven't star­ted trying yet."
  I ed­ged off the tab­le and sto­od up to him. He was a full he­ad tal­ler. "Vee told me you're a se­ni­or. How many ti­mes ha­ve you fa­iled tenth-gra­de bi­ology? On­ce? Twi­ce?"
  "Vee isn't my spo­kes­per­son."
  "Are you den­ying fa­iling?"
  "I'm tel­ling you I didn't go to scho­ol last ye­ar." His eyes ta­un­ted me. It only ma­de me mo­re de­ter­mi­ned.
  "You we­re tru­ant?"
  Patch la­id his po­ol stick ac­ross the tab­le­top and cro­oked a fin­ger for me to co­me clo­ser. I didn't. "A sec­ret?" he sa­id in con­fi­den­ti­al to­nes. "I've ne­ver go­ne to scho­ol be­fo­re. Anot­her sec­ret? It's not as dull as I ex­pec­ted."
  He was lying. Ever­yo­ne went to scho­ol. The­re we­re laws. He was lying to get a ri­se out of me.
  "You think I'm lying," he sa­id aro­und a smi­le.
  "You've ne­ver be­en to scho­ol, ever? If that's true-and you're right, I don't think it is-what ma­de you de­ci­de to co­me this ye­ar?"
  'You/
  The im­pul­se to fe­el sca­red po­un­ded thro­ugh me, but I told myself that was exactly what Patch wan­ted. Stan­ding my gro­und, I tri­ed to act an­no­yed ins­te­ad. Still, it to­ok me a mo­ment to find my vo­ice. "That's not a re­al ans­wer."
  He must ha­ve ta­ken a step clo­ser, be­ca­use sud­denly our bo­di­es we­re se­pa­ra­ted by not­hing mo­re than a shal­low mar­gin of air. "Yo­ur eyes, No­ra. Tho­se cold, pa­le gray eyes are surp­ri­singly ir­re­sis­tib­le." He tip­ped his he­ad si­de­ways, as if to study me from a new ang­le. "And that kil­ler curvy mo­uth."
  Start­led not so much by his com­ment, but that part of me res­pon­ded po­si­ti­vely to it, I step­ped back. "That's it. I'm out of he­re."
  But as so­on as the words we­re out of my mo­uth, I knew they we­ren't true. I felt the ur­ge to say so­met­hing mo­re. Pic­king thro­ugh the tho­ughts tang­led in my he­ad, I tri­ed to find what it was I felt I had to say. Why was he so de­ri­si­ve, and why did he act li­ke I'd do­ne so­met­hing to de­ser­ve it?
  "You se­em to know a lot abo­ut me," I sa­id, ma­king the un­ders­ta­te­ment of the ye­ar. "Mo­re than you sho­uld. You se­em to know exactly what to say to ma­ke me un­com­for­tab­le."
  "You ma­ke it easy."
  A spark of an­ger fi­red thro­ugh me. "You ad­mit you're do­ing this on pur­po­se?"
  "This?"
  "This-pro­vo­king me."
  "Say 'pro­vo­king' aga­in. Yo­ur mo­uth lo­oks pro­vo­ca­ti­ve when you do."
  "We're do­ne. Fi­nish yo­ur po­ol ga­me." I grab­bed his po­ol stick off the tab­le and pus­hed it at him. He didn't ta­ke it.
  "I don't li­ke sit­ting be­si­de you," I sa­id. "I don't li­ke be­ing yo­ur part­ner. I don't li­ke yo­ur con­des­cen­ding smi­le." My jaw twitc­hed- so­met­hing that typi­cal­ly hap­pe­ned only when I li­ed. I won­de­red if I was lying now. If I was, I wan­ted to kick myself. "I don't li­ke you," I sa­id as con­vin­cingly as I co­uld, and thrust the stick aga­inst his chest.
  "I'm glad Co­ach put us to­get­her," he sa­id. I de­tec­ted the sligh­test irony on the word "Co­ach," but I co­uldn't fi­gu­re out any hid­den me­aning. This ti­me he to­ok the po­ol stick.
  "I'm wor­king to chan­ge that," I co­un­te­red.
  Patch tho­ught this was so funny, his te­eth sho­wed thro­ugh his smi­le. He re­ac­hed for me, and be­fo­re I co­uld mo­ve away, he un­tang­led so­met­hing from my ha­ir.
  "Pi­ece of pa­per," he exp­la­ined, flic­king it to the gro­und. As he re­ac­hed out, I no­ti­ced a mar­king on the in­si­de of his wrist. At first I as­su­med it was a tat­too, but a se­cond lo­ok re­ve­aled a ruddy brown, slightly ra­ised birth­mark. It was the sha­pe of a splat­te­red pa­int drop.
  That's an un­for­tu­na­te pla­ce for a birth­mark," I sa­id, mo­re than a lit­tle un­ner­ved that it was so si­mi­larly po­si­ti­oned to my own scar.
  Patch ca­su­al­ly but no­ti­ce­ably slid his sle­eve down over his wrist. "You'd pre­fer it so­mep­la­ce mo­re pri­va­te?"
  "I wo­uldn't pre­fer it anyw­he­re." I wasn't su­re how this so­un­ded and tri­ed aga­in. "I wo­uldn't ca­re if you didn't ha­ve it at all." I tri­ed a third ti­me. "I don't ca­re abo­ut yo­ur birth­mark, pe­ri­od."
  "Any mo­re qu­es­ti­ons?" he as­ked. "Com­ments?"
  "No."
  "Then I'll see you in bio."
  I tho­ught abo­ut tel­ling him he'd ne­ver see me aga­in. But I wasn't go­ing to eat my words twi­ce in one day.
  La­ter that night a crack! pul­led me out of sle­ep. With my fa­ce mas­hed in­to my pil­low, I held still, all my sen­ses on high alert. My mom was out of town at le­ast on­ce a month for work, so I was used to sle­eping alo­ne, and it had be­en months sin­ce I'd ima­gi­ned the so­und of fo­ots­teps cre­eping down the hall to­ward my bed­ro­om. The truth was, I ne­ver felt comp­le­tely alo­ne. Right af­ter my dad was shot to de­ath in Port­land whi­le bu­ying my mom's birth­day gift, a stran­ge pre­sen­ce en­te­red my li­fe. Li­ke so­me­one was or­bi­ting my world, watc­hing from a dis­tan­ce. At first the phan­tom pre­sen­ce had cre­eped me out, but when not­hing bad ca­me of it, my an­xi­ety lost its ed­ge. I star­ted won­de­ring if the­re was a cos­mic pur­po­se for the way I was fe­eling. May­be my dad's spi­rit was clo­se by. The tho­ught was usu­al­ly com­for­ting, but to­night was dif­fe­rent. The pre­sen­ce felt li­ke ice on the skin.
  Tur­ning my he­ad a frac­ti­on, I saw a sha­dowy form stretc­hing ac­ross my flo­or. I flip­ped aro­und to fa­ce the win­dow, the ga­uzy shaft of mo­on­light the only light in the ro­om ca­pab­le of cas­ting a sha­dow. But not­hing was the­re. I squ­e­ezed my pil­low aga­inst me and told myself it was a clo­ud pas­sing over the mo­on. Or a pi­ece of trash blo­wing in the wind. Still, I spent the next se­ve­ral mi­nu­tes wa­iting for my pul­se to calm down.
  By the ti­me I fo­und the co­ura­ge to get out of bed, the yard be­low my win­dow was si­lent and still. The only no­ise ca­me from tree branc­hes scra­ping aga­inst the ho­use, and my own he­art thrum­ming un­der my skin.

CHAPTER 3

  CO­ACH MCCO­NA­UGHY STO­OD AT THE CHALK­BO­ARD dro­ning on and on abo­ut so­met­hing, but my mind was far from the comp­le­xi­ti­es of sci­en­ce.
  I was busy for­mu­la­ting re­asons why Patch and I sho­uld no lon­ger be part­ners, ma­king a list of them on the back of an old qu­iz. As so­on as class was over, I wo­uld pre­sent my ar­gu­ment to Co­ach. Un­co­ope­ra­ti­ve on as­sign­ments, I wro­te. Shows lit­tle in­te­rest in te­am­work.
  But it was the things not lis­ted that bot­he­red me most. I fo­und the lo­ca­ti­on of Patch's birth­mark eerie, and I was spo­oked by the in­ci­dent at my win­dow last night. I didn't out­right sus­pect Patch of spying on me, but I co­uldn't ig­no­re the co­in­ci­den­ce that I was al­most po­si­ti­ve I'd se­en so­me­one lo­oking in my win­dow just ho­urs af­ter I'd met him.
  At the tho­ught of Patch spying on me, I re­ac­hed in­si­de the front com­part­ment of my back­pack and sho­ok two iron pills from a bot­tle, swal­lo­wing them who­le. They ca­ught in my thro­at a mo­ment, then fo­und the­ir way down.
  Out of the cor­ner of my eye, I ca­ught Patch's ra­ised eyeb­rows.
  I con­si­de­red exp­la­ining that I was ane­mic and had to ta­ke iron a few ti­mes a day, es­pe­ci­al­ly when I was un­der stress, but I tho­ught bet­ter. The ane­mia wasn't li­fe thre­ate­ning… as long as I to­ok re­gu­lar do­ses of iron. I wasn't pa­ra­no­id to the po­int that I tho­ught Patch me­ant me harm, but so­me­how, my me­di­cal con­di­ti­on was a vul­ne­ra­bi­lity that felt bet­ter kept sec­ret.
  "No­ra?"
  Co­ach sto­od at the front of the ro­om, his hand outst­retc­hed in a ges­tu­re that sho­wed he was wa­iting for one thing-my ans­wer. A slow burn ma­de its way up my che­eks.
  "Co­uld you re­pe­at the qu­es­ti­on?" I as­ked.
  The class snic­ke­red.
  Co­ach sa­id, with slight ir­ri­ta­ti­on, "What qu­ali­ti­es are you at­trac­ted to in a po­ten­ti­al ma­te?"
  "Po­ten­ti­al ma­te?"
  "Co­me on now, we ha­ven't got all af­ter­no­on."
  I co­uld he­ar Vee la­ug­hing be­hind me.
  My thro­at se­emed to const­rict. "You want me to list cha­rac­te­ris­tics of a…?"
  "Po­ten­ti­al ma­te, yes, that wo­uld be help­ful."
  Wit­ho­ut me­aning to, I lo­oked si­de­ways at Patch. He was eased back in his se­at, one notch abo­ve a slo­uch, stud­ying me with sa­tis­fac­ti­on. He flas­hed his pi­ra­te smi­le and mo­ut­hed, We're wa­iting.
  I stac­ked my hands on the tab­le, ho­ping I lo­oked mo­re com­po­sed than I felt. "I've ne­ver tho­ught abo­ut it be­fo­re."
  "Well, think fast."
  "Co­uld you call on so­me­one el­se first?"
  Co­ach ges­tu­red im­pa­ti­ently to my left. "You're up, Patch."
  Unli­ke me, Patch spo­ke with con­fi­den­ce. He had him­self po­si­ti­oned so his body was ang­led slightly to­ward mi­ne, our kne­es me­re inc­hes apart.
  "Intel­li­gent. At­trac­ti­ve. Vul­ne­rab­le."
  Co­ach was busy lis­ting the adj­ec­ti­ves on the bo­ard. "Vul­ne­rab­le?" he as­ked. "How so?"
  Vee spo­ke up. "Do­es this ha­ve anyt­hing to do with the unit we're stud­ying? Be­ca­use I can't find anyt­hing abo­ut de­si­red cha­rac­te­ris­tics of a ma­te anyw­he­re in our text."
  Co­ach stop­ped wri­ting long eno­ugh to lo­ok over his sho­ul­der. "Every ani­mal on the pla­net at­tracts ma­tes with the go­al of rep­ro­duc­ti­on. Frogs swell the­ir bo­di­es. Ma­le go­ril­las be­at the­ir chests. Ha­ve you ever watc­hed a ma­le lobs­ter ri­se up on the tips of his legs and snap his claws, de­man­ding fe­ma­le at­ten­ti­on? At­trac­ti­on is the first ele­ment of all ani­mal rep­ro­duc­ti­on, hu­mans inc­lu­ded. Why don't you gi­ve us yo­ur list, Miss Sky?"
  Vee held up fi­ve fin­gers. "Gor­ge­o­us, we­althy, in­dul­gent, fi­er­cely pro­tec­ti­ve, and just a lit­tle bit dan­ge­ro­us." A fin­ger went down with each desc­rip­ti­on.
  Patch la­ug­hed un­der his bre­ath. "The prob­lem with hu­man at­trac­ti­on is not kno­wing if it will be re­tur­ned."
  "Excel­lent po­int," Co­ach sa­id.
  "Hu­mans are vul­ne­rab­le," Patch con­ti­nu­ed, "be­ca­use they're ca­pab­le of be­ing hurt." At this, Patch's knee knoc­ked aga­inst mi­ne. I sco­oted away, not da­ring to let myself won­der what he me­ant by the ges­tu­re.
  Co­ach nod­ded. "The comp­le­xity of hu­man at­trac­ti­on-and rep­ro­duc­ti­on-is one of the fe­atu­res that set us apart from ot­her spe­ci­es."
  I tho­ught I he­ard Patch snort at this, but it was a very soft so­und, and I co­uldn't be su­re.
  Co­ach con­ti­nu­ed, "Sin­ce the dawn of ti­me, wo­men ha­ve be­en at­trac­ted to ma­tes with strong sur­vi­val skil­ls-li­ke in­tel­li­gen­ce and physi­cal pro­wess-be­ca­use men with the­se qu­ali­ti­es are mo­re li­kely to bring ho­me din­ner at the end of the day." He stuck his thumbs in the air and grin­ned. "Din­ner equ­als sur­vi­val, te­am."
  No one la­ug­hed.
  "Li­ke­wi­se," he con­ti­nu­ed, "men are at­trac­ted to be­a­uty be­ca­use it in­di­ca­tes he­alth and yo­uth-no po­int ma­ting with a sickly wo­man who won't be aro­und to ra­ise the child­ren." Co­ach pus­hed his glas­ses up the brid­ge of his no­se and chuck­led.
  "That is so se­xist," Vee pro­tes­ted. "Tell me so­met­hing that re­la­tes to a wo­man in the twenty-first cen­tury."
  "If you ap­pro­ach rep­ro­duc­ti­on with an eye to sci­en­ce, Miss Sky, you'll see that child­ren are the key to the sur­vi­val of our spe­ci­es. And the mo­re child­ren you ha­ve, the gre­ater yo­ur cont­ri­bu­ti­on to the ge­ne po­ol."
  I prac­ti­cal­ly he­ard Vee's eyes rol­ling. "I think we're fi­nal­ly get­ting clo­se to to­day's to­pic. Sex."
  "Almost," sa­id Co­ach, hol­ding up a fin­ger. "Be­fo­re sex co­mes at­trac­ti­on, but af­ter at­trac­ti­on co­mes body lan­gu­age. You ha­ve to com­mu­ni­ca­te 'I'm in­te­res­ted' to a po­ten­ti­al ma­te, only not in so many words."
  Co­ach po­in­ted be­si­de me. "All right, Patch. Let's say you're at a party. The ro­om is full of girls of all dif­fe­rent sha­pes and si­zes. You see blonds, bru­net­tes, red­he­ads, a few girls with black ha­ir. So­me are tal­ka­ti­ve, whi­le ot­hers ap­pe­ar shy. You've fo­und one girl who fits yo­ur pro­fi­le-attrac­ti­ve, in­tel­li­gent, and vul­ne­rab­le. How do you let her know you're in­te­res­ted?"
  "Sing­le her out. Talk to her."
  "Go­od. Now for the big qu­es­ti­on-how do you know if she's ga­me or if she wants you to mo­ve on?"
  "I study her," Patch sa­id. "I fi­gu­re out what she's thin­king and fe­eling. She's not go­ing to co­me right out and tell me, which is why I ha­ve to pay at­ten­ti­on. Do­es she turn her body to­ward mi­ne? Do­es she hold my eyes, then lo­ok away? Do­es she bi­te her lip and play with her ha­ir, the way No­ra is do­ing right now?"
  La­ugh­ter ro­se in the ro­om. I drop­ped my hands to my lap.
  "She's ga­me," sa­id Patch, bum­ping my leg aga­in. Of all things, I blus­hed.
  "Very go­od! Very go­od!" Co­ach sa­id, his vo­ice char­ged, smi­ling bro­adly at our at­ten­ti­ve­ness.
  "The blo­od ves­sels in No­ra's fa­ce are wi­de­ning and her skin is war­ming," Patch sa­id. "She knows she's be­ing eva­lu­ated. She li­kes the at­ten­ti­on, but she's not su­re how to hand­le it."
  "I am not blus­hing."
  "She's ner­vo­us," Patch sa­id. "She's stro­king her arm to draw at­ten­ti­on away from her fa­ce and down to her fi­gu­re, or may­be her skin. Both are strong sel­ling po­ints."
  I ne­arly cho­ked. He's joking, I told myself. No, he's in­sa­ne. I had no ex­pe­ri­en­ce de­aling with lu­na­tics, and it sho­wed. I felt li­ke I spent most of our ti­me to­get­her sta­ring at Patch, mo­uth aga­pe. If I had any il­lu­si­ons abo­ut ke­eping up with him, I was go­ing to ha­ve to fi­gu­re out a new ap­pro­ach.
  I pla­ced my hands flat aga­inst the tab­le, held my chin high, and tri­ed to lo­ok as if I still pos­ses­sed so­me dig­nity. "This is ri­di­cu­lo­us."
  Stretc­hing his arm out to his si­de with exag­ge­ra­ted slyness, Patch hung it on the back of my cha­ir. I had the stran­ge fe­eling that this was a thre­at aimed en­ti­rely at me, and that he was una­wa­re and un­ca­ring of how the class re­ce­ived it. They la­ug­hed, but he didn't se­em to he­ar it, hol­ding my eyes so singly with his own that I al­most be­li­eved he'd car­ved a small, pri­va­te world for us that no one el­se co­uld re­ach.
  Vul­ne­rab­le, he mo­ut­hed.
  I loc­ked my ank­les aro­und the legs of my cha­ir and jer­ked for­ward, fe­eling the we­ight of his arm drop off the back of the se­at. I was not vul­ne­rab­le.
  "And the­re you ha­ve it!" Co­ach sa­id. "Bi­ology in mo­ti­on."
  "Can we ple­ase talk abo­ut sex now?" as­ked Vee.
  "To­mor­row. Re­ad chap­ter se­ven and be re­ady for a dis­cus­si­on first thing."
  The bell rang, and Patch scra­ped his cha­ir back. "That was fun. Let's do it aga­in so­me­ti­me." Be­fo­re I co­uld co­me up with so­met­hing mo­re pithy than No, thanks, he ed­ged be­hind me and di­sap­pe­ared out the do­or.
  "I'm star­ting a pe­ti­ti­on to ha­ve Co­ach fi­red," Vee sa­id, co­ming to my tab­le. "What was up with class to­day? It was wa­te­red-down porn. He prac­ti­cal­ly had you and Patch on top of yo­ur lab tab­le, ho­ri­zon­tal, mi­nus yo­ur clot­hes, do­ing the Big De­ed-"
  I na­iled her with a lo­ok that sa­id, Do­es it lo­ok li­ke I want a rep­lay?
  "Ye­esh," Vee sa­id, step­ping back.
  "I ne­ed to talk to Co­ach. I'll me­et you at yo­ur loc­ker in ten mi­nu­tes."
  "Su­re thing."
  Co­ach kic­ked back in his cha­ir and fol­ded his hands be­hind his he­ad. "I li­ke the se­ating chart. Al­most as much as I li­ke this new man-to-man play I'm wor­king on for Sa­tur­day's ga­me."
  I set a copy of the scho­ol co­de of con­duct and stu­dent rights down on top of it. "By law, no stu­dent sho­uld fe­el thre­ate­ned on scho­ol pro­perty."
  "You fe­el thre­ate­ned?"
  "I fe­el un­com­for­tab­le. And I'd li­ke to pro­po­se a so­lu­ti­on." When Co­ach didn't cut me off, I drew a con­fi­dent bre­ath. "I will tu­tor any stu­dent from any of yo­ur bi­ology clas­ses-if you will se­at me be­si­de Vee aga­in."
  I ma­de my way up to Co­ach's desk, whe­re he sat hunc­hed over a bo­ok of bas­ket­ball plays. At first glan­ce all the Xs and Os ma­de it lo­ok li­ke he'd be­en pla­ying tic-tac-toe.
  'Hi, No­ra," he sa­id wit­ho­ut lo­oking up. "What can I do for you?"
  "I'm he­re to tell you the new se­ating chart and les­son plan is ma­king me un­com­for­tab­le."
  "Patch co­uld use a tu­tor."
  I re­sis­ted grit­ting my te­eth. "That de­fe­ats the po­int."
  "Did you see him to­day? He was in­vol­ved in the dis­cus­si­on. I ha­ven't he­ard him say one word all ye­ar, but I put him next to you and-bin­go. His gra­de in he­re is go­ing to imp­ro­ve."
  "And Vee's is go­ing to drop."
  "That hap­pens when you can't lo­ok si­de­ways to get the right ans­wer," he sa­id dryly.
  "Vee's prob­lem is lack of de­di­ca­ti­on. I'll tu­tor her."
  "No can do." Glan­cing at his watch, he sa­id, "I'm la­te for a me­eting. Are we do­ne he­re?"
  I squ­e­ezed my bra­in for one mo­re ar­gu­ment, but it ap­pe­ared I was fresh out of ins­pi­ra­ti­on.
  "Let's gi­ve the se­ating chart a few mo­re we­eks. Oh, and I was se­ri­o­us abo­ut tu­to­ring Patch. I'll co­unt you in." Co­ach didn't wa­it for my ans­wer; he whist­led the tu­ne to Je­opardy and duc­ked out the do­or.
  By se­ven o'clock the sky had glo­we­red in­to an inky blue, and I zip­ped up my co­at for warmth. Vee and I we­re on our way from the mo­vie the­ater to the par­king lot, ha­ving just watc­hed The Sac­ri­fi­ce. It was my job to re­vi­ew mo­vi­es for the eZi­ne, and sin­ce I'd al­re­ady se­en every ot­her mo­vie sho­wing at the the­ater, we'd re­sig­ned our­sel­ves to the la­test ur­ban chil­ler.
  "That," Vee sa­id, "was the fre­aki­est mo­vie I ha­ve ever se­en. As a ru­le, we are no lon­ger al­lo­wed to see anyt­hing sug­ges­ti­ve of hor­ror."
  Fi­ne by me. Ta­ke in­to con­si­de­ra­ti­on that so­me­one had be­en lur­king out­si­de my bed­ro­om win­dow last night and com­po­und it with watc­hing a fully de­ve­lo­ped stal­ker mo­vie to­night, and I was star­ting to fe­el a lit­tle bit pa­ra­no­id.
  "Can you ima­gi­ne?" Vee sa­id. "Li­ving yo­ur who­le li­fe ne­ver ha­ving a clue that the only re­ason you're be­ing kept ali­ve is to be used as a sac­ri­fi­ce?"
  We both shud­de­red.
  "And what was up with that al­tar?" she con­ti­nu­ed, an­no­yingly una­wa­re that I wo­uld ha­ve rat­her tal­ked abo­ut the li­fe cycle of fun­gi than abo­ut the mo­vie. "Why did the bad guy light the sto­ne on fi­re be­fo­re tying her down? When I he­ard her flesh siz­zle-"
  "Okay!" I prac­ti­cal­ly sho­uted. "Whe­re to next?"
  "And can I just say if a guy ever kis­ses me li­ke that, I will start dry he­aving. Re­pul­si­ve do­esn't be­gin to desc­ri­be what was go­ing on with his mo­uth. That was ma­ke­up, right? I me­an, no­body ac­tu­al­ly has a mo­uth li­ke that in re­al li­fe-"
  "My re­vi­ew is due by mid­night," I sa­id, cut­ting ac­ross her.
  "Oh. Right. To the lib­rary, then?" Vee un­loc­ked the do­ors to her 1995 purp­le Dod­ge Ne­on. "You're be­ing aw­ful­ly to­uchy, you know."
  I slid in­to the pas­sen­ger se­at. "Bla­me the mo­vie." Bla­me the Pe­eping Tom at my win­dow last night.
  "I'm not tal­king abo­ut just to­night. I've no­ti­ced," she sa­id with a misc­hi­evo­us cur­ve of her mo­uth, "that you've be­en unu­su­al­ly crabby for a go­od half ho­ur at the end of bio the past two days."
  "Also easy. Bla­me Patch."
  Vee's eyes flic­ked to the re­ar­vi­ew mir­ror. She adj­us­ted it for a bet­ter lo­ok at her te­eth. She lic­ked them, gi­ving a prac­ti­ced smi­le. "I ha­ve to ad­mit, his dark si­de calls to me."
  I had no de­si­re to ad­mit it, but Vee wasn't alo­ne. I felt drawn to Patch in a way I'd ne­ver felt drawn to an­yo­ne. The­re was a dark mag­ne­tism bet­we­en us. Aro­und him, I felt lu­red to the ed­ge of dan­ger. At any mo­ment, it felt li­ke he co­uld push me over the ed­ge.
  "He­aring you say that ma­kes me want to-" I pa­used, trying to think of exactly what our at­trac­ti­on to Patch did ma­ke me want to do. So­met­hing unp­le­asant.
  "Tell me you don't think he's go­od-lo­oking," Vee sa­id, "and I pro­mi­se I'll ne­ver bring up his na­me aga­in."
  I re­ac­hed to turn on the ra­dio. Of all things, the­re had to be so­met­hing bet­ter to do than ru­in our eve­ning by in­vi­ting Patch, al­be­it abst­ractly, in­to it. Sit­ting be­si­de him for one ho­ur ever) day, fi­ve days a we­ek, was plenty mo­re than I co­uld ta­ke. I wasn't gi­ving him my eve­nings, too.
  "Well?" Vee pres­sed.
  "He co­uld be go­od-lo­oking. But I'd be the last to know. I'm a ta­in­ted juror on this one, sorry."
  "What's that sup­po­sed to me­an?"
  "It me­ans I can't get be­yond his per­so­na­lity. No amo­unt of be­a­uty co­uld ma­ke up for it."
  "Not be­a­uty. He's… hard-edged. Sexy."
  I rol­led my eyes.
  Vee hon­ked and tap­ped her bra­ke as a car pul­led in front of her. "What? You di­sag­ree, or ro­ugh-and-ro­gu­ish isn't yo­ur type?"
  "I don't ha­ve a type," I sa­id. "I'm not that nar­row."
  Vee la­ug­hed. "You, ba­be, are mo­re than nar­row-you're con­fi­ned. Cram­ped. Yo­ur spect­rum is abo­ut as wi­de as one of Co­ach's mic­ro­or­ga­nisms. The­re are very few, if any, boys at scho­ol you wo­uld fall for."
  "That's not true." I sa­id the words auto­ma­ti­cal­ly. It wasn't un­til I'd spo­ken them that I won­de­red how ac­cu­ra­te they we­re. I had ne­ver be­en se­ri­o­usly in­te­res­ted in an­yo­ne. How we­ird was I? "It isn't abo­ut the boys, it's abo­ut… lo­ve. I ha­ven't fo­und it."
  "It isn't abo­ut lo­ve," Vee sa­id. "It's abo­ut fun."
  I lif­ted my eyeb­rows, do­ubt­ful. "Kis­sing a guy I don't know-I don't ca­re abo­ut-is fun?"
  "Ha­ven't you be­en pa­ying at­ten­ti­on in bio? It's abo­ut a lot mo­re than kis­sing."
  "Oh," I sa­id in an en­ligh­te­ned vo­ice. "The ge­ne po­ol is war­ped eno­ugh wit­ho­ut me cont­ri­bu­ting to it."
  "Want to know who I think wo­uld be re­al­ly go­od?"
  "Go­od?"
  "Go­od," she re­pe­ated with an in­de­cent smi­le.
  "Not par­ti­cu­larly."
  "Yo­ur part­ner."
  "Don't call him that," I sa­id. "'Part­ner' has a po­si­ti­ve con­no­ta­ti­on."
  Vee squ­e­ezed in­to a par­king spa­ce ne­ar the lib­rary do­ors and kil­led the en­gi­ne. "Ha­ve you ever fan­ta­si­zed abo­ut kis­sing him? Ha­ve you ever sto­len a pe­ek si­de­ways and ima­gi­ned flin­ging yo­ur­self at Patch and crus­hing yo­ur mo­uth to his?"
  I sta­red at her with a lo­ok I ho­ped spo­ke ap­pal­led shock. "Ha­ve you?"
  Vee grin­ned.
  I tri­ed to ima­gi­ne what Patch wo­uld do if pre­sen­ted with this in­for­ma­ti­on. As lit­tle as I knew abo­ut him, I sen­sed his aver­si­on to Vee as if it we­re conc­re­te eno­ugh to to­uch.
  "He's not go­od eno­ugh for you," I sa­id.
  She mo­aned. "Ca­re­ful, you'll only ma­ke me want him mo­re."
  Insi­de the lib­rary we to­ok a tab­le on the ma­in le­vel, ne­ar adult fic­ti­on. I ope­ned my lap­top and typed: The Sac­ri­fi­ce, two and a half stars. Two and a half was pro­bably on the low si­de. But I had a lot on my mind and wasn't fe­eling par­ti­cu­larly equ­itab­le.
  Vee ope­ned a bag of dri­ed ap­ple chips. "Want so­me?"
  "I'm go­od, thanks."
  She pe­ered in­to the bag. "If you're not go­ing to eat them, I'll ha­ve to. And I re­al­ly don't want to."
  Vee was on the co­lor-whe­el fru­it di­et. Three red fru­its a day, two blue, a hand­ful of gre­en…
  She held up an ap­ple chip, exa­mi­ning it front to back.
  "What co­lor?" I as­ked.
  "Ma­ke-me-gag-Gran­ny-Smith-gre­en. I think."
  Just then Mar­cie Mil­lar, the only sop­ho­mo­re to ma­ke var­sity che­er­le­ading in the his­tory of Cold­wa­ter High, to­ok a se­at on the ed­ge of our tab­le. Her straw­ber­ry blond ha­ir was com­bed in­to low pig­ta­ils, and li­ke al­ways, her skin was con­ce­aled un­der half a bot­tle of fo­un­da­ti­on. I was fa­irly cer­ta­in I'd gu­es­sed the right amo­unt, sin­ce the­re wasn't a tra­ce of her freck­les in sight. I hadn't se­en any of Mar­cie's freck­les sin­ce se­venth gra­de, the sa­me ye­ar she dis­co­ve­red Mary Kay. The­re was three-qu­ar­ters of an inch bet­we­en the hem of her skirt and the start of her un­der­we­ar… if she was even we­aring any.
  "Hi, Su­per­si­ze," Mar­cie sa­id to Vee.
  "Hi, Fre­aks­how," Vee sa­id back.
  "My mom is lo­oking for mo­dels this we­ekend. The pay is ni­ne dol­lars an ho­ur. I tho­ught you'd be in­te­res­ted."
  Mar­cie's mom ma­na­ges the lo­cal JC­Pen­ney, and on we­ekends she has Mar­cie and the rest of the che­er­le­aders mo­del bi­ki­nis in the sto­re's stre­et-fa­cing disp­lay win­dows.
  "She's ha­ving a re­al­ly hard ti­me fin­ding plus-si­ze lin­ge­rie mo­dels," sa­id Mar­cie.
  "You've got fo­od stuck in yo­ur te­eth," Vee told Mar­cie. "In the crack bet­we­en yo­ur two front te­eth. Lo­oks li­ke cho­co­la­te Ex-Lax
  Mar­cie lic­ked her te­eth and slid off the tab­le. As she sas­ha­yed off, Vee stuck her fin­ger in her mo­uth and ma­de gag­ging ges­tu­res at Mar­cie's back.
  "She's lucky we're at the lib­rary," Vee told me. "She's luck) we didn't cross paths in a dark al­ley. Last chan­ce-any chips?"
  "Pass."
  Vee wan­de­red off to dis­card the chips. A few mi­nu­tes la­ter she re­tur­ned with a ro­man­ce no­vel. She to­ok the se­at next to me and, disp­la­ying the no­vel's co­ver, sa­id, "So­me­day this is go­ing to be us. Ra­vis­hed by half-dres­sed cow­boys. I won­der what it's li­ke to kiss a pa­ir of sun­ba­ked, mud-crus­ted lips?"
  "Dirty," I mur­mu­red, typing away.
  "Spe­aking of dirty." The­re was an unex­pec­ted ri­se in her vo­ice. "The­re's our guy."
  I stop­ped typing long eno­ugh to pe­er over my lap­top, and my he­art skip­ped a be­at. Patch sto­od ac­ross the ro­om in the chec­ko­ut li­ne. As if he sen­sed me watc­hing, he tur­ned. Our eyes loc­ked for one, two, three co­unts. I bro­ke away first, but not be­fo­re re­ce­iving a slow grin.
  My he­art­be­at tur­ned er­ra­tic, and I told myself to pull it to­get­her. I was not go­ing down this path. Not with Patch. Not un­less I was out of my mind.
  "Let's go," I told Vee. Shut­ting my lap­top, I zip­ped it in­si­de its car­rying ca­se. I pus­hed my bo­oks in­si­de my back­pack, drop­ping a few on the flo­or as I did.
  Vee sa­id, "I'm trying to re­ad the tit­le he's hol­ding… hang on… How to Be a Stal­ker."
  "He is not chec­king out a bo­ok with that tit­le." But I wasn't su­re.
  "It's eit­her that or How to Ra­di­ate Sexy Wit­ho­ut Trying"
  "Shh!" I his­sed.
  "Calm down, he can't he­ar. He's tal­king to the lib­ra­ri­an. He's chec­king out."
  Con­fir­ming this with a qu­ick glan­ce over, I re­ali­zed that if we left now, we'd pro­bably me­et him at the exit do­ors. And then I wo­uld be ex­pec­ted to say so­met­hing to him. I or­de­red myself back in­to my cha­ir and se­arc­hed di­li­gently thro­ugh my poc­kets for not­hing what­so­ever whi­le he fi­nis­hed chec­king out.
  "Do you think it's cre­epy he's he­re at the sa­me ti­me we are?" Vee as­ked.
  "Do you?"
  "I think he's fol­lo­wing you."
  "I think it's a co­in­ci­den­ce." This wasn't en­ti­rely true. If I had to ma­ke a list of the top ten pla­ces I wo­uld ex­pect to find Patch on any gi­ven night, the pub­lic lib­rary wo­uldn't ma­ke it. The lib­rary wo­uldn't ma­ke the top hund­red pla­ces. So what was he do­ing he­re?
  The qu­es­ti­on was par­ti­cu­larly dis­tur­bing af­ter what had hap­pe­ned last night. I hadn't men­ti­oned it to Vee be­ca­use I was ho­ping it wo­uld shrink and shri­vel in my me­mory un­til it ce­ased to ha­ve hap­pe­ned. Pe­ri­od.
  "Patch!" Vee sta­ge-whis­pe­red. "Are you stal­king No­ra?"
  I clam­ped my hand over her mo­uth. "Stop it. I me­an it." I put on a se­ve­re fa­ce.
  "I bet he is fol­lo­wing you," sa­id Vee, prying my hand away. "I bet he has a his­tory of it too. I bet he has rest­ra­ining or­ders. We sho­uld sne­ak in­to the front of­fi­ce. It wo­uld all be in his stu­dent fi­le."
  "We are not sne­aking in­to the front of­fi­ce."
  "I co­uld cre­ate a di­ver­si­on. I'm go­od at di­ver­si­ons. No one wo­uld see you go in. We co­uld be li­ke spi­es."
  "We are not spi­es."
  "Do you know his last na­me?" Vee as­ked.
  "No."
  "Do you know anyt­hing abo­ut him?"
  "No. And I'd li­ke to ke­ep it that way."
  "Oh, co­me on. You lo­ve a go­od mystery, and it do­esn't get bet­ter than this."
  "The best myste­ri­es in­vol­ve a de­ad body. We don't ha­ve a de­ad body."
  Vee squ­e­aled. "Not yet!"
  Sha­king two iron pills from the bot­tle in my back­pack, I swal­lo­wed them to­get­her.
  Vee bo­un­ced the Ne­on in­to her dri­ve­way just af­ter ni­ne thirty. She kil­led the en­gi­ne and dang­led the keys in front of me.
  "You're not go­ing to dri­ve me ho­me?" I as­ked. A was­te of bre­ath, sin­ce I knew her ans­wer.
  "The­re's fog."
  "Patchy fog."
  Vee grin­ned. "Oh, boy. He is so on yo­ur mind. Not that I bla­me you. Per­so­nal­ly, I'm ho­ping I dre­am abo­ut him to­night."
  Ugh.
  "And the fog al­ways gets wor­se ne­ar yo­ur ho­use," Vee con­ti­nu­ed. "It fre­aks me out af­ter dark."
  I grab­bed the keys. "Thanks a lot."
  "Don't bla­me me. Tell yo­ur mom to mo­ve clo­ser. Tell her the­re's this new club cal­led ci­vi­li­za­ti­on and you guys sho­uld jo­in."
  "I sup­po­se you ex­pect me to pick you up be­fo­re scho­ol to­mor­row?"
  "Se­ven thirty wo­uld be ni­ce. Bre­ak­fast is on me."
  "It bet­ter be go­od."
  "Be ni­ce to my baby." She pat­ted the Ne­on's dash. "But not too ni­ce. Can't ha­ve her thin­king the­re's bet­ter out the­re."
  On the dri­ve ho­me I al­lo­wed my tho­ughts a bri­ef trip to Patch. Vee was right-so­met­hing abo­ut him was inc­re­dibly al­lu­ring. And inc­re­dibly cre­epy. The mo­re I tho­ught abo­ut it, the mo­re I was con­vin­ced so­met­hing abo­ut him was… off. The fact that he li­ked to an­ta­go­ni­ze me wasn't exactly a news flash, but the­re was a dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en get­ting un­der my skin in class and pos­sibly go­ing as far as fol­lo­wing me to the lib­rary to ac­comp­lish it. Not many pe­op­le wo­uld go to that much tro­ub­le… un­less they had a very go­od re­ason.
  Half­way ho­me a pat­te­ring ra­in flus­hed out the wispy clo­uds of fog ho­ve­ring abo­ve the ro­ad. Di­vi­ding my at­ten­ti­on bet­we­en the ro­ad and the cont­rols on the ste­ering whe­el, I tri­ed to lo­ca­te the winds­hi­eld wi­pers.
  The stre­et­lights flic­ke­red over­he­ad, and I won­de­red if a he­avi­er storm was blo­wing in. This clo­se to the oce­an the we­at­her chan­ged cons­tantly, and a ra­ins­torm co­uld qu­ickly es­ca­la­te in­to a flash flo­od. I fed the Ne­on mo­re gas.
  The out­si­de lights flic­ke­red aga­in. A cold fe­eling prick­led up the back of my neck, and the ha­irs on my arms ting­led. My sixth sen­se gra­du­ated to high alert. I as­ked myself if I tho­ught I was be­ing fol­lo­wed. The­re we­re no he­ad­lights in the re­ar­vi­ew mir­ror. No cars ahe­ad, eit­her. I was all alo­ne. It wasn't a very com­for­ting tho­ught. I pus­hed the car to forty-fi­ve.
  I fo­und the wi­pers, but even at top spe­ed they co­uldn't ke­ep up with the ham­me­ring ra­in. The stop­light ahe­ad tur­ned yel­low. I rol­led to a stop, chec­ked to see that traf­fic was cle­ar, then pul­led in­to the in­ter­sec­ti­on.
  I he­ard the im­pact be­fo­re I re­gis­te­red the dark sil­ho­u­et­te skid­ding ac­ross the ho­od of the car.
  I scre­amed and stom­ped on the bra­ke. The sil­ho­u­et­te thum­ped in­to the winds­hi­eld with a splin­te­ring crack.
  On im­pul­se, I jer­ked the ste­ering whe­el a hard right. The back end of the Ne­on fish­ta­iled, sen­ding me spin­ning ac­ross the in­ter­sec­ti­on. The sil­ho­u­et­te rol­led and di­sap­pe­ared over the ed­ge of the ho­od.
  I was hol­ding my bre­ath, squ­e­ezing the ste­ering whe­el bet­we­en whi­te-knuck­led hands. I lif­ted my fe­et off the pe­dals. The car buc­ked and stal­led out.
  He was cro­uc­hed a few fe­et away, watc­hing me. He didn't lo­ok at all… inj­ured.
  He was dres­sed in to­tal black and blen­ded with the night, ma­king it hard to tell what he lo­oked li­ke. At first I co­uldn't dis­tin­gu­ish any fa­ci­al fe­atu­res, and then I re­ali­zed he was we­aring a ski mask.
  He ro­se to his fe­et, clo­sing the dis­tan­ce bet­we­en us. He flat­te­ned his palms to the dri­ver's-si­de win­dow. Our eyes con­nec­ted thro­ugh the ho­les in the mask. A let­hal smi­le se­emed to ri­se in his.
  He ga­ve anot­her po­und, the glass vib­ra­ting bet­we­en us.
  I star­ted the car. I tri­ed to synchro­ni­ze sho­ving it in­to first ge­ar, pus­hing on the gas pe­dal, and re­le­asing the clutch. The en­gi­ne rev­ved, but the car buc­ked aga­in and di­ed.
  I tur­ned the en­gi­ne over on­ce mo­re, but was dist­rac­ted by an off-key me­tal­lic gro­an. I watc­hed with hor­ror as the do­or be­gan to bow. He was te­aring-it-off.
  I ram­med the car in­to first. My sho­es slip­ped over the pe­dals. The en­gi­ne ro­ared, the RPM ne­ed­le on the dash spi­king in­to the red zo­ne.
  His fist ca­me thro­ugh the win­dow in an exp­lo­si­on of glass. His hand fumb­led over my sho­ul­der, clam­ping aro­und my arm. I ga­ve a ho­ar­se cry, stom­ped the gas pe­dal, and re­le­ased the clutch. The Ne­on scre­ec­hed in­to mo­ti­on. He hung on, grip­ping my arm, run­ning be­si­de the car se­ve­ral fe­et be­fo­re drop­ping away.
  I sped for­ward with the for­ce of ad­re­na­li­ne. I chec­ked the re­ar­vi­ew mir­ror to ma­ke su­re he wasn't cha­sing me, then sho­ved the mir­ror to fa­ce away. I had to press my lips to­get­her to ke­ep from sob­bing.

CHAPTER 4

  FLYING DOWN HAWT­HOR­NE, I DRO­VE PAST MY ho­use, circ­led back, cut over to Be­ech, and he­aded back to­ward the cen­ter of Cold­wa­ter. I spe­ed-di­aled Vee. "So­met­hing hap­pe­ned-I-he- it-out of now­he­re-the Ne­on-" "You're bre­aking up. What?"
  I wi­ped my no­se with the back of my hand. I was tremb­ling down to my to­es. "He ca­me out of now­he­re."
  "Who?"
  "He-" I tri­ed to net my tho­ughts and fun­nel them in­to words. "He jum­ped in front of the car!"
  "Oh, man. Oh-man-oh-man-oh-man. You hit a de­er! Are you okay? What abo­ut Bam­bi?" She half wa­iled, half gro­aned. "The Ne­on?"
  I ope­ned my mo­uth, but Vee cut me off.
  "For­get it. I've got in­su­ran­ce. Just tell me the­re aren't de­er parts all over my baby… No de­er parts, right?"
  Wha­te­ver ans­wer I was abo­ut to gi­ve fa­ded in­to the backg­ro­und. My mind was two steps ahe­ad. A de­er. May­be I co­uld pass the who­le thing off as hit­ting a de­er. I wan­ted to con­fi­de in Vee, but I didn't want to so­und crazy, eit­her. How was I go­ing to exp­la­in watc­hing the guy I hit ri­se to his fe­et and be­gin te­aring off the car do­or? I stretc­hed my col­lar down past my sho­ul­der. No red marks whe­re he'd grip­ped me that I co­uld see…
  I ca­me to myself with a start. Was I ac­tu­al­ly con­si­de­ring den­ying it had hap­pe­ned? I knew what I'd se­en. It was not my ima­gi­na­ti­on.
  "Holy fre­ak show," Vee sa­id. "You're not ans­we­ring. The de­er is lod­ged in my he­ad­lights, isn't he? You're dri­ving aro­und with him stuck to the front of the car li­ke a snowp­low."
  "Can I sle­ep at yo­ur pla­ce?" I wan­ted to get off the stre­ets. Out of the dark. With a sud­den in­ta­ke of air, I re­ali­zed to get to Vee's, I'd ha­ve to dri­ve back thro­ugh the in­ter­sec­ti­on whe­re I'd hit him.
  "I'm down in my ro­om," sa­id Vee. "Let yo­ur­self in. See you in a few."
  With my hands tight on the ste­ering whe­el, I pus­hed the Ne­on thro­ugh the ra­in, pra­ying the light at Hawt­hor­ne wo­uld be gre­en in my fa­vor. It was, and I flo­ored it thro­ugh the in­ter­sec­ti­on, ke­eping my eyes stra­ight ahe­ad, but at the sa­me ti­me, ste­aling glimp­ses in­to the sha­dows along the si­de of the ro­ad. The­re was no sign of the guy in the ski mask.
  Ten mi­nu­tes la­ter I par­ked the Ne­on in Vee's dri­ve­way. The da­ma­ge to the do­or was ex­ten­si­ve, and I had to put my fo­ot to it and kick my way out. Then I jog­ged to the front do­or, bol­ted myself in­si­de, and hur­ri­ed down the ba­se­ment sta­irs.
  Vee was sit­ting cross-leg­ged on her bed, no­te­bo­ok prop­ped bet­we­en her kne­es, ear­buds plug­ged in, iPod tur­ned up all the way. "Do I want to see the da­ma­ge to­night, or sho­uld I wa­it un­til I've had at le­ast se­ven ho­urs of sle­ep?" she cal­led over the mu­sic.
  "May­be op­ti­on num­ber two."
  Vee snap­ped the no­te­bo­ok shut and tug­ged out the ear­buds. "Let's set it over with."
  When we got out­si­de, I sta­red at the Ne­on for a long mo­ment. It wasn't a warm night, but the we­at­her wasn't the ca­use of the go­ose bumps rip­pling over my arms. No smas­hed dri­ver's-si­de win­dow. No bend in the do­or.
  "So­met­hing's not right," I sa­id. But Vee wasn't lis­te­ning. She was busy ins­pec­ting every squ­are inch of the Ne­on.
  I step­ped for­ward and po­ked the dri­ver's-si­de win­dow. So­lid glass. I clo­sed my eyes. When I re­ope­ned them, the win­dow was still in­tact.
  I wal­ked aro­und the back of the car. I'd comp­le­ted al­most a full circ­le when I ca­me up short.
  A fi­ne crack bi­sec­ted the winds­hi­eld.
  Vee saw it at the sa­me ti­me. "Are you su­re it wasn't a squ­ir­rel?"
  My mind flas­hed back to the let­hal eyes be­hind the ski mask. They we­re so black I co­uldn't dis­tin­gu­ish the pu­pils from the iri­ses. Black li­ke… Patch's.
  "Lo­ok at me, I'm crying te­ars of joy," Vee sa­id, spraw­ling her­self ac­ross the Ne­on's ho­od in a hug. "A te­eny-tiny crack. That's it!"
  I ma­nu­fac­tu­red a smi­le, but my sto­mach so­ured. Fi­ve mi­nu­tes ago, the win­dow was smas­hed out and the do­or was bo­wed. Lo­oking at the car now, it se­emed im­pos­sib­le. No, it se­emed crazy. But I saw his fist punch thro­ugh the glass, and I felt his fin­ger­na­ils bi­te in­to my sho­ul­der.
  Hadn't I?
  The har­der I tri­ed to re­call the crash, the mo­re I co­uldn't. Lit­tle blips of mis­sing in­for­ma­ti­on cut ac­ross my me­mory. The de­ta­ils we­re fa­ding. Was he tall? Short? Thin? Bulky? Had he sa­id anyt­hing?
  I co­uldn't re­mem­ber. That was the most frigh­te­ning part.
  Vee and I left her ho­use at se­ven fif­te­en the fol­lo­wing mor­ning and dro­ve to En­zo's Bist­ro to grab a bre­ak­fast of ste­amed milk. With my hands wrap­ped aro­und my chi­na cup, I tri­ed to warm away the de­ep chill in­si­de me. I'd sho­we­red, pul­led on a ca­mi­so­le and car­di­gan bor­ro­wed from Vee's clo­set, and swept on so­me ma­ke­up, but I hardly re­mem­be­red do­ing it.
  "Don't lo­ok now," Vee sa­id, "but Mr. Gre­en Swe­ater ke­eps lo­oking this way, es­ti­ma­ting yo­ur long legs thro­ugh yo­ur je­ans… Oh! He just sa­lu­ted me. I am not kid­ding. A lit­tle two-fin­ger mi­li­tary sa­lu­te. How ado­rab­le."
  I wasn't lis­te­ning. Last night's ac­ci­dent had rep­la­yed it­self in my he­ad all night, cha­sing away any chan­ce of sle­ep. My tho­ughts we­re in tang­les, my eyes we­re dry and he­avy, and I co­uldn't con­cent­ra­te.
  "Mr. Gre­en Swe­ater lo­oks nor­mal, but his wing­man lo­oks hard­co­re bad boy," sa­id Vee. "Emits a cer­ta­in don't-mess-with-me sig­nal. Tell me he do­esn't lo­ok li­ke Dra­cu­la's spawn. Tell me I'm ima­gi­ning things."
  Lif­ting my eyes just high eno­ugh to get a lo­ok at him wit­ho­ut ap­pe­aring that I was, I to­ok in his fi­ne-bo­ned, hand­so­me fa­ce. Blond ha­ir hung at his sho­ul­ders. Eyes the co­lor of chro­me. Uns­ha­ven. Im­pec­cably dres­sed in a ta­ilo­red jac­ket over his gre­en swe­ater and dark de­sig­ner je­ans. I sa­id, "You're ima­gi­ning things."
  "Did you miss the de­ep-set eyes? The wi­dow's pe­ak? The tall, lanky bu­ild? He might even be tall eno­ugh for me."
  Vee is clo­sing in on six fe­et tall, but she has a thing for he­els.
  High he­els. She al­so has a thing abo­ut not da­ting shor­ter guys.
  "Okay, what's wrong?" Vee as­ked. "You've go­ne all in­com­mu­ni­ca­do. This isn't abo­ut the crack in my winds­hi­eld, is it? So what if you hit an ani­mal? It co­uld hap­pen to an­yo­ne. Gran­ted, the chan­ces wo­uld be a lot slim­mer if yo­ur mom re­lo­ca­ted out of the wil­der­ness."
  I was go­ing to tell Vee the truth abo­ut what hap­pe­ned. So­on. I just ne­eded a lit­tle ti­me to sort out the de­ta­ils. The prob­lem was, I didn't see how I co­uld. The only de­ta­ils left we­re spotty, at best. It was as if an era­ser had scrub­bed my me­mory blank. Thin­king back, I re­mem­be­red the he­avy ra­in cas­ca­ding down the Ne­on's win­dows, ca­using everyt­hing out­si­de to blur. Had I in fact hit a de­er?
  "Mmm, check it out," sa­id Vee. "Mr. Gre­en Swe­ater is get­ting out of his se­at. Now that's a body that hits the gym re­gu­larly. He is de­fi­ni­tely ma­king his way to­ward us, his eyes pur­su­ing the re­al es­ta­te, yo­ur re­al es­ta­te, that is."
  A half be­at la­ter we we­re gre­eted with a low, ple­asant "Hel­lo."
  Vee and I lo­oked up at the sa­me ti­me. Mr. Gre­en Swe­ater sto­od just back from our tab­le, his thumbs ho­oked in the poc­kets of his je­ans. He was blue-eyed, with stylishly shaggy blond ha­ir swept ac­ross his fo­re­he­ad.
  "Hel­lo yo­ur­self," Vee sa­id. "I'm Vee. This is No­ra Grey."
  I frow­ned at Vee. I did not ap­pre­ci­ate her tag­ging on my last na­me, fe­eling that it vi­ola­ted an uns­po­ken cont­ract bet­we­en girls, let alo­ne best fri­ends, upon me­eting unk­nown boys. I ga­ve a half­he­ar­ted wa­ve and bro­ught my cup to my lips, im­me­di­ately scal­ding my ton­gue.
  He drag­ged a cha­ir over from the next tab­le and sat back­ward on it, his arms res­ting whe­re his back sho­uld ha­ve be­en. Hol­ding a hand out to me, he sa­id, "I'm El­li­ot Sa­un­ders." Fe­eling way too for­mal, I sho­ok it. "And this is Jules," he ad­ded, jer­king his chin to­ward his fri­end, whom Vee had grossly un­de­res­ti­ma­ted by cal­ling "tall."
  Jules lo­we­red all of him­self in­to a se­at be­si­de Vee, dwar­fing the cha­ir.
  She sa­id to him, "I think you might be the tal­lest guy I've ever se­en. Se­ri­o­usly, how tall are you?"
  "Six fo­ot ten," Jules mut­te­red, slum­ping in his se­at and cros­sing his arms.
  Elli­ot cle­ared his thro­at. "Can I get you la­di­es so­met­hing to eat?"
  "I'm fi­ne," I sa­id, ra­ising my cup. "I al­re­ady or­de­red."
  Vee kic­ked me un­der the tab­le. "She'll ha­ve a va­nil­la-cre­am-fil­led do­ugh­nut. Ma­ke it two."
  "So much for the di­et, huh?" I as­ked Vee.
  "Huh yo­ur­self. The va­nil­la be­an is a fru­it. A brown fru­it."
  "It's a le­gu­me."
  "You su­re abo­ut that?"
  I wasn't.
  Jules clo­sed his eyes and pinc­hed the brid­ge of his no­se. Ap­pa­rently he was as thril­led to be sit­ting with us as I was to ha­ve them he­re.
  As El­li­ot wal­ked to the front co­un­ter, I let my eyes tra­il af­ter him. He was de­fi­ni­tely in high scho­ol, but I hadn't se­en him at CHS be­fo­re. I wo­uld re­mem­ber. He had a char­ming, out­go­ing per­so­na­lity that didn't fa­de in­to the backg­ro­und. If I wasn't fe­eling so sha­ken, I might ha­ve ac­tu­al­ly ta­ken an in­te­rest. In fri­ends­hip, may­be mo­re.
  "Do you li­ve aro­und he­re?" Vee as­ked Jules.
  "Mmm."
  "Go to scho­ol?"
  "King­horn Prep." The­re was a tin­ge of su­pe­ri­ority in the way he sa­id it.
  "Ne­ver he­ard of it."
  "Pri­va­te scho­ol. Port­land. We start at ni­ne." He lif­ted his sle­eve and glan­ced at his watch.
  Vee dip­ped a fin­ger in the froth of her milk and lic­ked it off. "Is it ex­pen­si­ve?"
  Jules lo­oked at her di­rectly for the first ti­me. His eyes stretc­hed, sho­wing a lit­tle whi­te aro­und the ed­ges.
  "Are you rich? I bet you are," she sa­id.
  Jules eyed Vee li­ke she'd just kil­led a fly on his fo­re­he­ad. He scra­ped his cha­ir back se­ve­ral inc­hes, dis­tan­cing him­self from us.
  Elli­ot re­tur­ned with a box of a half-do­zen do­ugh­nuts.
  "Two va­nil­la cre­ams for the la­di­es," he sa­id, pus­hing the box to­ward me, "and fo­ur gla­zed for me. Gu­ess I'd bet­ter fill up now, sin­ce I don't know what the ca­fe­te­ria is li­ke at Cold­wa­ter High."
  Vee ne­arly spe­wed her milk. "You go to CHS?"
  "As of to­day. I just trans­fer­red from King­horn Prep."
  "No­ra and I go to CHS," Vee sa­id. "I ho­pe you ap­pre­ci­ate yo­ur go­od for­tu­ne. Anyt­hing you ne­ed to know-inclu­ding who you sho­uld in­vi­te to Spring Fling-just ask. No­ra and I don't ha­ve da­tes…yet."
  I de­ci­ded it was ti­me to part ways. Jules was ob­vi­o­usly bo­red and ir­ri­ta­ted, and be­ing in his com­pany wasn't hel­ping my al­re­ady rest­less mo­od. I ma­de a big pre­sen­ta­ti­on of lo­oking at the clock on my cell pho­ne and sa­id, "We bet­ter get to scho­ol, Vee. We ha­ve a bio test to study for. El­li­ot and Jules, it was ni­ce me­eting you."
  "Our bio test isn't un­til Fri­day," sa­id Vee.
  On the in­si­de, I crin­ged. On the out­si­de, I smi­led thro­ugh my te­eth. "Right. I me­ant to say I ha­ve an Eng­lish test. The works of… Ge­of­frey Cha­ucer." Ever­yo­ne knew I was lying.
  In a re­mo­te way my ru­de­ness bot­he­red me, es­pe­ci­al­ly sin­ce El­li­ot hadn't do­ne anyt­hing to de­ser­ve it. But I didn't want to sit he­re any lon­ger. I wan­ted to ke­ep mo­ving for­ward, dis­tan­cing myself from last night. May­be the di­mi­nis­hing me­mory wasn't such a bad thing af­ter all. The so­oner I for­got the ac­ci­dent, the so­oner my li­fe wo­uld re­su­me its nor­mal pa­ce.
  "I ho­pe you ha­ve a re­al­ly gre­at first day, and may­be we'll see you at lunch," I told El­li­ot. Then I drag­ged Vee up by her el­bow and ste­ered her out the do­or.
  The scho­ol day was al­most over, only bi­ology left, and af­ter a qu­ick stop by my loc­ker to exc­han­ge bo­oks, I he­aded to class. Vee and I ar­ri­ved be­fo­re Patch; she slid in­to his empty se­at and dug thro­ugh her back­pack, pul­ling out a box of Hot Ta­ma­les.
  "One red fru­it co­ming right up," she sa­id, of­fe­ring me the box.
  "Let me gu­ess… cin­na­mon is a fru­it?" I pus­hed the box away.
  "You didn't eat lunch, eit­her," Vee sa­id, frow­ning.
  "I'm not hungry."
  "Li­ar. You're al­ways hungry. Is this abo­ut Patch? You're not wor­ri­ed he's re­al­ly stal­king you, are you? Be­ca­use last night, that who­le thing at the lib­rary, I was joking."
  I mas­sa­ged small circ­les in­to my temp­les. The dull ac­he that had ta­ken up re­si­den­ce be­hind my eyes fla­red at the men­ti­on of Patch. "Patch is the le­ast of my wor­ri­es," I sa­id. It wasn't exactly true.
  "My se­at, if you don't mind."
  Vee and I lo­oked up si­mul­ta­ne­o­usly at the so­und of Patch's vo­ice.
  He so­un­ded ple­asant eno­ugh, but he kept his eyes tra­ined on Vee as she ro­se and slung her back­pack over her sho­ul­der. It ap­pe­ared she co­uldn't mo­ve fast eno­ugh; he swept his arm to­ward the ais­le, in­vi­ting her out of his way.
  "Lo­oking go­od as al­ways," he sa­id to me, ta­king his cha­ir. He le­aned back in it, stretc­hing his legs out in front of him. I'd known all along he was tall, but I'd ne­ver put a me­asu­re­ment to it. Lo­oking at the length of his legs now, I gu­es­sed him to top out at six fe­et. May­be even six-one.
  "Thank you," I ans­we­red wit­ho­ut thin­king. Im­me­di­ately I wan­ted to ta­ke it back. Thank you? Of all the things I co­uld ha­ve sa­id, "thank you" was the worst. I didn't want Patch thin­king I li­ked his comp­li­ments. Be­ca­use I didn't… for the most part. It didn't ta­ke much per­cep­ti­on to re­ali­ze he was tro­ub­le, and I had eno­ugh tro­ub­le in my li­fe al­re­ady. No ne­ed to in­vi­te mo­re. May­be if I ig­no­red him, he'd even­tu­al­ly gi­ve up ini­ti­ating con­ver­sa­ti­on. And then we co­uld sit si­de by si­de in si­lent har­mony, li­ke every ot­her part­ners­hip in the ro­om.
  "You smell go­od too," sa­id Patch.
  "It's cal­led a sho­wer." I was sta­ring stra­ight ahe­ad. When he didn't ans­wer, I tur­ned si­de­ways. "So­ap. Sham­poo. Hot wa­ter."
  "Na­ked. I know the drill."
  I ope­ned my mo­uth to chan­ge the su­bj­ect when the bell cut me off.
  "Put yo­ur text­bo­oks away," Co­ach sa­id from be­hind his desk. "I'm han­ding out a prac­ti­ce qu­iz to get you war­med up for this Fri­day's re­al one." He stop­ped in front of me, lic­king his fin­ger as he tri­ed to se­pa­ra­te the qu­iz­zes. "I want fif­te­en mi­nu­tes of si­len­ce whi­le you ans­wer the qu­es­ti­ons. Then we'll dis­cuss chap­ter se­ven. Go­od luck."
  I wor­ked thro­ugh the first se­ve­ral qu­es­ti­ons, ans­we­ring them with a rhythmic out­po­uring of me­mo­ri­zed facts. If not­hing el­se, the qu­iz sto­le my con­cent­ra­ti­on, pus­hing last night's ac­ci­dent and the vo­ice at the back of my mind qu­es­ti­oning my sa­nity to the si­de­li­nes. Pa­using to sha­ke a cramp out of my wri­ting hand, I felt Patch le­an to­ward me.
  "You lo­ok ti­red. Ro­ugh night?" he whis­pe­red.
  "I saw you at the lib­rary." I was ca­re­ful to ke­ep my pen­cil gli­ding over my qu­iz, se­emingly hard at work.
  "The high­light of my night."
  "We­re you fol­lo­wing me?"
  He tip­ped his he­ad back and la­ug­hed softly.
  I tri­ed a new ang­le. "What we­re you do­ing the­re?"
  "Get­ting a bo­ok."
  I felt Co­ach's eyes on me and de­di­ca­ted myself to my qu­iz. Af­ter ans­we­ring se­ve­ral mo­re qu­es­ti­ons, I sto­le a glimp­se to my left. I was surp­ri­sed to find Patch al­re­ady watc­hing me. He grin­ned.
  My he­art did an unex­pec­ted flip, start­led by his bi­zar­rely at­trac­ti­ve smi­le. To my hor­ror, I was so ta­ken aback, I drop­ped my pen­cil. It bo­un­ced on the tab­le­top a few ti­mes be­fo­re rol­ling over the ed­ge. Patch bent to pick it up. He held it out in the palm of his hand, and I had to fo­cus not to to­uch his skin as I to­ok it back.
  "After the lib­rary," I whis­pe­red, "whe­re did you go?"
  "Why?"
  "Did you fol­low me?" I de­man­ded in an un­der­to­ne.
  "You lo­ok a lit­tle on ed­ge, No­ra. What hap­pe­ned?" His eyeb­rows lif­ted in con­cern. It was all for show, be­ca­use the­re was a ta­un­ting spark at the cen­ter of his black eyes.
  "Are you fol­lo­wing me?"
  "Why wo­uld I want to fol­low you?"
  "Answer the qu­es­ti­on."
  "No­ra." The war­ning in Co­ach's vo­ice pul­led me back to my qu­iz, but I co­uldn't help spe­cu­la­ting abo­ut what Patch's ans­wer might ha­ve be­en, and it had me wan­ting to sli­de far away from him. Ac­ross the ro­om. Ac­ross the uni­ver­se.
  Co­ach chir­ped his whist­le. "Ti­me's up. Pass yo­ur qu­iz­zes for­ward. Be ex­pec­ting si­mi­lar qu­es­ti­ons this Fri­day. Now"-he san­ded his hands to­get­her, and the dry so­und of it ma­de me shi­ver-"for to­day's les­son. Miss Sky, want to ta­ke a stab at our to­pic?"
  "S-e-x," Vee an­no­un­ced.
  Pre­ci­sely af­ter she did, I tu­ned out. Was Patch fol­lo­wing me? Was he the fa­ce be­hind the ski mask-if the­re even was a fa­ce be­hind a mask? What did he want? I hug­ged my el­bows, sud­denly fe­eling very cold. I wan­ted my li­fe to go back to the way it was be­fo­re Patch bar­ged in­to my li­fe.
  At the end of class, I stop­ped Patch from le­aving. "Can we talk?"
  He was al­re­ady stan­ding, so he to­ok a se­at on the ed­ge of the tab­le. "What's up?"
  "I know you don't want to sit next to me any mo­re than I want to sit next to you. I think Co­ach might con­si­der chan­ging our se­ats if you talk to him. If you exp­la­in the si­tu­ati­on-"
  "The si­tu­ati­on?"
  "We're not-com­pa­tib­le."
  He rub­bed a hand over his jaw, a cal­cu­la­ting ges­tu­re I'd grown ac­cus­to­med to in only a few short days of kno­wing him. "We're not?"
  "I'm not an­no­un­cing gro­undb­re­aking news he­re."
  "When Co­ach as­ked for my list of de­si­red cha­rac­te­ris­tics in a ma­te, I ga­ve him you."
  "Ta­ke that back."
  "Intel­li­gent. At­trac­ti­ve. Vul­ne­rab­le. You di­sag­ree?"
  He was do­ing this for the so­le pur­po­se of an­ta­go­ni­zing me, and that only flus­te­red me mo­re. "Will you ask Co­ach to chan­ge our se­ats or not?"
  "Pass. You've grown on me."
  What was I sup­po­sed to say to that? He was ob­vi­o­usly aiming to get a re­ac­ti­on out of me. Which wasn't dif­fi­cult, se­e­ing as how I co­uld ne­ver tell when he was joking, and when he was sin­ce­re.
  I tri­ed to inj­ect a me­asu­re of self-com­po­su­re in­to my vo­ice. "I think you'd be much bet­ter se­ated with so­me­one el­se. And I think you know it." I smi­led, ten­se but po­li­te.
  "I think I co­uld end up next to Vee." His smi­le ap­pe­ared just as po­li­te. "I'm not go­ing to press my luck."
  Vee ap­pe­ared be­si­de our tab­le, glan­cing bet­we­en me and Patch. "Inter­rup­ting so­met­hing?"
  "No," I sa­id, yan­king my back­pack shut. "I was as­king Patch abo­ut to­night's re­ading. I co­uldn't re­mem­ber which pa­ges Co­ach as­sig­ned."
  Vee sa­id, "The as­sign­ment's on the bo­ard, sa­me as al­ways. As if you ha­ven't al­re­ady re­ad it."
  Patch la­ug­hed, se­emingly sha­ring a pri­va­te joke with him­self. Not for the first ti­me, I wis­hed I knew what he was thin­king. Be­ca­use so­me­ti­mes I was po­si­ti­ve the­se pri­va­te jokes had everyt­hing to do with me. "Anything el­se, No­ra?" he sa­id.
  "No," I sa­id. "See you to­mor­row."
  "Lo­oking for­ward to it." He win­ked. Ac­tu­al­ly win­ked.
  After Patch was out of ears­hot, Vee grip­ped my arm. "Go­od news. Cip­ri­ano. That's his last na­me. I saw it on Co­ach's class ros­ter."
  "And that's so­met­hing to smi­le abo­ut be­ca­use…?"
  "Every­body knows stu­dents are re­qu­ired to re­gis­ter presc­rip­ti­on drugs with the nur­se's of­fi­ce." She tug­ged at the front poc­ket of my back­pack, whe­re I kept my iron pills. "Li­ke­wi­se, every­body knows the nur­se's of­fi­ce is con­ve­ni­ently lo­ca­ted in­si­de the front of­fi­ce, whe­re, as it hap­pens, stu­dent fi­les are al­so kept."
  Eyes ag­low, Vee loc­ked her arm in mi­ne and pul­led me to­ward the do­or. "Ti­me to do so­me re­al sle­ut­hing."

CHAPTER 5

"CAN I HELP YOU?"

  I for­ced myself to smi­le at the front of­fi­ce sec­re­tary, ho­ping I didn't lo­ok as dis­ho­nest as I felt. "I ha­ve a presc­rip­ti­on I ta­ke da­ily at scho­ol, and my fri­end-"
  My vo­ice ca­ught on the word, and I won­de­red if af­ter to­day I wo­uld ever fe­el li­ke cal­ling Vee my fri­end aga­in.
  "-my fri­end in­for­med me that I'm sup­po­sed to re­gis­ter it with the nur­se. Do you know if that's cor­rect?" I co­uldn't be­li­eve I was stan­ding he­re, in­ten­ding to do so­met­hing il­le­gal. As of la­te, I was ex­hi­bi­ting a lot of unc­ha­rac­te­ris­tic be­ha­vi­or. First I'd fol­lo­wed Patch to a dis­re­pu­tab­le ar­ca­de la­te at night. Now I was on the ver­ge of sno­oping in his stu­dent fi­le. What was the mat­ter with me? No-what was the mat­ter with Patch, that when it ca­me to him, I co­uldn't se­em to stop exer­ci­sing bad judg­ment?
  "Oh, yes," the sec­re­tary sa­id so­lemnly. "All drugs ne­ed to be re­gis­te­red. Nur­se's of­fi­ce is back thro­ugh the­re, third do­or on the left, ac­ross from stu­dent re­cords." She ges­tu­red in­to the hal­lway be­hind her. "If the nur­se isn't the­re, you can ta­ke a se­at on the cot in­si­de her of­fi­ce. She sho­uld be back any mi­nu­te."
  I fab­ri­ca­ted anot­her smi­le. I'd re­al­ly ho­ped it wo­uldn't be this easy.
  He­ading down the hall, I stop­ped se­ve­ral ti­mes to check over my sho­ul­der. No­body ca­me up be­hind me. The pho­ne out in the front of­fi­ce was rin­ging, but it so­un­ded a world apart from the dim cor­ri­dor whe­re I sto­od. I was all alo­ne, free to do as I ple­ased.
  I ca­me to a stop at the third do­or on the left. I suc­ked in a bre­ath and knoc­ked, but it was ob­vi­o­us from the dar­ke­ned win­dow that the ro­om was empty. I pus­hed on the do­or. It mo­ved with re­luc­tan­ce, cre­aking open on a com­pact ro­om with scuf­fed whi­te ti­les. I sto­od in the ent­ran­ce a mo­ment, al­most wis­hing the nur­se wo­uld ap­pe­ar so I'd ha­ve no cho­ice but to re­gis­ter my iron pills and le­ave. A qu­ick glan­ce ac­ross the hall re­ve­aled a do­or with a win­dow mar­ked STU­DENT RE­CORDS. It too was dark.
  I fo­cu­sed my at­ten­ti­on on a nag­ging tho­ught at the back of my mind. Patch cla­imed that he hadn't go­ne to scho­ol last ye­ar. I was pretty su­re he was lying, but if he wasn't, wo­uld he even ha­ve a stu­dent re­cord? He'd ha­ve a ho­me ad­dress at the very le­ast, I re­aso­ned. And an im­mu­ni­za­ti­on card, and last se­mes­ter's gra­des. Still. Pos­sib­le sus­pen­si­on se­emed li­ke a lar­ge pri­ce to pay for a pe­ek at Patch's im­mu­ni­za­ti­on card.
  I le­aned one sho­ul­der aga­inst the wall and chec­ked my watch. Vee had told me to wa­it for her sig­nal. She sa­id it wo­uld be ob­vi­o­us.
  Gre­at.
  The pho­ne in the front of­fi­ce rang aga­in, and the sec­re­tary pic­ked up.
  Che­wing my lip, I sto­le a se­cond glimp­se at the do­or la­be­led STU­DENT RE­CORDS. The­re was a go­od chan­ce it was loc­ked. Stu­dent fi­les we­re pro­bably con­si­de­red high se­cu­rity. It didn't mat­ter what kind of di­ver­si­on Vee cre­ated; if the do­or was loc­ked, I wasn't get­ting in.
  I shif­ted my back­pack to the op­po­si­te sho­ul­der. Anot­her mi­nu­te tic­ked down. I told myself may­be I sho­uld le­ave…
  On the ot­her hand, what if Vee was right and he was stal­king me? As his bio part­ner, re­gu­lar con­tact with him co­uld pla­ce me in dan­ger. I had a res­pon­si­bi­lity to pro­tect myself… didn't I?
  If the do­or was un­loc­ked and the fi­les we­re alp­ha­be­ti­zed, I wo­uld ha­ve no tro­ub­le lo­ca­ting Patch's qu­ickly. Add anot­her few se­conds to skim his fi­le for red flags, and I co­uld pro­bably be in and out of the ro­om in un­der a mi­nu­te. Which was so bri­ef it might not fe­el li­ke I'd en­te­red at all.
  Things had grown unu­su­al­ly qu­i­et out in the front of­fi­ce. Sud­denly Vee ro­un­ded the cor­ner. She ed­ged down the wall to­ward me, wal­king in a cro­uch, drag­ging her hands along the wall, ste­aling sur­rep­ti­ti­o­us glan­ces over her sho­ul­der. It was the kind of walk spi­es adop­ted in old mo­vi­es.
  "Everyt­hing is un­der cont­rol," she whis­pe­red.
  "What hap­pe­ned to the sec­re­tary?"
  "She had to le­ave the of­fi­ce for a mi­nu­te."
  "Had to? You didn't in­ca­pa­ci­ta­te her, did you?"
  "Not this ti­me."
  Thank go­od­ness for small mer­ci­es.
  "I cal­led in a bomb thre­at from the pay pho­ne out­si­de," Vee sa­id. "The sec­re­tary di­aled the po­li­ce, then ran off to find the prin­ci­pal."
  "Vee!"
  She tap­ped her wrist. "Clock's tic­king. We don't want to be in he­re when the cops ar­ri­ve."
  Tell me abo­ut it.
  Vee and I si­zed up the do­or to stu­dent re­cords.
  "Mo­ve over," Vee sa­id, gi­ving me her hip.
  She drew her sle­eve down over her fist and dril­led it in­to the win­dow. Not­hing hap­pe­ned.
  "That was just for prac­ti­ce," she sa­id. She drew back for anot­her punch and I grab­bed her arm.
  "It might be un­loc­ked." I tur­ned the knob and the do­or swung open.
  "That wasn't ne­ar as much fun," sa­id Vee.
  A mat­ter of opi­ni­on.
  "You go in," Vee inst­ruc­ted. "I'm go­ing to ke­ep sur­ve­il­lan­ce. If all go­es well, we'll ren­dez­vo­us in an ho­ur. Me­et me at the Me­xi­can res­ta­urant on the cor­ner of Dra­ke and Be­ech." She cro­uch-wal­ked back down the hall.
  I was left stan­ding half in, half out of the nar­row ro­om li­ned wall-to-wall with fi­ling ca­bi­nets. Be­fo­re my cons­ci­en­ce tal­ked me out of it, I step­ped in­si­de and shut the do­or be­hind me, pres­sing my back aga­inst it.
  With a de­ep bre­ath I slo­uc­hed off my back­pack and hur­ri­ed for­ward, drag­ging my fin­ger along the fa­ces of the ca­bi­nets. I fo­und the dra­wer mar­ked car-cuv. With one tug the dra­wer rat­tled open. The tabs on the fi­les we­re la­be­led by hand, and I won­de­red if Cold­wa­ter High was the last scho­ol in the co­untry not com­pu­te­ri­zed.
  My eyes brus­hed over the na­me "Cip­ri­ano."
  I wrenc­hed the fi­le from the cram­med dra­wer. I held it in my hands a mo­ment, trying to con­vin­ce myself the­re was not­hing too wrong with what I was abo­ut to do. So what if the­re was pri­va­te in­for­ma­ti­on in­si­de? As Patch's bi­ology part­ner, I had a right to know the­se things.
  Out­si­de, vo­ices fil­led the hall.
  I fumb­led the fi­le open and im­me­di­ately flinc­hed. It didn't ma­ke any sen­se.
  The vo­ices ad­van­ced.
  I sho­ved the fi­le ran­domly in­si­de the dra­wer and ga­ve it a push, sen­ding it rat­tling back in­to the ca­bi­net. As I tur­ned, I fro­ze. On the ot­her si­de of the win­dow, the prin­ci­pal stop­ped midst­ri­de, his ga­ze latc­hing on­to me.
  Wha­te­ver he'd be­en sa­ying to the gro­up, which pro­bably con­sis­ted of every ma­j­or pla­yer on the scho­ol's fa­culty, tra­iled off.
  "Excu­se me a mo­ment," I he­ard him say. The gro­up con­ti­nu­ed hust­ling for­ward. He did not.
  He ope­ned the do­or. "This area is off-li­mits to stu­dents."
  I tri­ed on a help­less fa­ce. "I'm so sorry. I'm trying to find the nur­se's of­fi­ce. The sec­re­tary sa­id third do­or on the right, but I think I mis­co­un­ted… "I threw my hands up."I'm lost."
  Be­fo­re he co­uld res­pond, I tug­ged at the zip­per on my back­pack. "I'm sup­po­sed to re­gis­ter the­se. Iron pills," I exp­la­ined. "I'm ane­mic."
  He stu­di­ed me for a mo­ment, his brow cre­asing. I tho­ught I co­uld see him we­ig­hing his op­ti­ons: stick aro­und and de­al with me, or de­al with a bomb thre­at. He jer­ked his chin out the do­or. "I ne­ed you to exit the bu­il­ding im­me­di­ately."
  He prop­ped the do­or wi­de and I duc­ked out un­der his arm, my smi­le col­lap­sing.
  An ho­ur la­ter I slid in­to a cor­ner bo­oth at the Me­xi­can res­ta­urant on the cor­ner of Dra­ke and Be­ech. A ce­ra­mic cac­tus and a stuf­fed co­yo­te we­re mo­un­ted on the wall abo­ve me. A man we­aring a somb­re­ro wi­der than he was tall sa­un­te­red over. Strum­ming chords on his gu­itar, he se­re­na­ded me whi­le the hos­tess la­id me­nus on the tab­le. I frow­ned at the in­sig­nia on the front co­ver. The Bor­der­li­ne. I hadn't eaten he­re be­fo­re, yet so­met­hing abo­ut the na­me so­un­ded va­gu­ely fa­mi­li­ar.
  Vee ca­me up be­hind me and flop­ped in­to the op­po­si­te se­at. Our wa­iter was on her he­els.
  "Fo­ur chi­mis, ext­ra so­ur cre­am, a si­de of nac­hos, and a si­de of black be­ans," Vee told him wit­ho­ut con­sul­ting the me­nu.
  "One red bur­ri­to," I sa­id.
  "Se­pa­ra­te bills?" he as­ked.
  "I'm not pa­ying for her," Vee and I sa­id at the sa­me ti­me.
  After our wa­iter left, I sa­id, "Fo­ur chi­mis. I'm lo­oking for­ward to he­aring the fru­it con­nec­ti­on."
  "Don't even start. I'm star­ving. Ha­ven't eaten sin­ce lunch." She pa­used. "If you don't co­unt the Hot Ta­ma­les, which I don't."
  Vee is vo­lup­tu­o­us, Scan­di­na­vi­an fa­ir, and in an unort­ho­dox way, inc­re­dibly sexy. The­re ha­ve be­en days when our fri­ends­hip was the only thing stan­ding in the way of my je­alo­usy. Next to Vee, the only thing I ha­ve go­ing for me are my legs. And may­be my me­ta­bo­lism. But de­fi­ni­tely not my ha­ir.
  "He'd bet­ter bring chips so­on," sa­id Vee. "I'll bre­ak out in hi­ves if I don't eat so­met­hing salty wit­hin the next forty-fi­ve se­conds. And any­way, the first three let­ters in the word di­et sho­uld tell you what I want it to do."
  "They ma­ke sal­sa with to­ma­to­es," I po­in­ted out. "That's a red. And avo­ca­dos are a fru­it. I think."
  Her fa­ce brigh­te­ned. "And we'll or­der vir­gin straw­ber­ry da­iqu­iris."
  Vee was right. This di­et was easy.
  "Be right back," she sa­id, sli­ding out of the bo­oth. "That ti­me of the month. Af­ter that, I want to get the sco­op"
  Whi­le wa­iting for her, I fo­und myself con­cent­ra­ting on the bus­boy so­me tab­les away. He was hard at work scrub­bing a rag over the top of a tab­le. The­re was so­met­hing stran­gely fa­mi­li­ar abo­ut the way he mo­ved, abo­ut the way his shirt fell over the arch of his well-de­fi­ned back. Al­most as if he sus­pec­ted he was be­ing watc­hed, he stra­igh­te­ned and tur­ned, his eyes fi­xing on mi­ne at the exact sa­me mo­ment I fi­gu­red out what was so fa­mi­li­ar abo­ut this par­ti­cu­lar bus­boy.
  Patch.
  I co­uldn't be­li­eve it. I tho­ught abo­ut slap­ping my fo­re­he­ad when I re­mem­be­red he'd told me he wor­ked at the Bor­der­li­ne.
  Wi­ping his hands on his ap­ron, he wal­ked over, ap­pa­rently enj­oying my dis­com­fort as I lo­oked aro­und for so­me way to es­ca­pe, fin­ding I had now­he­re to go but de­eper in­to the bo­oth.
  "Well, well," he sa­id. "Fi­ve days a we­ek isn't eno­ugh of me? Had to gi­ve me an eve­ning, too?"
  "I apo­lo­gi­ze for the un­for­tu­na­te co­in­ci­den­ce."
  He slid in­to Vee's se­at. When he la­id his arms down, they we­re so long, they cros­sed in­to my half of the tab­le. He re­ac­hed for my glass, twir­ling it in his hands.
  "All the se­ats he­re are ta­ken," I sa­id. When he didn't ans­wer, I grab­bed my glass back and to­ok a sip of wa­ter, ac­ci­den­tal­ly swal­lo­wing an ice cu­be. It bur­ned the who­le way down. "Sho­uldn't you be wor­king ins­te­ad of fra­ter­ni­zing with cus­to­mers?" I cho­ked.
  He smi­led. "What are you do­ing Sun­day night?"
  I snor­ted. By ac­ci­dent. "Are you as­king me out?"
  "You're get­ting cock).1 li­ke that, An­gel."
  "I don't ca­re what you li­ke. I'm not go­ing out with you. Not on a da­te. Not alo­ne." I wan­ted to kick myself for ex­pe­ri­en­cing a hot thrill upon spe­cu­la­ting what a night alo­ne with Patch might en­ta­il. Most li­kely, he hadn't even me­ant it. Most li­kely, he was ba­iting me for re­asons known only to him. "Hang on, did you just call me An­gel?" I as­ked.
  "If I did?"
  "I don't li­ke it."
  He grin­ned. "It stays. An­gel.
  He le­aned ac­ross the tab­le, ra­ised his hand to my fa­ce, and brus­hed his thumb along one cor­ner of my mo­uth. I pul­led away, too la­te.
  He rub­bed lip gloss bet­we­en his thumb and fo­re­fin­ger. "You'd lo­ok bet­ter wit­ho­ut it."
  I tri­ed to re­mem­ber what we'd be­en tal­king abo­ut, but not ne­arly as hard as I tri­ed to ap­pe­ar un­mo­ved by his to­uch. I tos­sed my ha­ir back over my sho­ul­der, pic­king up the ta­il of our pre­vi­o­us con­ver­sa­ti­on. "Anyway, I'm not al­lo­wed to go out on scho­ol nights."
  "Too bad. The­re's a party on the co­ast. I tho­ught we co­uld go." He ac­tu­al­ly so­un­ded sin­ce­re.
  I co­uld not fi­gu­re him out. At all. The ear­li­er hot thrill still lin­ge­red in my blo­od, and I to­ok a long pull on my straw, trying to co­ol my fe­elings with a shot of ice wa­ter. Ti­me alo­ne with Patch wo­uld be int­ri­gu­ing, and dan­ge­ro­us. I wasn't su­re how exactly, but I was trus­ting my ins­tincts on this one.
  I af­fec­ted a yawn. "Well, li­ke I sa­id, it's a scho­ol night." In ho­pes of con­vin­cing myself mo­re than him, I ad­ded, "If this party is so­met­hing you'd be in­te­res­ted in, I can al­most gu­aran­tee I won't be."
  The­re, I tho­ught. Ca­se clo­sed.
  And then, wit­ho­ut any war­ning what­so­ever, I sa­id, "Why are you as­king me any­way?"
  Up un­til this very mo­ment, I'd be­en tel­ling myself I didn't ca­re what Patch tho­ught of me. But right now, I knew it was a lie. Even tho­ugh it wo­uld pro­bably co­me back to ha­unt me, I was cu­ri­o­us eno­ugh abo­ut Patch to go al­most anyw­he­re with him.
  "I want to get you alo­ne," Patch sa­id. Just li­ke that, my de­fen­ses shot back up.
  "Lis­ten, Patch, I don't want to be ru­de, but-"
  "Su­re you do."
  "Well, you star­ted it!" Lo­vely. Very ma­tu­re. "I can't go to the party. End of story."
  "Be­ca­use you can't go out on a scho­ol night, or be­ca­use you're sca­red of be­ing alo­ne with me?"
  "Both." The con­fes­si­on just slip­ped out.
  "Are you sca­red of all guys… or just me?"
  I rol­led my eyes as if to say / am not ans­we­ring such an ina­ne qu­es­ti­on.
  "I ma­ke you une­asy?" His mo­uth held a ne­ut­ral li­ne, but I de­tec­ted a spe­cu­la­ti­ve smi­le trap­ped be­hind it.
  Yes, ac­tu­al­ly, he had that ef­fect on me. He al­so had the ten­dency to wi­pe all lo­gi­cal tho­ught from my mind.
  "I'm sorry," I sa­id. "What we­re we tal­king abo­ut?"
  "You."
  "Me?"
  "Yo­ur per­so­nal li­fe."
  I la­ug­hed, un­su­re what ot­her res­pon­se to gi­ve. "If this is abo­ut me… and the op­po­si­te sex… Vee al­re­ady ga­ve me this spe­ech. I don't ne­ed to he­ar it twi­ce."
  "And what did wi­se old Vee say?"
  I was pla­ying with my hands, and slid them out of sight. "I can't ima­gi­ne why you're so in­te­res­ted."
  He softly sho­ok his he­ad. "Inte­res­ted? We're tal­king abo­ut you. I'm fas­ci­na­ted." He smi­led, and it was a fan­tas­tic smi­le. The ef­fect was a ratc­he­ted pul­se-my ratc­he­ted pul­se.
  "I think you sho­uld get back to work," I sa­id.
  "For what it's worth, I li­ke the idea that the­re's not a guy at scho­ol who matc­hes up to yo­ur ex­pec­ta­ti­ons."
  "I for­got you're the aut­ho­rity on my so-cal­led ex­pec­ta­ti­ons," I scof­fed.
  He stu­di­ed me in a way that had me fe­eling trans­pa­rent. "You're not ca­gey, No­ra. Not shy, eit­her. You just ne­ed a very go­od re­ason to go out of yo­ur way to get to know so­me­one."
  "I don't want to talk abo­ut me any­mo­re."
  "You think you've got ever­yo­ne all fi­gu­red out."
  "Not true," I sa­id. "For examp­le, well, for ins­tan­ce, I don't know much abo­ut… you."
  "You aren't re­ady to know me."
  The­re was not­hing light abo­ut the way he sa­id it. In fact, his exp­res­si­on was ra­zor sharp.
  "I lo­oked in yo­ur stu­dent fi­le."
  My words hung in the air a mo­ment be­fo­re Patch's eyes alig­ned with mi­ne. "I'm pretty su­re that's il­le­gal," he sa­id calmly.
  "Yo­ur fi­le was empty. Not­hing. Not even an im­mu­ni­za­ti­on re­cord."
  He didn't even pre­tend to lo­ok surp­ri­sed. He eased back in his se­at, eyes gle­aming ob­si­di­an. "And you're tel­ling me this be­ca­use you're af­ra­id I might ca­use an outb­re­ak? Me­as­les or mumps?"
  "I'm tel­ling you this be­ca­use I want you to know that I know so­met­hing abo­ut you isn't right. You ha­ven't fo­oled every­body. I'm go­ing to find out what you're up to. I'm go­ing to ex­po­se you."
  "Lo­oking for­ward to it."
  I flus­hed, catc­hing the in­nu­en­do too la­te. Over the top of Patch's he­ad, I co­uld see Vee we­aving her way thro­ugh the tab­les.
  I sa­id, "Vee's co­ming. You ha­ve to go."
  He sta­yed put, eye­ing me, con­si­de­ring.
  "Why are you lo­oking at me li­ke that?" I chal­len­ged.
  He tip­ped for­ward, pre­pa­ring to stand. "Be­ca­use you're not­hing li­ke what I ex­pec­ted."
  "Ne­it­her are you," I co­un­te­red. "You're wor­se."

CHAPTER 6

  THE FOL­LO­WING MOR­NING I WAS SURP­RI­SED TO SEE El­li­ot walk in­to first-ho­ur PE just as the tardy bell so­un­ded. He was dres­sed in knee-length bas­ket­ball shorts and a whi­te Ni­ke swe­ats­hirt. His high-tops lo­oked new and ex­pen­si­ve. Af­ter han­ding a slip of pa­per to Miss Sully, he ca­ught my eye. He ga­ve a low wa­ve and jo­ined me in the ble­ac­hers.
  "I was won­de­ring when we'd bump in­to each ot­her aga­in," he sa­id. "The front of­fi­ce re­ali­zed I ha­ven't had PE for the past two ye­ars. It's not re­qu­ired in pri­va­te scho­ol. They're de­ba­ting how they're go­ing to fit fo­ur ye­ars' worth of PE in­to the next two. So he­re I am. I've got PE first and fo­urth ho­urs."
  "I ne­ver he­ard why you trans­fer­red he­re," I sa­id.
  "I lost my scho­lars­hip and my pa­rents co­uldn't af­ford the tu­iti­on."
  Miss Sully blew her whist­le.
  "I ta­ke it the whist­le me­ans so­met­hing," El­li­ot sa­id to me.
  "Ten laps aro­und the gym, no cut­ting cor­ners." I pus­hed up from the ble­ac­hers. "Are you an ath­le­te?"
  Elli­ot jum­ped up, dan­cing on the balls of his fe­et. He threw a few ho­oks and jabs in­to the air. He fi­nis­hed with an up­per­cut that stop­ped just short of my chin. Grin­ning, he sa­id, "An ath­le­te? To the co­re."
  "Then you're go­ing to lo­ve Miss Sully's idea of fun."
  Elli­ot and I jog­ged the ten laps to­get­her, then he­aded out­do­ors, whe­re the air was la­ced with a ghostly fog. It se­emed to clog my lungs, cho­king me. The sky le­aked a few ra­ind­rops, trying hard to push a storm down on the city of Cold­wa­ter. I eyed the bu­il­ding do­ors but knew it was to no ava­il; Miss Sully was hard-co­re.
  "I ne­ed two cap­ta­ins for soft­ball," she hol­le­red. "Co­me on, lo­ok ali­ve. Let's see so­me hands in the air! Bet­ter vo­lun­te­er, or I'll pick te­ams, and I don't al­ways play fa­ir."
  Elli­ot ra­ised his hand.
  "All right," Miss Sully sa­id to him. "Up he­re, by ho­me pla­te. And how abo­ut… Mar­cie Mil­lar as cap­ta­in of the red te­am."
  Mar­cie's eyes swept over El­li­ot. "Bring it on."
  "Elli­ot, go ahe­ad and ta­ke first pick," Miss Sully sa­id.
  Ste­ep­ling his fin­gers at his chin, El­li­ot exa­mi­ned the class, se­emingly si­zing up our bat­ting and fi­el­ding skills just by the lo­ok of us. "No­ra," he sa­id.
  Mar­cie tip­ped her neck back and la­ug­hed. "Thanks," she told El­li­ot, flas­hing him a to­xic smi­le that, for re­asons be­yond me, mes­me­ri­zed the op­po­si­te sex.
  "For what?" sa­id El­li­ot.
  "For han­ding us the ga­me." Mar­cie po­in­ted a fin­ger at me. "The­re's a hund­red re­asons why I'm a che­er­le­ader and No­ra's not. Co­or­di­na­ti­on tops the list."
  I nar­ro­wed my eyes at Mar­cie, then ma­de my way over be­si­de El­li­ot and rug­ged a blue jer­sey over my he­ad.
  "No­ra and I are fri­ends," El­li­ot told Mar­cie calmly, al­most co­ol­ly. It was an overs­ta­te­ment, but I wasn't abo­ut to cor­rect him. Mar­cie lo­oked li­ke she'd had a buc­ket of ice wa­ter flung at her, and I was enj­oying it.
  "That's be­ca­use you ha­ven't met an­yo­ne bet­ter. Li­ke me." Mar­cie twis­ted her ha­ir aro­und her fin­ger. "Mar­cie Mil­lar. You'll he­ar all abo­ut me so­on eno­ugh." Eit­her her eye twitc­hed, or she win­ked at him.
  Elli­ot ga­ve no res­pon­se what­so­ever, and my ap­pro­val ra­ting of him shot up a few notc­hes. A les­ser guy wo­uld ha­ve drop­ped to his kne­es and beg­ged Mar­cie for any at­ten­ti­on she saw fit to toss.
  "Do we want to stand out he­re all mor­ning wa­iting for the ra­in to co­me, or get down to bu­si­ness?" Miss Sully as­ked.
  After div­vying up te­ams, El­li­ot led ours to the du­go­ut and de­ter­mi­ned the bat­ting or­der. Han­ding me a bat, he pus­hed a hel­met on my he­ad. "You're up first, Grey. All we ne­ed is a ba­se hit."
  Ta­king a prac­ti­ce swing, and al­most na­iling him with it, I sa­id, "But I was in the mo­od for a ho­me run."
  "We'll ta­ke one of tho­se, too." He di­rec­ted me to­ward ho­me pla­te. "Step in­to the pitch and swing all the way thro­ugh."
  I ba­lan­ced the bat on my sho­ul­der, thin­king may­be I sho­uld ha­ve pa­id mo­re at­ten­ti­on du­ring the World Se­ri­es. Okay, may­be I sho­uld ha­ve watc­hed the World Se­ri­es. My hel­met slip­ped low on my eyes, and I pus­hed it up, trying to si­ze up the in­fi­eld, which was lost un­der gho­ulish wisps of mist.
  Mar­cie Mil­lar to­ok her pla­ce on the pitc­her's mo­und. She held the ball out in front of her, and I no­ti­ced her mid­dle fin­ger was ra­ised at me. She flas­hed anot­her to­xic smi­le and lob­bed the soft­ball at me.
  I got a pi­ece of it, sen­ding it flying in­to the dirt on the wrong si­de of the fo­ul li­ne.
  "That's a stri­ke!" Miss Sully cal­led from her po­si­ti­on bet­we­en first and se­cond ba­ses.
  Elli­ot hol­le­red from the du­go­ut, "That had a lot of spin on it-send her a cle­an one!" It to­ok me a mo­ment to re­ali­ze he was tal­king to Mar­cie and not me.
  Aga­in the ball left Mar­cie's hand, arc­hing thro­ugh the dis­mal sky. I swung, a pu­re miss.
  "Stri­ke two," Ant­hony Amo­witz sa­id thro­ugh the catc­her's mask.
  I ga­ve him a hard lo­ok.
  Step­ping away from the pla­te, I to­ok a few mo­re prac­ti­ce swings. I al­most mis­sed El­li­ot co­ming up be­hind me. He re­ac­hed his arms aro­und me and po­si­ti­oned his hands on the bat, flush with mi­ne.
  "Let me show you," he sa­id in my ear. "Li­ke this. Fe­el that? Re­lax. Now pi­vot yo­ur hips-it's all in the hips."
  I co­uld fe­el my fa­ce he­at up with the eyes of the en­ti­re class on us. "I think I've got it, thanks."
  "Get a ro­om!" Mar­cie cal­led to us. The in­fi­eld la­ug­hed.
  "If you'd throw her a de­cent pitch," El­li­ot cal­led back, "she'd hit the ball."
  "My pitch is on."
  "Her swing is on." El­li­ot drop­ped his vo­ice, spe­aking to me alo­ne. "You lo­se eye con­tact the mi­nu­te she lets go of the ball. Her pitc­hes aren't cle­an, so you're go­ing to ha­ve to work to get them."
  "We're hol­ding up the ga­me he­re, pe­op­le!" Miss Sully cal­led out.
  Just then, so­met­hing in the par­king lot be­yond the du­go­ut drew my at­ten­ti­on. I tho­ught I'd he­ard my na­me cal­led. I tur­ned, but even as I did, I knew my na­me hadn't be­en sa­id out lo­ud. It had be­en spo­ken qu­i­etly to my mind.
  No­ra.
  Patch wo­re a fa­ded blue ba­se­ball cap and had his fin­gers ho­oked in the cha­in-link fen­ce, le­aning aga­inst it. No co­at, des­pi­te the we­at­her. Just he­ad-to-toe black. His eyes we­re opa­que and inac­ces­sib­le as he watc­hed me, but I sus­pec­ted the­re was a lot go­ing on be­hind them.
  Anot­her string of words crept in­to my mind.
  Bat­ting les­sons? Ni­ce… to­uch.
  I drew a ste­ad­ying bre­ath and told myself I'd ima­gi­ned the words. Be­ca­use the al­ter­na­ti­ve was con­si­de­ring that Patch held the po­wer to chan­nel tho­ughts in­to my mind. Which co­uldn't be. It just co­uldn't. Un­less I was de­lu­si­onal. That sca­red me mo­re than the idea that he'd bre­ac­hed nor­mal com­mu­ni­ca­ti­on met­hods and co­uld, at will, spe­ak to me wit­ho­ut ever ope­ning his mo­uth.
  "Grey! He­ad in the ga­me!"
  I blin­ked, jer­king to li­fe just in ti­me to see the ball rol­ling thro­ugh the air to­ward me. I star­ted to swing, then he­ard anot­her trick­le of words.
  Not…yet.
  I held back, wa­iting for the ball to co­me to me. As it des­cen­ded, I step­ped to­ward the front of the pla­te. I swung with everyt­hing I had.
  A hu­ge crack so­un­ded, and the bat vib­ra­ted in my hands. The ball dro­ve at Mar­cie, who fell flat on her back­si­de. Squ­e­ezing bet­we­en shorts­top and se­cond ba­se, the ball bo­un­ced in the out-fi­eld grass.
  "Run!" my te­am sho­uted from the du­go­ut. "Run, No­ra!"
  I ran.
  "Drop the bat!" they scre­amed.
  I flung it asi­de.
  "Stay on first ba­se!"
  I didn't.
  Step­ping on a cor­ner of first ba­se, I ro­un­ded it, sprin­ting to­ward se­cond. Left fi­eld had the ball now, in po­si­ti­on to throw me out. I put my he­ad down, pum­ped my arms, and tri­ed to re­mem­ber how the pros on ESPN slid in­to ba­se. Fe­et­first? He­ad­first? Stop, drop, and roll?
  The ball sa­iled to­ward the se­cond ba­se­man, spin­ning whi­te so­mew­he­re in my pe­rip­he­ral vi­si­on. An ex­ci­ted chan­ting of the word "Sli­de!" ca­me from the du­go­ut, but I still hadn't ma­de up my mind which was hit­ting the dirt first-my sho­es or my hands.
  The se­cond ba­se­man snag­ged the ball out of the air. I do­ve he­ad­first, arms outst­retc­hed. The glo­ve ca­me out of now­he­re, swo­oping down on me. It col­li­ded with my fa­ce, smel­ling strongly of le­at­her. My body crump­led on the dirt, le­aving me with a mo­uth­ful of grit and sand dis­sol­ving un­der my ton­gue.
  "She's out!" cri­ed Miss Sully.
  I tumb­led si­de­ways, sur­ve­ying myself for inj­uri­es. My thighs bur­ned a stran­ge mix of hot and cold, and when I ra­ised my swe­ats, to say it lo­oked li­ke two cats had be­en set free on my thighs wo­uld be an un­ders­ta­te­ment. Lim­ping to the du­go­ut, I col­lap­sed on the bench.
  "Cu­te," El­li­ot sa­id.
  "The stunt I pul­led or my torn-up leg?" Tuc­king my knee aga­inst my chest, I gently brus­hed as much of the dirt away as I co­uld.
  Elli­ot bent si­de­ways and blew on my knee. Se­ve­ral of the lar­ger bits of dirt fell to the gro­und.
  A mo­ment of awk­ward si­len­ce fol­lo­wed.
  "Can you walk?" he as­ked.
  Stan­ding, I de­monst­ra­ted that whi­le my leg was a mess of scratc­hes and dirt, I still had the use of it.
  "I can ta­ke you the nur­se's of­fi­ce if you want. Get you ban­da­ged," he sa­id.
  "Re­al­ly, I'm fi­ne." I glan­ced at the fen­ce whe­re I'd last se­en Patch. He was no lon­ger the­re.
  "Was that yo­ur boyf­ri­end stan­ding by the fen­ce?" El­li­ot as­ked.
  I was surp­ri­sed that El­li­ot had no­ti­ced Patch. He'd had his back to him. "No," I sa­id. "Just a fri­end. Ac­tu­al­ly, not even that. He's my bio part­ner."
  "You're blus­hing."
  "Pro­bably wind­burn."
  Patch's vo­ice still ec­ho­ed in my he­ad. My he­art pum­ped fas­ter, but if anyt­hing, my blo­od ran col­der. Had he tal­ked di­rectly to my tho­ughts? Was the­re so­me inexp­li­cab­le link bet­we­en us that al­lo­wed it to hap­pen? Or was I lo­sing my mind?
  Elli­ot didn't lo­ok fully con­vin­ced. "You su­re not­hing's go­ing on bet­we­en the two of you? I don't want to cha­se af­ter an una­va­ilab­le girl."
  "Not­hing." Not­hing I was go­ing to al­low, any­way.
  Wa­it What did El­li­ot say?
  "Sorry?" I sa­id.
  He smi­led. "Delp­hic Se­aport re­opens Sa­tur­day night, and Jules and I are thin­king abo­ut dri­ving out. We­at­her's not sup­po­sed to be too bad. May­be you and Vee want to co­me?"
  I to­ok a mo­ment to think over his of­fer. I was pretty su­re that if I tur­ned El­li­ot down, Vee wo­uld kill me. Be­si­des, go­ing out with El­li­ot se­emed li­ke a go­od way to es­ca­pe my un­com­for­tab­le at­trac­ti­on to Patch.
  "So­unds li­ke a plan," I sa­id.

CHAPTER 7

  IT WAS SA­TUR­DAY NIGHT, AND DO­ROT­HEA AND I WE­RE IN the kitc­hen. She had just pop­ped a cas­se­ro­le in­to the oven and was si­zing up a list of tasks my mom had han­ging from a mag­net on the frid­ge.
  "Yo­ur mot­her cal­led. She won't ar­ri­ve ho­me un­til la­te Sun­day night," Do­rot­hea sa­id as she scrub­bed Aj­ax in­to our kitc­hen sink with a vi­gor that ma­de my own el­bow ac­he. "She left a mes­sa­ge on the mac­hi­ne. She wants you to gi­ve her a call. You've be­en cal­ling every night be­fo­re bed?"
  I sat on a sto­ol, eating a but­te­red ba­gel. I'd just ta­ken a hu­ge bi­te, and now Do­rot­hea was lo­oking at me li­ke she wan­ted an ans­wer. "Mm-hmm," I sa­id, nod­ding.
  "A let­ter from scho­ol ca­me to­day." She flic­ked her chin at the stack of ma­il on the co­un­ter. "May­be you know why?"
  I ga­ve my best in­no­cent shrug and sa­id, "No clue." But I had a pretty go­od idea what this was abo­ut. Twel­ve months ago I'd ope­ned the front do­or to find the po­li­ce on the do­ors­tep. We ha­ve so­me bad news, they sa­id. My dad's fu­ne­ral was a we­ek la­ter. Every Mon­day af­ter­no­on sin­ce then, I'd shown up at my sche­du­led ti­me slot with Dr. Hend­rick­son, scho­ol psycho­lo­gist. I'd mis­sed the last two ses­si­ons, and if I didn't ma­ke amends this we­ek, I was go­ing to get in tro­ub­le. Most li­kely the let­ter was a war­ning.
  "You ha­ve plans to­night? You and Vee ha­ve so­met­hing up yo­ur sle­eves? May­be a mo­vie he­re at the ho­use?"
  "May­be. Ho­nestly, Dorth, I can cle­an the sink la­ter. Co­me sit and… ha­ve the ot­her half of my ba­gel."
  Do­rot­hea's gray bun was co­ming un­do­ne as she scrub­bed. "I am go­ing to a con­fe­ren­ce to­mor­row," she sa­id. "In Port­land. Dr. Me­lis­sa Sanc­hez will spe­ak. She says you think yo­ur way to a se­xi­er you. Hor­mo­nes are po­wer­ful drugs. Un­less we tell them what we want, they back­fi­re. They work aga­inst us." Do­rot­hea tur­ned, po­in­ting the Aj­ax can at me for emp­ha­sis. "Now I wa­ke in the mor­ning and ta­ke red lips­tick to my mir­ror. 'I am sexy,' I wri­te.
  'Men want me. Sixty-fi­ve is the new twenty-fi­ve.'"
  "Do you think its wor­king?" I as­ked, trying very hard not to smi­le.
  "It's wor­king," Do­rot­hea sa­id so­berly.
  I lic­ked but­ter off my fin­gers, stal­ling for a su­itab­le res­pon­se. "So you're go­ing to spend the we­ekend re­in­ven­ting yo­ur sexy si­de."
  "Every wo­man ne­eds to re­in­vent her sexy si­de-I li­ke that. My da­ugh­ter got imp­lants. She sa­id she did it for her­self, but what wo­man gets bo­obs for her­self? They are a bur­den. She got the bo­obs for a man. I ho­pe you do not do stu­pid things for a boy, No­ra." She sho­ok her fin­ger at me.
  "Trust me, Dorth, the­re are no boys in my li­fe." Okay, may­be the­re we­re two lur­king on the frin­ge, circ­ling from afar, but sin­ce I didn't know eit­her very well, and one out­right frigh­te­ned me, it felt sa­fer to clo­se my eyes and pre­tend they we­ren't the­re.
  "This is a go­od thing, and a bad thing," Do­rot­hea sa­id scold-ingly. "You find the wrong boy, you ask for tro­ub­le. You find the right boy, you find lo­ve." Her vo­ice sof­te­ned re­mi­nis­cently. "When I was a lit­tle girl in Ger­many, I had to cho­ose bet­we­en two boys. One was a very wic­ked boy. The ot­her was my Henry. We are hap­pily mar­ri­ed for forty-one ye­ars."
  It was ti­me to chan­ge the su­bj­ect. "How's, um, yo­ur god­son… Li­onel?"
  Her eyes stretc­hed. "You ha­ve a thing for lit­tle Li­onel?"
  "No­o­oo."
  "I can work so­met­hing out-"
  "Ah no, Do­rot­hea, re­al­ly. Thank you, but-I'm re­al­ly con­cent­ra­ting on my gra­des right now. I want to get in­to a top-ti­er col­le­ge."
  "If in the fu­tu­re-"
  "I'll let you know."
  I fi­nis­hed my ba­gel to the so­unds of Do­rot­hea's mo­no­to­ne chat­ter, in­te­rj­ec­ting a few nods or "uh-huh's" whe­ne­ver she stop­ped tal­king long eno­ugh to wa­it for my res­pon­se. I was pre­oc­cu­pi­ed de­ba­ting whet­her or not I re­al­ly wan­ted to me­et El­li­ot to­night. At first, me­eting up had se­emed li­ke a gre­at idea. But the mo­re I tho­ught abo­ut it, the mo­re do­ubt crept in. I'd only known El­li­ot a co­up­le of days, for one. And I wasn't su­re how my mom wo­uld fe­el abo­ut the ar­ran­ge­ment, for anot­her. It was get­ting la­te, and Delp­hic was at le­ast a half-ho­ur dri­ve. Mo­re to the po­int, on we­ekends Delp­hic had a re­pu­ta­ti­on for be­ing wild.
  The pho­ne rang, and Vee's num­ber sho­wed on the cal­ler ID.
  "Are we do­ing anyt­hing to­night?" she wan­ted to know.
  I ope­ned my mo­uth, we­ig­hing my ans­wer ca­re­ful­ly. On­ce I told Vee abo­ut El­li­ot's of­fer, the­re was no tur­ning back.
  Vee shri­eked. "Oh, man! Oh-man-oh-man-oh-man. I just spil­led na­il po­lish on the so­fa. Hang on, I'm go­ing to get so­me pa­per to­wels. Is na­il po­lish wa­ter-so­lub­le?" A mo­ment la­ter she re­tur­ned. "I think I ru­ined the so­fa. We ha­ve to go out to­night. I don't want to be he­re when my la­test work of ac­ci­den­tal art is dis­co­ve­red."
  Do­rot­hea had mo­ved down the hall to the pow­der ro­om. I had no de­si­re to spend the who­le night lis­te­ning to her grunt over the bath­ro­om fix­tu­res as she cle­aned, so I ma­de my de­ci­si­on. "How abo­ut Delp­hic Se­aport? El­li­ot and Jules are go­ing. They want to me­et up."
  "You bu­ri­ed the le­ad! Vi­tal in­for­ma­ti­on he­re, No­ra. I'll pick you up in fif­te­en." I was left lis­te­ning to the di­al to­ne.
  I went ups­ta­irs and pul­led on a snug whi­te cash­me­re swe­ater, dark je­ans, and navy blue dri­ving moc­ca­sins. I sha­ped the ha­ir fra­ming my fa­ce aro­und my fin­ger, the way I'd le­ar­ned to ma­na­ge my na­tu­ral curls, and… vo­ila! Half-de­cent spi­rals. I step­ped back from the mir­ror for a twi­ce-over and cal­led myself a cross bet­we­en ca­ref­ree and al­most sexy.
  Fif­te­en mi­nu­tes la­ter to the dot, Vee bo­un­ced the Ne­on up the dri­ve­way and be­eped the horn stac­ca­to-style. It to­ok me ten mi­nu­tes to ma­ke the dri­ve bet­we­en our ho­uses, but I usu­al­ly pa­id at­ten­ti­on to the spe­ed li­mit. Vee un­ders­to­od the word spe­ed, but li­mit wasn't part of her vo­ca­bu­lary.
  "I'm go­ing to Delp­hic Se­aport with Vee," I cal­led to Do­rot­hea. "If my mom calls, wo­uld you mind re­la­ying the mes­sa­ge?"
  Do­rot­hea wad­dled out of the pow­der ro­om. "All the way to Delp­hic? This la­te?"
  "Ha­ve fun at yo­ur con­fe­ren­ce!" I sa­id, es­ca­ping out the do­or be­fo­re she co­uld pro­test or get my mom on the pho­ne.
  Vee's blond ha­ir was pul­led up in a high pony­ta­il, big fat curls spil­ling down. Gold ho­ops dang­led from her ears. Cherry red lips­tick. Black, lengt­he­ning mas­ca­ra.
  "How do you do it?" I as­ked. "You had fi­ve mi­nu­tes to get re­ady."
  "Always pre­pa­red." Vee shot me a grin. "I'm a Boy Sco­ut's dre­am."
  She ga­ve me a cri­ti­cal on­ce-over.
  "What?" I sa­id.
  "We're me­eting up with boys to­night."
  "Last I chec­ked, yes."
  "Boys li­ke girls who lo­ok li­ke… girls."
  I arc­hed my eyeb­rows. "And what do I lo­ok li­ke?"
  "Li­ke you step­ped out of the sho­wer and de­ci­ded that alo­ne was eno­ugh to pass as pre­sen­tab­le. Don't get me wrong. The clot­hes are go­od, the ha­ir is okay, but the rest… He­re." She re­ac­hed in­si­de her pur­se. "Be­ing the fri­end that I am, I'll lo­an you my lips­tick. And my mas­ca­ra, but only if you swe­ar you don't ha­ve a con­ta­gi­o­us eye di­se­ase."
  "I do not ha­ve an eye di­se­ase!"
  "Just co­ve­ring my ba­ses."
  "I'll pass."
  Vee's mo­uth drop­ped, half-play­ful, half-se­ri­o­us. "You'll fe­el na­ked wit­ho­ut it!"
  "So­unds li­ke just the kind of lo­ok you'd go for," I sa­id.
  In all ho­nesty I had mi­xed fe­elings abo­ut go­ing ma­ke­up free. Not be­ca­use I did fe­el a lit­tle bit na­ked, but be­ca­use Patch had put the no-ma­ke­up sug­ges­ti­on in my mind. In an ef­fort to ma­ke myself fe­el bet­ter, I told myself my dig­nity wasn't at sta­ke. Ne­it­her was my pri­de. I'd be­en gi­ven a sug­ges­ti­on, and I was open-min­ded eno­ugh to try it. What I didn't want to ack­now­led­ge was I'd spe­ci­fi­cal­ly cho­sen a night I knew I wo­uldn't see Patch to test it out.
  A half ho­ur la­ter Vee dro­ve un­der the ga­tes to Delp­hic Se­aport. We we­re for­ced to park at the fart­hest end of the lot, due to he­avy ope­ning-we­ekend traf­fic. Nest­led right on the co­ast, Delp­hic is not known for its mild we­at­her. A low wind had pic­ked up, swe­eping pop­corn bags and candy wrap­pers aro­und our ank­les as Vee and I wal­ked to­ward the tic­ket co­un­ter. The tre­es had long sin­ce lost the­ir le­aves, and the branc­hes lo­omed over us li­ke di­sj­o­in­ted fin­gers. Delp­hic Se­aport bo­omed all sum­mer long with an amu­se­ment park, mas­qu­era­des, for­tu­ne-tel­ling bo­oths, gypsy mu­si­ci­ans, and a fre­ak show. I co­uld ne­ver be su­re if the hu­man de­for­mi­ti­es we­re re­al or an il­lu­si­on.
  "One adult, ple­ase," I told the wo­man at the tic­ket co­un­ter. She to­ok my mo­ney and slid a wrist­band un­der the win­dow. Then she smi­led, ex­po­sing whi­te plas­tic vam­pi­re te­eth, smud­ged red with lips­tick.
  "Ha­ve a go­od ti­me," she sa­id in a bre­ath­less vo­ice. "And don't for­get to try our newly re­mo­de­led ri­de." She tap­ped her si­de of the glass, po­in­ting to a stack of park maps and a fli­er.
  I grab­bed one of each on my way thro­ugh the re­vol­ving ga­tes.
  The fli­er re­ad:

DELPHIC AMUSEMENT PARK'S

NEWEST SENSATION!

THE ARCHANGEL

REMODELED AND RENOVATED!

FALL FROM GRACE ON THIS

ONE-HUNDRED-FOOT VERTICAL DROP.

  Vee re­ad the fli­er over my sho­ul­der. Her na­ils thre­ate­ned to punc­tu­re the skin on my arm. "We ha­ve to do it!" she squ­e­aled.
  "Last," I pro­mi­sed, ho­ping if we did all the ot­her ri­des first, she'd for­get abo­ut this one. I hadn't be­en af­ra­id of he­ights for ye­ars, pro­bably be­ca­use I had con­ve­ni­ently avo­ided them. I wasn't su­re I was re­ady just yet to find out if ti­me had fa­ded my fe­ar of them.
  After we hit the Fer­ris whe­el, the bum­per cars, the Ma­gic Car­pet ri­de, and a few of the ga­me bo­oths, Vee and I de­ci­ded it was ti­me to lo­ok for El­li­ot and Jules.
  "Hmm," sa­id Vee, lo­oking both ways down the path lo­oping the park. We sha­red a tho­ught­ful si­len­ce.
  "The ar­ca­de," I sa­id at last.
  "Go­od call."
  We had just wal­ked thro­ugh the do­ors to the ar­ca­de when I saw him. Not El­li­ot. Not Jules.
  Patch.
  He glan­ced up from his vi­deo ga­me. The sa­me ba­se­ball cap he'd worn when I saw him du­ring PE shi­el­ded most of his fa­ce, but I was cer­ta­in I saw a flic­ker of a smi­le. At first glan­ce it ap­pe­ared fri­endly, but then I re­mem­be­red how he'd en­te­red my tho­ughts, and I went cold to the bo­ne.
  If I was lucky, Vee hadn't se­en him. I ed­ged her for­ward thro­ugh the crowd, let­ting Patch fall out of sight. The last thing I ne­eded was for her to sug­gest we go over and stri­ke up a con­ver­sa­ti­on.
  "The­re they are!" Vee sa­id, wa­ving her arm over her he­ad. "Jules! El­li­ot! Over he­re!"
  "Go­od eve­ning, la­di­es," El­li­ot sa­id, ma­king his way thro­ugh the crowd. Jules mo­ved in his wa­ke, lo­oking abo­ut as ent­hu­si­as­tic as three-day-old me­at lo­af. "Can I buy you both a Co­ke?"
  "So­unds go­od," sa­id Vee. She was lo­oking right at Jules. "I'll ta­ke a Di­et."
  Jules mut­te­red an ex­cu­se abo­ut ne­eding to use the rest­ro­om and slip­ped back in­to the crowd.
  Fi­ve mi­nu­tes la­ter El­li­ot re­tur­ned with Co­kes. Af­ter split­ting them bet­we­en us, he rub­bed his hands to­get­her and sur­ve­yed the flo­or. "Whe­re sho­uld we start?"
  "What abo­ut Jules?" Vee as­ked.
  "He'll find us."
  "Air hoc­key," I sa­id im­me­di­ately. Air hoc­key was on the ot­her si­de of the ar­ca­de. The fart­her away from Patch, the bet­ter. I told myself it was a co­in­ci­den­ce he was he­re, but my ins­tincts di­sag­re­ed.
  "Ooh, lo­ok!" Vee in­te­rj­ec­ted. "Fo­os­ball!" She was al­re­ady zig­zag­ging her way to­ward an open tab­le. "Jules and me aga­inst the two of you. Lo­sers buy piz­za."
  "Fa­ir eno­ugh," sa­id El­li­ot.
  Fo­os­ball wo­uld ha­ve be­en fi­ne, had the tab­le not be­en a short dis­tan­ce from whe­re Patch sto­od pla­ying his ga­me. I told myself to ig­no­re him. If I kept my back to him, I'd hardly no­ti­ce he was the­re. May­be Vee wo­uldn't no­ti­ce him eit­her.
  "Hey, No­ra, isn't that Patch?" Vee sa­id.
  "Hmm?" I sa­id in­no­cently.
  She po­in­ted. "Over the­re. That's him, isn't it?"
  "I do­ubt it. Are El­li­ot and I the whi­te te­am, then?"
  "Patch is No­ra's bio part­ner," Vee exp­la­ined to El­li­ot. She win­ked slyly at me but ma­de a fa­ce of in­no­cen­ce the mo­ment El­li­ot ga­ve her his at­ten­ti­on. I sho­ok my he­ad subtly but firmly at her, trans­mit­ting a si­lent mes­sa­ge-stop.
  "He ke­eps lo­oking this way," Vee sa­id in a lo­we­red vo­ice. She le­aned ac­ross the fo­os­ball tab­le, at­temp­ting to ma­ke her con­ver­sa­ti­on with me ap­pe­ar pri­va­te, but she whis­pe­red lo­ud eno­ugh that El­li­ot had no cho­ice but to over­he­ar. "He's bo­und to won­der what you're do­ing he­re with-" She bob­bed her he­ad at El­li­ot.
  I shut my eyes and en­vi­si­oned ban­ging my he­ad aga­inst the wall.
  "Patch has ma­de it very cle­ar he'd li­ke to be mo­re than bi­ology part­ners with No­ra," Vee con­ti­nu­ed. "Not that an­yo­ne can bla­me him."
  "That so?" sa­id El­li­ot, eye­ing me with a lo­ok that sa­id he wasn't surp­ri­sed. He'd sus­pec­ted it all along. I no­ti­ced he to­ok a step clo­ser.
  Vee shot me a tri­ump­hant smi­le. Thank me la­ter, it sa­id.
  "It's not li­ke that," I cor­rec­ted. "It's-"
  "Twi­ce as bad," Vee sa­id. "No­ra sus­pects he's stal­king her. The po­li­ce are on the brink of be­co­ming in­vol­ved."
  "Sho­uld we play?" I sa­id lo­udly. I drop­ped the fo­os­ball in the cen­ter of the tab­le. No­body no­ti­ced.
  "Do you want me to talk to him?" El­li­ot as­ked me. "I'll exp­la­in we're not lo­oking for tro­ub­le. I'll tell him you're he­re with me, and if he's got a prob­lem, he can dis­cuss it with me."
  This was not the di­rec­ti­on I wan­ted the con­ver­sa­ti­on to go. At all. "What hap­pe­ned to Jules?" I sa­id. "He's be­en go­ne for a whi­le."
  "Ye­ah, may­be he fell in the to­ilet," sa­id Vee.
  Let me talk to Patch," El­li­ot sa­id.
  Whi­le I ap­pre­ci­ated the con­cern, I did not li­ke the idea of El­li­ot go­ing he­ad-to-he­ad with Patch. Patch was an X fac­tor: in­tan­gib­le, scary, and unk­nown. Who knew what he was ca­pab­le of? El­li­ot was far too ni­ce to be sent up aga­inst Patch.
  "He do­esn't sca­re me," El­li­ot sa­id, as if to disp­ro­ve my tho­ughts.
  Obvi­o­usly this was so­met­hing El­li­ot and I di­sag­re­ed on.
  "Bad idea," I sa­id.
  "Gre­at idea," Vee sa­id. "Other­wi­se, Patch might get… vi­olent. Re­mem­ber last ti­me?"
  Last ti­me?! I mo­ut­hed at her.
  I had no idea why Vee was do­ing this, ot­her than that she had a penc­hant for ma­king everyt­hing as dra­ma­tic as pos­sib­le. Her idea of dra­ma was my idea of mor­bid hu­mi­li­ati­on.
  "No of­fen­se, but this guy so­unds li­ke a cre­ep," sa­id El­li­ot. "Gi­ve me two mi­nu­tes with him." He star­ted to walk over.
  "No!" I sa­id, yan­king on his sle­eve to stop him. "He, uh, might get vi­olent aga­in. Let me hand­le this." I nar­ro­wed a lo­ok at Vee.
  "You su­re?" El­li­ot sa­id. "I'm mo­re than happy to do it."
  "I think it's best co­ming from me."
  I wi­ped my palms on my je­ans, and af­ter ta­king a mostly ste­ady bre­ath, I star­ted clo­sing the dis­tan­ce bet­we­en me and Patch, which was only the width of a few ga­me con­so­les. I had no idea what I was go­ing to say when I re­ac­hed him. Ho­pe­ful­ly just a bri­ef hel­lo. Then I co­uld go back and re­as­su­re El­li­ot and Vee that everyt­hing was un­der cont­rol.
  Patch was dres­sed in the usu­al: black shirt, black je­ans, and a thin sil­ver neck­la­ce that flas­hed aga­inst his dark comp­le­xi­on. His sle­eves we­re pus­hed up his fo­re­arms, and I co­uld see his musc­les wor­king as he punc­hed but­tons. He was tall and le­an and hard, and I wo­uldn't ha­ve be­en surp­ri­sed if un­der his clot­hes he bo­re se­ve­ral scars, so­uve­nirs from stre­et fights and ot­her reck­less be­ha­vi­or. Not that I wan­ted a lo­ok un­der his clot­hes.
  When I got to Patch's con­so­le, I tap­ped a hand aga­inst the si­de of it to get his at­ten­ti­on. In the cal­mest vo­ice I co­uld ma­na­ge, I sa­id, "Pac-Man? Or is it Don­key Kong?" In truth, it lo­oked a lit­tle mo­re vi­olent and mi­li­tary.
  A slow grin spre­ad over his fa­ce. "Ba­se­ball. Think may­be you co­uld stand be­hind me and gi­ve me a few po­in­ters?"
  Fi­re­bombs erup­ted on the scre­en, and scre­aming bo­di­es sa­iled thro­ugh the air. Ob­vi­o­usly not ba­se­ball.
  "What's his na­me?" Patch as­ked, di­rec­ting an al­most im­per­cep­tib­le nod at the fo­os­ball tab­le.
  "Elli­ot. Lis­ten, I ha­ve to ke­ep this short. They're wa­iting."
  "Ha­ve I se­en him be­fo­re?"
  "He's new. Just trans­fer­red."
  "First we­ek at scho­ol and he's al­re­ady ma­de fri­ends. Lucky guy." He slid me a lo­ok. "Co­uld ha­ve a dark and dan­ge­ro­us si­de we know not­hing abo­ut."
  "Se­ems to be my spe­ci­alty."
  I wa­ited for him to catch my me­aning, but he only sa­id, "Up for a ga­me?" He til­ted his he­ad to­ward the back of the ar­ca­de. Thro­ugh the crowd I co­uld just ma­ke out po­ol tab­les.
  "No­ra!" Vee cal­led out. "Get over he­re. El­li­ot is cram­ming de­fe­at down my thro­at!"
  "Can't," I told Patch.
  "If I win," he sa­id, as if he had no in­ten­ti­on of be­ing re­fu­sed, "you'll tell El­li­ot so­met­hing ca­me up. You'll tell him you're no lon­ger free to­night."
  I co­uldn't help it; he was way too ar­ro­gant. I sa­id, "And if / win?"
  His eyes skim­med me, he­ad to toe. "I don't think we ha­ve to worry."
  Be­fo­re I co­uld stop myself, I punc­hed his arm.
  "Ca­re­ful," he sa­id in a low vo­ice. "They might think we're flir­ting."
  I felt li­ke kic­king myself, be­ca­use that's exactly what we we­re do­ing. But it wasn't my fa­ult-it was Patch's. In clo­se con­tact with him, I ex­pe­ri­en­ced a con­fu­sing po­la­rity of de­si­res. Part of me wan­ted to run away from him scre­aming, Fi­re! A mo­re reck­less part was temp­ted to see how clo­se I co­uld get wit­ho­ut… com­bus­ting.
  "One ga­me of po­ol," he temp­ted.
  "I'm he­re with so­me­one el­se."
  "He­ad to­ward the po­ol tab­les. I'll ta­ke ca­re of it."
  I cros­sed my arms, ho­ping to lo­ok stern and a lit­tle exas­pe­ra­ted, but at the sa­me ti­me, I had to bi­te my lip to ke­ep from sho­wing a slightly mo­re po­si­ti­ve re­ac­ti­on. "What are you go­ing to do? Fight El­li­ot?"
  "If it co­mes to that."
  I was al­most su­re he was joking. Al­most.
  "A po­ol tab­le just ope­ned up. Go cla­im it." /… da­re… you.
  I stif­fe­ned. "How did you do that?"
  When he didn't im­me­di­ately deny it, I felt a squ­e­eze of pa­nic. It was re­al. He knew exactly what he was do­ing. The palms of my hands to­uc­hed with swe­at.
  "How did you do that?" I re­pe­ated.
  He ga­ve me a sly smi­le. "Do what?"
  "Don't," I war­ned. "Don't pre­tend you're not do­ing it."
  He le­aned a sho­ul­der aga­inst the con­so­le and ga­zed down at me. "Tell me what I'm sup­po­sed to be do­ing."
  "My… tho­ughts."
  "What abo­ut them?"
  "Cut it out, Patch."
  He glan­ced aro­und the­at­ri­cal­ly. "You don't me­an-tal­king to yo­ur mind? You know how crazy that so­unds, right?"
  Swal­lo­wing, I sa­id in the cal­mest vo­ice I co­uld ma­na­ge, "You sca­re me, and I'm not su­re you're go­od for me."
  "I co­uld chan­ge yo­ur mind."
  "No­o­o­ora!" Vee cal­led over the din of vo­ices and elect­ro­nic be­eps.
  "Me­et me at the Arc­han­gel," Patch sa­id.
  I to­ok a step back. "No," I sa­id on im­pul­se.
  Patch ca­me aro­und be­hind me, and a chill shim­mi­ed up my spi­ne. "I'll be wa­iting," he sa­id in­to my ear. Then he slip­ped out of the ar­ca­de.

CHAPTER 8

  I WAL­KED BACK TO THE FO­OS­BALL TAB­LE IN A COLD DA­ZE. El­li­ot was bent over it, his fa­ce sho­wing com­pe­ti­ti­ve con­cent­ra­ti­on. Vee was shri­eking and la­ug­hing. Jules was still mis­sing.
  Vee lo­oked up from the ga­me. "Well? What hap­pe­ned? What'd he say to you?"
  "Not­hing. I told him not to bot­her us. He left." My vo­ice so­un­ded flat.
  "He didn't lo­ok mad when he left," El­li­ot sa­id. "Wha­te­ver you sa­id, it must ha­ve wor­ked."
  "Too bad," Vee sa­id. "I was ho­ping for so­me ex­ci­te­ment.
  "Are we re­ady to play?" El­li­ot as­ked. "I'm get­ting hungry for so­me hard-won piz­za."
  "Ye­ah, if Jules wo­uld ever co­me back," sa­id Vee. "I'm star­ting to think may­be he do­esn't li­ke us. He ke­eps di­sap­pe­aring. I'm star­ting to think it's a non­ver­bal cue."
  "You kid­ding me? He lo­ves you guys," El­li­ot sa­id with too much ent­hu­si­asm. "He's just slow to warm up to stran­gers. I'll go find him. Don't go anyw­he­re."
  As so­on as Vee and I we­re alo­ne, I sa­id, "You know I'm go­ing to kill you, right?"
  Vee ra­ised her palms and to­ok a step back. "I was do­ing you a fa­vor. El­li­ot is wild abo­ut you. Af­ter you left, I told him you ha­ve, li­ke, ten guys cal­ling you every night. You sho­uld ha­ve se­en his fa­ce. Ba­rely con­ta­ined je­alo­usy."
  I gro­aned.
  "It's the law of supply and de­mand," Vee sa­id. "Who wo­uld've tho­ught eco­no­mics wo­uld co­me in use­ful?"
  I lo­oked to the ar­ca­de do­ors. "I ne­ed so­met­hing."
  "You ne­ed El­li­ot."
  "No, I ne­ed su­gar. Lots of it. I ne­ed cot­ton candy." What I ne­eded was an era­ser big eno­ugh to scrub away all evi­den­ce of Patch from my li­fe. Par­ti­cu­larly the mind-spe­aking. I shud­de­red. How was he do­ing it? And why me? Un­less… I'd ima­gi­ned it. Just li­ke I'd ima­gi­ned hit­ting so­me­one with the Ne­on.
  "I co­uld use a lit­tle su­gar myself," Vee sa­id. "I saw a ven­dor ne­ar the park ent­ran­ce on our way in. I'll stay he­re so Jules and El­li­ot don't think we ran off, and you can get the cot­ton candy."
  Out­si­de, I backt­rac­ked to the ent­ran­ce, but when I fo­und the ven­dor sel­ling cot­ton candy, I was dist­rac­ted by a sight fart­her down the walk­way. The Arc­han­gel ro­se up abo­ve the tre­etops. A sna­ke of cars zip­ped over the ligh­ted tracks and do­ve out of vi­ew. I won­de­red why Patch wan­ted to me­et. I felt a jab in my sto­mach and pro­bably sho­uld ha­ve ta­ken it for an ans­wer, but des­pi­te my best in­ten­ti­ons, I fo­und myself con­ti­nu­ing down the walk­way to­ward the Arc­han­gel.
  I sta­yed with the flow of fo­ot traf­fic, ke­eping my eyes on the dis­tant track of the Arc­han­gel lo­oping thro­ugh the sky. The wind had chan­ged from chilly to icy, but that wasn't the re­ason I felt inc­re­asingly ill at ease. The fe­eling was back. That cold, he­art-stop­ping fe­eling that so­me­one was watc­hing me.
  I sto­le a lo­ok to both si­des. Not­hing ab­nor­mal in my pe­rip­he­ral vi­si­on. I spun a full 180 deg­re­es. A lit­tle ways back, stan­ding in a small co­urt­yard of tre­es, a ho­oded fi­gu­re tur­ned and di­sap­pe­ared in­to the dark­ness.
  With my he­art be­ating fas­ter, I bypas­sed a lar­ge gro­up of pe­dest­ri­ans, put­ting dis­tan­ce bet­we­en me and the cle­aring. Se­ve­ral stri­des fart­her on, I glan­ced back aga­in. No­body sto­od out as fol­lo­wing me.
  When I fa­ced for­ward aga­in, I ran smack in­to so­me­one. "Sorry!" I blur­ted, trying to re­ga­in my ba­lan­ce.
  Patch grin­ned down at me. "I'm hard to re­sist."
  I blin­ked up at him. "Le­ave me alo­ne." I tri­ed to si­des­tep him, but he ca­ught me by the el­bow.
  "What's wrong? You lo­ok re­ady to throw up."
  "You ha­ve that ef­fect on me," I snap­ped.
  He la­ug­hed. I felt li­ke kic­king his shins.
  "You co­uld use a drink." He still had me by the el­bow, and he tug­ged me to­ward a le­mo­na­de cart.
  I dug in my he­els. "You want to help? Stay away from me."
  He brus­hed a curl off my fa­ce. "Lo­ve the ha­ir. Lo­ve when it's out of cont­rol. It's li­ke se­e­ing a si­de of you that ne­eds to co­me out mo­re of­ten."
  I smo­ot­hed my ha­ir fu­ri­o­usly. As so­on as I re­ali­zed I lo­oked li­ke I was trying to ma­ke myself mo­re pre­sen­tab­le for him, I sa­id, "I ha­ve to go. Vee is wa­iting." A fraz­zled pa­use. "I gu­ess I'll see you in class on Mon­day."
  "Ri­de the Arc­han­gel with me."
  I cra­ned my neck, sta­ring up at it. High-pitc­hed scre­ams ec­ho­ed down as the cars thun­de­red over the tracks.
  Two pe­op­le to a se­at." His smi­le chan­ged to a slow, da­ring grin.
  "No." No way.
  "If you ke­ep run­ning from me, you're ne­ver go­ing to fi­gu­re out what's re­al­ly go­ing on."
  That com­ment right the­re sho­uld ha­ve sent me run­ning. But it didn't. It was al­most as if Patch knew exactly what to say to pi­que my cu­ri­osity. Exactly what to say, at exactly the right mo­ment.
  "What is go­ing on?" I as­ked.
  "Only one way to find out."
  "I can't. I'm af­ra­id of he­ights. Be­si­des, Vee's wa­iting." Only, sud­denly the tho­ught of go­ing up that high in the air didn't sca­re me. Not any­mo­re. In an ab­surd way, kno­wing I'd be with Patch ma­de me fe­el sa­fe.
  "If you ri­de the who­le way thro­ugh wit­ho­ut scre­aming, I'll tell Co­ach to switch our se­ats."
  "I al­re­ady tri­ed. He won't bud­ge."
  "I co­uld be mo­re con­vin­cing than you."
  I to­ok his com­ment as a per­so­nal in­sult. "I don't scre­am," I sa­id. "Not for car­ni­val ri­des." Not for you.
  In step with Patch, I ma­de my way to the back of the li­ne le­ading up to the Arc­han­gel. A rush of scre­ams lif­ted, then fa­ded, far abo­ve in the night sky.
  "I ha­ven't se­en you at Delp­hic be­fo­re," Patch sa­id.
  "You're he­re a lot?" I ma­de a men­tal no­te not to ta­ke any mo­re we­ekend trips to Delp­hic.
  "I ha­ve a his­tory with the pla­ce."
  We ed­ged up the li­ne as the cars emp­ti­ed and a new set of thrill se­ekers bo­ar­ded the ri­de.
  "Let me gu­ess," I sa­id. "You pla­yed ho­ok) he­re ins­te­ad of go­ing to scho­ol last ye­ar."
  I was be­ing sar­cas­tic, but Patch sa­id, "Answe­ring that wo­uld me­an shed­ding light on my past. And I'd li­ke to ke­ep it in the dark."
  "Why? What's wrong with yo­ur past?"
  "I don't think now is a go­od ti­me to talk abo­ut it. My past might frigh­ten you."
  Too la­te, I tho­ught.
  He step­ped clo­ser and our arms met, a brus­hed con­nec­ti­on that ca­used the ha­irs on my arm to ri­se. "The things I ha­ve to con­fess aren't the kind of things you tell yo­ur flip­pant bio part­ner," he sa­id.
  The fri­gid wind wrap­ped aro­und me, and when I bre­at­hed in, it fil­led me with ice. But it didn't com­pa­re to the chill Patch's words sent thro­ugh me.
  Patch jer­ked his chin up the ramp. "Lo­oks li­ke we're up."
  I pus­hed thro­ugh the re­vol­ving ga­te. By the ti­me we ma­de it to the bo­ar­ding plat­form, the only empty cars we­re at the very front and the very back of the rol­ler co­as­ter. Patch he­aded to­ward the for­mer.
  The rol­ler co­as­ter's const­ruc­ti­on didn't ins­pi­re my con­fi­den­ce, re­mo­de­led or not. It lo­oked mo­re than a cen­tury old and was ma­de of wo­od that had spent a lot of ti­me ex­po­sed to Ma­ine's harsh ele­ments. The art­work pa­in­ted on the si­des was even less ins­pi­ring.
  The car Patch cho­se had a gro­uping of fo­ur pa­in­tings. The first de­pic­ted a mob of hor­ned de­mons rip­ping the wings off a scre­aming ma­le an­gel. The next pa­in­ting sho­wed the wing­less an­gel perc­hed on a he­ads­to­ne, watc­hing child­ren play from a dis­tan­ce. In the third pa­in­ting, the wing­less an­gel sto­od clo­se to the child­ren, cro­oking a fin­ger at one lit­tle gre­en-eyed girl. In the fi­nal pa­in­ting, the wing­less an­gel drif­ted thro­ugh the girl's body li­ke a ghost. The girl's eyes we­re black, her smi­le was go­ne, and she'd spro­uted horns li­ke the de­mons from the first pa­in­ting. A sli­ve­red mo­on hung abo­ve the pa­in­tings.
  I aver­ted my eyes and as­su­red myself it was the fri­gid air ma­king my legs tremb­le. I slid in­to the car be­si­de Patch.
  "Yo­ur past wo­uldn't frigh­ten me," I sa­id, buck­ling my se­at belt ac­ross my lap. "I'm gu­es­sing I'd be mo­re ap­pal­led than anyt­hing."
  "Appal­led," he re­pe­ated. The to­ne of his vo­ice led me to be­li­eve he'd ac­cep­ted the ac­cu­sa­ti­on. Stran­ge, sin­ce Patch ne­ver deg­ra­ded him­self.
  The cars rol­led back­ward, then lurc­hed for­ward. Not in a smo­oth way, we he­aded away from the plat­form, clim­bing ste­adily up­hill. The smell of swe­at, rust, and salt­wa­ter blo­wing in from the sea fil­led the air. Patch sat clo­se eno­ugh to smell. I ca­ught the sligh­test tra­ce of rich mint so­ap.
  "You lo­ok pa­le," he sa­id, le­aning in to be he­ard abo­ve the clic­king tracks.
  I felt pa­le, but did not ad­mit it.
  At the crest of the hill the­re was a mo­ment's he­si­ta­ti­on. I co­uld see for mi­les, no­ting whe­re the dark co­untry­si­de blen­ded with the spark­le of the su­burbs and gra­du­al­ly be­ca­me the grid of Port­land's lights. The wind held its bre­ath, al­lo­wing the damp air to set­tle on my skin.
  Wit­ho­ut me­aning to, I sto­le a lo­ok at Patch. I fo­und a me­asu­re of con­so­la­ti­on in ha­ving him at my si­de. Then he flas­hed a grin.
  "Sca­red, An­gel?"
  I clenc­hed the me­tal bar dril­led in­to the front of the car as I felt my we­ight tip for­ward. A shaky la­ugh slip­ped out of me.
  Our car flew de­mo­ni­cal­ly fast, my ha­ir flap­ping out be­hind me. Swer­ving to the left, then to the right, we clat­te­red over the tracks.
  Insi­de, I felt my or­gans flo­at and fall in res­pon­se to the ri­de. I lo­oked down, trying to con­cent­ra­te on so­met­hing not mo­ving.
  It was then that I no­ti­ced my se­at belt had co­me un­do­ne.
  I tri­ed to sho­ut at Patch, but my vo­ice was swal­lo­wed up in the rush of air. I felt my sto­mach go hol­low, and I let go of the me­tal bar with one hand, trying to se­cu­re the se­at belt aro­und my wa­ist with the ot­her. The car lun­ged to the left. I slam­med sho­ul­ders with Patch, pres­sing aga­inst him so hard it hurt. The car so­ared up, and I felt it lift from the tracks, not fully ri­ve­ted to them.
  We we­re plun­ging. The flas­hing lights along the tracks blin­ded me; I co­uldn't see which way the track tur­ned at the end of the di­ve.
  It was too la­te. The car swer­ved to the right. I felt a jolt of pa­nic, and then it hap­pe­ned. My left sho­ul­der slam­med aga­inst the car do­or. It flung open, and I was rip­ped out of the car whi­le the rol­ler co­as­ter sped off wit­ho­ut me. I rol­led on­to the tracks and grap­pled for so­met­hing to anc­hor myself. My hands fo­und not­hing, and I tumb­led over the ed­ge, plun­ging stra­ight down thro­ugh the black air. The gro­und rus­hed up at me, and I ope­ned my mo­uth to scre­am.
  The next thing I knew, the ri­de scre­ec­hed to a stop at the un­lo­ading plat­form.
  My arms hurt from how tightly Patch held me. "Now that's what I call a scre­am," he sa­id, grin­ning at me.
  In a da­ze, I watc­hed him pla­ce a hand over his ear as if my scre­am still ec­ho­ed the­re. Not at all cer­ta­in what had just hap­pe­ned, I sta­red at the pla­ce on his arm whe­re my na­ils had left se­mi­circ­les tat­to­o­ed on his skin. Then my eyes mo­ved to my se­at belt. It was se­cu­red aro­und my wa­ist.
  "My se­at belt…," I be­gan. "I tho­ught-"
  "Tho­ught what?" Patch as­ked, so­un­ding ge­nu­inely in­te­res­ted.
  "I tho­ught… I flew out of the car. I li­te­ral­ly tho­ught… I was go­ing to die."
  "I think that's the po­int."
  At my si­des, my arms tremb­led. My kne­es wob­bled slightly un­der the we­ight of my body.
  "Gu­ess we're stuck as part­ners," sa­id Patch. I sus­pec­ted a small deg­ree of vic­tor) in his vo­ice. I was too stun­ned to ar­gue.
  "The Arc­han­gel," I mur­mu­red, lo­oking back over my sho­ul­der at the ri­de, which had star­ted its next as­cent.
  "It me­ans high-ran­king an­gel." The­re was a de­fi­ni­te smug­ness to his vo­ice. "The hig­her up, the har­der the fall."
  I star­ted to open my mo­uth, me­aning to say aga­in how I was su­re I'd left the car for a mo­ment and for­ces be­yond my abi­lity to exp­la­in had put me sa­fely back be­hind my se­at belt. Ins­te­ad I sa­id, "I think Pm mo­re of a gu­ar­di­an an­gel girl."
  Patch smir­ked aga­in. Gu­iding me down the walk, he sa­id, "I'll ta­ke you back to the ar­ca­de."

CHAPTER 9

  I CUT THRO­UGH THE CROWD IN­SI­DE THE AR­CA­DE, PAS­SING the con­ces­si­on co­un­ter and rest­ro­oms. When the fo­os­ball tab­les ca­me in­to vi­ew, Vee wasn't at any of them. Ne­it­her we­re El­li­ot or Jules.
  "Lo­oks li­ke they left," Patch sa­id. His eyes might ha­ve held a sli­ver of amu­se­ment. Then aga­in, with Patch, it co­uld just as easily ha­ve be­en so­met­hing en­ti­rely dif­fe­rent. "Lo­oks li­ke you ne­ed a ri­de."
  "Vee wo­uldn't le­ave me," I sa­id, stan­ding on my tip­to­es to see over the top of the crowd. "They're pro­bably pla­ying tab­le ten­nis."
  I ed­ged si­de­ways thro­ugh the crowd whi­le Patch fol­lo­wed be­hind, tip­ping back a can of so­da he'd bo­ught on our way in. He'd of­fe­red to buy me one, but in my cur­rent sta­te, I wasn't su­re I co­uld hold it down.
  The­re was no tra­ce of Vee or El­li­ot at tab­le ten­nis.
  "May­be they're at the pin­ball mac­hi­nes," Patch sug­ges­ted. He was de­fi­ni­tely ma­king fun of me.
  I felt myself go a lit­tle red in the fa­ce. Whe­re was Vee?
  Patch held out his so­da. "Su­re you don't want a drink?"
  I lo­oked from the can to Patch. Just be­ca­use my blo­od war­med at the tho­ught of put­ting my mo­uth whe­re his had be­en didn't me­an I had to tell him.
  I dug thro­ugh my pur­se and pul­led out my cell. The scre­en on my pho­ne was black and re­fu­sed to turn on. I didn't un­ders­tand how the bat­tery co­uld be de­ad when I'd char­ged it right be­fo­re I left. I pus­hed the on but­ton aga­in and aga­in, but not­hing hap­pe­ned.
  Patch sa­id, "My of­fer's still on the tab­le."
  I tho­ught I'd be sa­fer hitc­hing a ri­de from a stran­ger. I was still sha­ken over what had hap­pe­ned on the Arc­han­gel, and no mat­ter how many ti­mes I tri­ed to flush it out, the ima­ge of fal­ling re­pe­ated thro­ugh my he­ad. I was fal­ling… and then the ri­de was over. Just li­ke that. It was the most ter­rif­ying thing I'd ever be­en thro­ugh. Al­most as ter­rif­ying, I was the only one who'd se­emed to no­ti­ce. Not even Patch, who'd be­en right be­si­de me.
  I smac­ked my palm to my fo­re­he­ad. "Her car. She's pro­bably wa­iting for me in the par­king lot."
  Thirty mi­nu­tes la­ter I'd can­vas­sed the en­ti­re lot. The Ne­on was go­ne. I co­uldn't be­li­eve Vee had left wit­ho­ut me. May­be the­re'd be­en an emer­gency. I had no way of kno­wing, sin­ce I co­uldn't check the mes­sa­ges on my cell. I tri­ed to hold my emo­ti­ons in check, but if she had left me, I had an amp­le amo­unt of an­ger sim­me­ring un­der the sur­fa­ce, re­ady to spill out.
  "Out of op­ti­ons yet?" as­ked Patch.
  I bit my lip, pon­de­ring my ot­her op­ti­ons. I had no ot­her op­ti­ons. Un­for­tu­na­tely, I wasn't su­re I was re­ady to ta­ke Patch up on his of­fer. On an or­di­nary day he exu­ded dan­ger. To­night the­re was a po­tent mix of dan­ger, thre­at, and mystery all thrown to­get­her.
  Fi­nal­ly I blew out a sigh and pra­yed I wasn't abo­ut to ma­ke a mis­ta­ke.
  "You'll ta­ke me stra­ight ho­me," I sa­id. It so­un­ded mo­re li­ke a qu­es­ti­on than an or­der.
  "If that's what you want."
  I was abo­ut to ask Patch if he'd no­ti­ced anyt­hing stran­ge on the Arc­han­gel, when I stop­ped myself. I was too sca­red to ask. What if I hadn't fal­len? What if I'd ima­gi­ned the who­le thing? What if I was se­e­ing things that we­ren't re­al­ly hap­pe­ning? First the guy in the ski mask. Now this. I was pretty su­re Patch's mind-spe­aking was re­al, but everyt­hing el­se? Not so su­re.
  Patch wal­ked a few par­king spa­ces over. A shiny black mo­torcyc­le res­ted on its kicks­tand. He swung on and tip­ped his he­ad at the se­at be­hind him. "Hop on."
  "Wow. Ni­ce bi­ke," I sa­id. Which was a lie. It lo­oked li­ke a glossy black de­ath trap. I had ne­ver be­en on a mo­torcyc­le in my li­fe, ever. I wasn't su­re I wan­ted to chan­ge that to­night.
  "I li­ke the fe­el of the wind on my fa­ce," I con­ti­nu­ed, ho­ping my bra­va­do mas­ked my ter­ror of mo­ving at spe­eds up­ward of sixty-fi­ve mi­les an ho­ur with not­hing stan­ding bet­we­en me and the ro­ad.
  The­re was one hel­met-black with a tin­ted vi­sor-and he held it out for me.
  Ta­king it, I swung my leg over the bi­ke and re­ali­zed how in­se­cu­re I felt with not­hing but a nar­row strip of se­at be­ne­ath me. I slid the hel­met over my curls and strap­ped it un­der my chin.
  "Is it hard to dri­ve?" I as­ked. What I re­al­ly me­ant was, Is it sa­fe?
  "No," Patch sa­id, ans­we­ring both my spo­ken and uns­po­ken qu­es­ti­ons. He la­ug­hed softly. "You're ten­se. Re­lax."
  When he pul­led out of the par­king spa­ce, the exp­lo­si­on of mo­ve­ment start­led me; I'd be­en hol­ding on to his shirt with just eno­ugh of the fab­ric bet­we­en my fin­gers to ke­ep my ba­lan­ce. Now I wrap­ped my arms aro­und him in a back­ward be­ar hug.
  Patch ac­ce­le­ra­ted on­to the high­way, and my thighs squ­e­ezed aro­und him. I ho­ped I was the only one who no­ti­ced.
  When we re­ac­hed my ho­use, Patch eased the bi­ke up the fog-drenc­hed dri­ve­way, kil­led the en­gi­ne, and swung off. I re­mo­ved my hel­met, ba­lan­cing it ca­re­ful­ly on the se­at in front of me, and ope­ned my mo­uth to say so­met­hing along the li­nes of Thanks for the ri­de, I'll see you on Mon­day.
  The words dis­sol­ved as Patch cros­sed the dri­ve­way and he­aded up the porch steps.
  I co­uldn't be­gin to spe­cu­la­te what he was do­ing. Wal­king me to the do­or? Highly imp­ro­bab­le. Then… what?
  I clim­bed the porch af­ter him and fo­und him at the do­or. I watc­hed, di­vi­ded bet­we­en con­fu­si­on and es­ca­la­ting con­cern, as he drew a set of fa­mi­li­ar keys from his poc­ket and in­ser­ted my ho­use key in­to the bolt.
  I lo­we­red my hand­bag down my sho­ul­der and un­zip­ped the com­part­ment whe­re I sto­red my keys. They we­ren't in­si­de.
  "Gi­ve me back my keys," I sa­id, dis­con­cer­ted at not kno­wing how my keys had co­me in­to his pos­ses­si­on.
  "You drop­ped them in the ar­ca­de when you we­re hun­ting for yo­ur cell," he sa­id.
  "I don't ca­re whe­re I drop­ped them. Gi­ve them back."
  Patch held up his hands, cla­iming in­no­cen­ce, and bac­ked away from the do­or. He le­aned one sho­ul­der aga­inst the bricks and watc­hed me step up to the lock. I at­temp­ted to turn the key. It wo­uldn't bud­ge.
  "You jam­med it," I sa­id, rat­tling the key. I drop­ped back a step. "Go ahe­ad. Try it. It's stuck."
  With a sharp click, he tur­ned the key. Hand po­ised on the hand­le, he arc­hed his eyeb­rows as if to say May I?
  I swal­lo­wed, bur­ying a sur­ge of mu­tu­al fas­ci­na­ti­on and dis­qu­i­et. "Go ahe­ad. You're not go­ing to walk in on an­yo­ne. I'm ho­me alo­ne."
  "The who­le night?"
  Imme­di­ately, I re­ali­zed it might not ha­ve be­en the smar­test thing to say. "Do­rot­hea will be co­ming so­on." That was a lie. Do­rot­hea was long go­ne. It was clo­se to mid­night.
  "Do­rot­hea?"
  "Our ho­use­ke­eper. She's old-but strong. Very strong." I tri­ed to squ­e­eze past him. Un­suc­ces­sful­ly.
  "So­unds frigh­te­ning," he sa­id, ret­ri­eving the key from the lock. He held it out for me.
  "She can cle­an a to­ilet in­si­de and out in un­der a mi­nu­te. Mo­re li­ke ter­rif­ying." Ta­king the key, I ed­ged aro­und him. I fully in­ten­ded to shut the do­or bet­we­en us, but as I tur­ned abo­ut, Patch fil­led the do­or­way, his arms bra­ced on eit­her si­de of the fra­me.
  "You're not go­ing to in­vi­te me in?" he as­ked.
  I blin­ked. In­vi­te him in? To my ho­use? With no one el­se ho­me?
  Patch sa­id, "It's la­te." His eyes fol­lo­wed mi­ne clo­sely, ref­lec­ting a way­ward glint. "You must be hungry."
  "No. Yes. I me­an, yes, bat-"
  Sud­denly he was in­si­de.
  I to­ok three steps back; he nud­ged the do­or clo­sed with his fo­ot. "You li­ke Me­xi­can?" he as­ked.
  "I-" I'd li­ke to know what you're do­ing in­si­de my ho­use!
  "Ta­cos?"
  "Ta­cos?" I ec­ho­ed.
  This se­emed to amu­se him. "To­ma­to­es, let­tu­ce, che­ese."
  'I know what a ta­co is!"
  Be­fo­re I co­uld stop him, he stro­de past me in­to the ho­use. At the end of the hall, he ste­ered left. To the kitc­hen.
  He went to the sink and ran the tap whi­le scrub­bing so­ap half­way up his arms. Ap­pa­rently ha­ving ma­de him­self at ho­me, he went to the pantry first, then brow­sed the frid­ge, brin­ging out items he­re and the­re-sal­sa, che­ese, let­tu­ce, a to­ma­to. Then he dug thro­ugh the dra­wers and fo­und a kni­fe.
  I sus­pect I was half­way to pa­nic­king at the ima­ge of Patch hol­ding a kni­fe when so­met­hing el­se ca­ught my eye. I to­ok two steps for­ward and squ­in­ted at my ref­lec­ti­on in one of the skil­lets han­ging from the pot rack. My ha­ir! It lo­oked li­ke a gi­ant tumb­le­we­ed had rol­led on top of my he­ad. I clap­ped a hand to my mo­uth.
  Patch smi­led. "You co­me by yo­ur red ha­ir na­tu­ral­ly?"
  I sta­red at him. "I don't ha­ve red ha­ir."
  "I ha­te to bre­ak it to you, but it's red. I co­uld light it on fi­re and it wo­uldn't turn any red­der."
  "It's brown." So may­be I had the te­eni­est, ti­ni­est, most in­fi­ni­te­si­mal amo­unt of auburn in my ha­ir. I was still a bru­net­te. "It's the ligh­ting," I sa­id.
  "Ye­ah, may­be it's the light­bulbs." His smi­le bro­ught up both si­des of his mo­uth, and a dimp­le sur­fa­ced.
  "I'll be right back," I sa­id, hur­rying out of the kitc­hen.
  I went ups­ta­irs and co­axed my ha­ir in­to a pony­ta­il. With that out of the way, I pul­led my tho­ughts to­get­her. I wasn't en­ti­rely com­for­tab­le with the idea of Patch ro­aming fre­ely thro­ugh my ho­use- ar­med with a kni­fe. And my mom wo­uld kill me if she fo­und out I'd in­vi­ted Patch in­si­de when Do­rot­hea wasn't he­re.
  "Can I ta­ke a ra­in check?" I as­ked upon fin­ding him still hard at work in the kitc­hen two mi­nu­tes la­ter. I pla­ced a hand on my sto­mach, sig­na­ling that it was bot­he­ring me. "Qu­e­asy," I sa­id. "I think it was the ri­de ho­me."
  He pa­used in his chop­ping and lo­oked up. "I'm al­most fi­nis­hed."
  I no­ti­ced he'd exc­han­ged kni­ves for a big­ger-and shar­per- bla­de.
  As if he had a win­dow to my tho­ughts, he held up the kni­fe, exa­mi­ning it. The bla­de gle­amed in the light. My sto­mach clenc­hed.
  "Put the kni­fe down," I inst­ruc­ted qu­i­etly.
  Patch lo­oked from me to the kni­fe and back aga­in. Af­ter a mi­nu­te he la­id it down in front of him. "I'm not go­ing to hurt you, No­ra."
  "That's… re­as­su­ring," I ma­na­ged to say, but my thro­at was tight and dry.
  He spun the kni­fe, hand­le po­in­ting to­ward me. "Co­me he­re. I'll te­ach you how to ma­ke ta­cos."
  I didn't mo­ve. The­re was a glint to his eye that ma­de me think I sho­uld be frigh­te­ned of him… and I was. But that fright was equ­al part al­lu­re. The­re was so­met­hing ext­re­mely un­set­tling abo­ut be­ing ne­ar him. In his pre­sen­ce, I didn't trust myself.
  "How abo­ut a… de­al?" His fa­ce was bent down, sha­do­wed, and he lo­oked up at me thro­ugh his las­hes. The ef­fect was an imp­res­si­on of trust­wort­hi­ness. "Help me ma­ke ta­cos, and I'll ans­wer a few of yo­ur qu­es­ti­ons."
  "My qu­es­ti­ons?"
  "I think you know what I me­an."
  I knew exactly what he me­ant. He was gi­ving me a glimp­se in­to his pri­va­te world. A world whe­re he co­uld spe­ak to my mind. Aga­in he knew exactly what to say, at exactly the right mo­ment.
  Wit­ho­ut a word, I mo­ved be­si­de him. He slid the cut­ting bo­ard in front of me.
  "First," he sa­id, co­ming be­hind me and pla­cing his hands on the co­un­ter, just out­si­de of mi­ne, "cho­ose yo­ur to­ma­to." He dip­ped his he­ad so his mo­uth was at my ear. His bre­ath was warm, tick­ling my skin. "Go­od. Now pick up the kni­fe."
  "Do­es the chef al­ways stand this clo­se?" I as­ked, not su­re if I li­ked or fe­ared the flut­ter his clo­se­ness ca­used in­si­de me.
  "When he's re­ve­aling cu­li­nary sec­rets, yes. Hold the kni­fe li­ke you me­an it."
  "Go­od." Step­ping back, he ga­ve me a tho­ro­ugh twi­ce-over, se­emingly scru­ti­ni­zing any im­per­fec­ti­ons-his eyes shif­ted up and down, he­re and the­re. For one un­ner­ving mo­ment, I tho­ught I saw a sec­ret smi­le of ap­pro­val. "Co­oking isn't ta­ught," Patch sa­id. "It's in­he­rent. Eit­her you've got it or you don't. Li­ke che­mistry. You think you're re­ady for che­mistry?"
  I pres­sed the kni­fe down thro­ugh the to­ma­to; it split in two, each half roc­king gently on the cut­ting bo­ard. "You tell me. Am I re­ady for che­mistry?"
  Patch ma­de a de­ep so­und I co­uldn't de­cip­her and grin­ned.
  After din­ner Patch car­ri­ed our pla­tes to the sink. "I'll wash, you dry." Hun­ting thro­ugh the dra­wers to the si­de of the sink, he fo­und a dish to­wel and slung it play­ful­ly at me.
  "I'm re­ady to ask you tho­se qu­es­ti­ons," I sa­id. "Star­ting with that night at the lib­rary. Did you fol­low me…"
  I tra­iled off. Patch le­aned la­zily aga­inst the co­un­ter. Dark ha­ir flip­ped out from un­der his ball cap. A smi­le tug­ged at his mo­uth. My tho­ughts dis­sol­ved and just li­ke that, a new tho­ught bro­ke the sur­fa­ce of my mind.
  I wan­ted to kiss him. Right now.
  Patch arc­hed his eyeb­rows. "What?"
  "Uh-not­hing. Not­hing at all. You wash, I'll dry."
  It didn't ta­ke long to fi­nish the dis­hes, and when we had, we fo­und our­sel­ves cram­ped in the spa­ce ne­ar the sink. Patch mo­ved to ta­ke the dish to­wel from me, and our bo­di­es to­uc­hed. Ne­it­her of us mo­ved, hol­ding to the fra­gi­le link that wel­ded us to­get­her.
  I step­ped back first.
  "Sca­red?" he mur­mu­red.
  "No."
  "Li­ar."
  My pul­se ed­ged up a deg­ree. "I'm not sca­red of you."
  "No?"
  I spo­ke wit­ho­ut thin­king. "May­be it's just that I'm sca­red of-" I cur­sed myself for even be­gin­ning the sen­ten­ce. What was I sup­po­sed to say now? I was not abo­ut to ad­mit to Patch that everyt­hing abo­ut him frigh­te­ned me. It wo­uld be gi­ving him per­mis­si­on to pro­vo­ke me furt­her. "May­be it's just that I'm sca­red of… of-"
  "Li­king me?"
  Re­li­eved that I didn't ha­ve to fi­nish my own sen­ten­ce, I auto­ma­ti­cal­ly ans­we­red, "Yes." I re­ali­zed too la­te what I'd con­fes­sed. "I me­an, no\ De­fi­ni­tely no. That is not what I was trying to say!"
  Patch la­ug­hed softly.
  "The truth is, part of me is de­fi­ni­tely not com­for­tab­le aro­und you," I sa­id.
  'But?!
  I grip­ped the co­un­ter be­hind me for sup­port. "But at the sa­me ti­me I fe­el a scar) at­trac­ti­on to you."
  Patch grin­ned.
  "You are way too cocky," I sa­id, using my hand to push him back a step.
  He trap­ped my hand aga­inst his chest and yan­ked my sle­eve down past my wrist, co­ve­ring my hand with it. Just as qu­ickly, he did the sa­me thing with the ot­her sle­eve. He held my shirt by the cuffs, my hands cap­tu­red. My mo­uth ope­ned in pro­test.
  Re­eling me clo­ser, he didn't stop un­til I was di­rectly in front of him. Sud­denly he lif­ted me on­to the co­un­ter. My fa­ce was le­vel with his. He fi­xed me with a dark, in­vi­ting smi­le. And that's when I re­ali­zed this mo­ment had be­en dan­cing aro­und the ed­ge of my fan­ta­si­es for se­ve­ral days now.
  "Ta­ke off yo­ur hat," I sa­id, the words tumb­ling out be­fo­re I co­uld stop them.
  He slid it aro­und, the brim fa­cing back­ward.
  I sco­oted to the ed­ge of the co­un­ter, my legs dang­ling one on eit­her si­de of him. So­met­hing in­si­de of me was tel­ling me to stop-but I swept that vo­ice to the far back of my mind.
  He spre­ad his hands on the co­un­ter, just out­si­de my hips. Til­ting his he­ad to one si­de, he mo­ved clo­ser. His scent, which was all damp dark earth, overw­hel­med me.
  I in­ha­led two sharp bre­aths. No. This wasn't right. Not this, not with Patch. He was frigh­te­ning. In a go­od way, yes. But al­so in a bad way. A very bad way.
  "You sho­uld go," I bre­at­hed. "You sho­uld de­fi­ni­tely go."
  "Go he­re?" His mo­uth was on my sho­ul­der. "Or he­re?" It mo­ved up my neck.
  My bra­in co­uldn't pro­cess one lo­gi­cal tho­ught. Patch's mo­uth was ro­aming north, up over my jaw, gently suc­king at my skin…
  "My legs are fal­ling as­le­ep," I blur­ted. It wasn't a to­tal lie. I was ex­pe­ri­en­cing ting­ling sen­sa­ti­ons all thro­ugh my body, legs inc­lu­ded.
  "I co­uld sol­ve that." Patch's hands clo­sed on my hips.
  Sud­denly my cell pho­ne rang. I jum­ped at the so­und of it and fumb­led it out of my poc­ket.
  "Hi, swe­et­he­art," my mom sa­id che­er­ful­ly.
  "Can I call you back?"
  "Su­re. What's go­ing on?"
  I shut the pho­ne. "You ne­ed to le­ave," I told Patch. "Right now."
  He'd slid his ba­se­ball cap back aro­und. His mo­uth was the only fe­atu­re I co­uld see be­ne­ath it, and it cur­ved in a misc­hi­evo­us smi­le. "You're not we­aring ma­ke­up."
  "I must ha­ve for­got­ten it."
  "Swe­et dre­ams to­night."
  "Su­re. No prob­lem." What had he sa­id?
  "Abo­ut that party to­mor­row night…"
  "I'll think abo­ut it," I ma­na­ged to say.
  Patch tuc­ked a pi­ece of pa­per in­si­de my poc­ket, his to­uch sen­ding hot sen­sa­ti­ons down my legs. "He­re's the ad­dress. I'll be lo­oking for you. Co­me alo­ne."
  A mo­ment la­ter I he­ard the front do­or clo­se be­hind him. A fi­ery blush wor­ked its way up my fa­ce. Too clo­se, I tho­ught. The­re was not­hing wrong with fi­re… as long as you didn't stand too clo­se. So­met­hing to ke­ep in mind.
  I le­aned back aga­inst the ca­bi­nets, ta­king short, shal­low bre­aths.

CHAPTER 10

  I WAS YAN­KED AWA­KE BY THE SO­UND OF MY PHO­NE RIN­GING. Ca­ught with one fo­ot still in a dre­am, I rug­ged my pil­low over my he­ad and tri­ed to block out the no­ise. But the pho­ne rang. And rang.
  The call went to vo­ice ma­il. Fi­ve se­conds la­ter, the rin­ging star­ted up aga­in.
  I re­ac­hed an arm over the si­de of the bed, gro­ped aro­und un­til I fo­und my je­ans, and wig­gled my cell out of the poc­ket.
  "Yes?" I sa­id with a wi­de yawn, le­aving my eyes shut.
  So­me­one was bre­at­hing ang­rily on the ot­her end. "What hap­pe­ned to you? What hap­pe­ned to brin­ging back cot­ton candy? And whi­le you're at it, how abo­ut tel­ling me whe­re you are so I can co­me strang­le you-ba­re­han­ded!"
  I knoc­ked the he­el of my hand aga­inst my fo­re­he­ad a few ti­mes.
  "I tho­ught you'd be­en kid­nap­ped!" Vee went on. "I tho­ught you'd be­en ab­duc­ted! I tho­ught you we­re mur­de­red!"
  I tri­ed to find the clock in the dark. I bum­ped a pic­tu­re fra­me on the nights­tand, and all the fra­mes be­hind it pla­yed do­mi­no­es.
  "I was sort of de­la­yed," I sa­id. "By the ti­me I ma­de it back to the ar­ca­de, you we­re go­ne."
  "De­la­yed'? What kind of ex­cu­se is de­la­yed?"
  The red num­bers on the clock swam in­to fo­cus. It was just af­ter two in the mor­ning.
  "I dro­ve aro­und the par­king lot for an ho­ur," Vee sa­id. "Elli­ot wal­ked the park flas­hing the only pho­to I had of you on my cell pho­ne. I tri­ed yo­ur cell a zil­li­on ti­mes. Hang on. Are you at ho­me? How did you get ho­me?"
  I rub­bed the cor­ners of my eyes. "Patch."
  "Stal­ker Patch?"
  "Well, I didn't ha­ve much of a cho­ice, did I?" I sa­id ter­sely. "You left wit­ho­ut me."
  "You so­und wor­ked up. Re­al­ly wor­ked up. No, that's not it. You so­und agi­ta­ted… flus­te­red… aro­used." I co­uld fe­el her eyes wi­den. "He kis­sed you, didn't he?"
  No ans­wer.
  "He did! I knew it! I've se­en the way he lo­oks at you. I knew this was co­ming. I saw it from a mi­le away."
  I didn't want to think abo­ut it.
  "What was it li­ke?" Vee pres­sed. "A pe­ach kiss? A plum kiss? Or may­be an al-fal-fa kiss?"
  "What?"
  "Was it a peck, did mo­uths part, or was the­re ton­gue? Ne­ver mind. You don't ha­ve to ans­wer that. Patch isn't the kind of guy to de­al with pre­li­mi­na­ri­es. The­re was ton­gue in­vol­ved. Gu­aran­te­ed."
  I co­ve­red my fa­ce with my hands, hi­ding be­hind them. Patch pro­bably tho­ught I didn't ha­ve any self-cont­rol. I'd fal­len apart in his arms. I'd mel­ted li­ke but­ter. Right be­fo­re I told him he sho­uld go, I was pretty su­re I'd ma­de a so­und that was a cross bet­we­en a sigh of she­er bliss and a mo­an of ecs­tasy.
  That wo­uld exp­la­in his ar­ro­gant grin.
  "Can we talk abo­ut this la­ter?" I as­ked, pinc­hing the brid­ge of my no­se.
  "No way."
  I sig­hed. "I'm de­ad ti­red."
  "I can't be­li­eve you're thin­king abo­ut ke­eping me in sus­pen­se."
  "I'm ho­ping you'll for­get abo­ut it."
  "Fat chan­ce."
  I tri­ed to en­vi­si­on the musc­les along my neck re­la­xing, fo­res­tal­ling the he­adac­he I felt cre­eping on. "Are we still on for shop­ping?"
  "I'll pick you up at fo­ur."
  "I tho­ught we we­ren't me­eting un­til fi­ve."
  "Cir­cums­tan­ces ha­ve chan­ged. I'll be the­re even ear­li­er if I can get out of fa­mily ti­me. My mom's ha­ving a ner­vo­us bre­ak­down. She bla­mes my bad gra­des on her pa­ren­ting skills. Ap­pa­rently spen­ding ti­me to­get­her is the so­lu­ti­on. Wish me luck."
  I snap­ped my pho­ne shut and slid de­ep in­to my bed. I pic­tu­red Patch's unp­rin­cip­led grin and his glit­te­ring black eyes. Af­ter thras­hing aro­und in bed for se­ve­ral mi­nu­tes, I ga­ve up trying to get com­for­tab­le. The truth was, as long as Patch was on my mind, com­fort was out of the qu­es­ti­on.
  When I was lit­tle, Do­rot­hea's god­son Li­onel shat­te­red one of the kitc­hen glas­ses. He swept up all the shards of glass ex­cept one, and he da­red me to lick it. I ima­gi­ned fal­ling for Patch was a lit­tle li­ke lic­king that shard. I knew it was stu­pid. I knew I'd get cut. Af­ter all the­se ye­ars one thing hadn't chan­ged: I was still lu­red by dan­ger.
  Sud­denly I sat up stra­ight in bed and re­ac­hed for my cell. I switc­hed on the lamp.
  The bat­tery sho­wed fully char­ged.
  My spi­ne ting­led omi­no­usly. My cell was sup­po­sed to be de­ad. So how had my mom and Vee got­ten thro­ugh?
  Ra­in bat­te­red the co­lor­ful aw­nings of the shops along the pi­er and spil­led to the si­de­walk be­low. The an­ti­que gas lamps that we­re stag­ge­red down both si­des of the stre­et glo­wed to li­fe. With our umb­rel­las bum­ping to­get­her, Vee and I hust­led down the si­de­walk and un­der the pink-and-whi­te-stri­ped aw­ning of Vic­to­ria's Sec­ret. We sho­ok out our umb­rel­las in uni­son and prop­ped them just out­si­de the ent­ran­ce.
  A bo­om of thun­der sent us flying thro­ugh the do­ors.
  I stam­ped ra­in from my sho­es and shud­de­red off the cold. Se­ve­ral oil dif­fu­sers bur­ned on a disp­lay at the cen­ter of the sto­re, sur­ro­un­ding us with an exo­tic, lusty smell.
  A wo­man in black slacks and a stretchy black tee step­ped for­ward. She had a me­asu­ring ta­pe sna­ked aro­und her neck, and she star­ted to re­ach for it. "Wo­uld you girls li­ke a free me­asu­ring-"
  "Put the damn me­asu­ring ta­pe away," Vee or­de­red. "I al­re­ady know my si­ze. I don't ne­ed re­min­ding."
  I ga­ve the wo­man a smi­le that was part apo­logy as I tra­iled af­ter Vee, who was he­ading to­ward the cle­aran­ce bins at the back.
  "A D cup is not­hing to be as­ha­med of," I told Vee. I pic­ked up a blue sa­tin bra and hun­ted for the pri­ce tag.
  "Who sa­id anyt­hing abo­ut be­ing as­ha­med?" Vee sa­id. "I'm not as­ha­med. Why wo­uld I be as­ha­med? The only ot­her six­te­en-ye­ar-olds with bo­obs as big as mi­ne are suf­fu­sed with si­li­co­ne-and ever­yo­ne knows it. Why wo­uld / ha­ve re­ason to be as­ha­med?" She rum­ma­ged thro­ugh a bin. "Think they ha­ve any bras in he­re that can get my ba­bi­es to lie flat?"
  "They're cal­led sports bras, and they ha­ve a nasty si­de ef­fect cal­led the uni­bo­ob," I sa­id, my eyes pic­king out a lacy black bra from the pi­le.
  I sho­uldn't ha­ve be­en lo­oking at lin­ge­rie. It na­tu­ral­ly ma­de me think abo­ut sexy things. Li­ke kis­sing. Li­ke Patch.
  I clo­sed my eyes and rep­la­yed our night to­get­her. The to­uch of Patch's hand on my thigh, his lips tas­ting my neck…
  Vee ca­ught me off gu­ard with a pa­ir of tur­qu­o­ise le­opard print un­di­es slung at my chest. "The­se wo­uld lo­ok ni­ce on you," she sa­id. "All you ne­ed is a bo­oty li­ke mi­ne to fill them."
  What had I be­en thin­king? I'd co­me this clo­se to kis­sing Patch. The sa­me Patch who just might be in­va­ding my mind. The sa­me Patch who sa­ved me from plun­ging to my de­ath on the Arc­han­gel- be­ca­use that's what I was su­re had hap­pe­ned, alt­ho­ugh I had ze­ro lo­gi­cal exp­la­na­ti­ons. I won­de­red if he had so­me­how sus­pen­ded ti­me and ca­ught me du­ring the fall. If he was ca­pab­le of tal­king to my tho­ughts, may­be, just may­be, he was ca­pab­le of ot­her things.
  Or may­be, I tho­ught with a chill, I co­uld no lon­ger trust my mind.
  I still had the scrap of pa­per Patch had tuc­ked in­si­de my poc­ket, but the­re was no way I was go­ing to the party to­night. I sec­retly enj­oyed the at­trac­ti­on bet­we­en us, but the mystery and eeri­ness out­we­ig­hed it. From now on, I was go­ing to flush Patch out of my system-and this ti­me, I me­ant it. It wo­uld be li­ke a cle­an­sing di­et. The prob­lem was, the only di­et I'd ever be­en on back­fi­red. On­ce I tri­ed to go an en­ti­re month wit­ho­ut cho­co­la­te. Not one bi­te. At the end of two we­eks, I bro­ke down and bin­ged on mo­re cho­co­la­te than I wo­uld ha­ve eaten in three months.
  I ho­ped my cho­co­la­te-free di­et didn't fo­res­ha­dow what wo­uld hap­pen if I tri­ed to avo­id Patch.
  "What are you do­ing?" I as­ked, my at­ten­ti­on drawn to Vee.
  "What do­es it lo­ok li­ke I'm do­ing? I'm pe­eling the cle­aran­ce pri­ce stic­kers off the­se cle­aran­ce bras and stic­king them on the not-on-sa­le bras. That way I can get sexy bras at trashy bra pri­ces."
  "You can't do that. She'll scan the bar co­des when you chec­ko­ut. She'll know what you're up to."
  "Bar co­des? They don't scan bar co­des." She didn't so­und too su­re.
  "They do. I swe­ar. Cross my he­art." I fi­gu­red lying was bet­ter than watc­hing Vee get ha­uled off to ja­il.
  "Well, it se­emed li­ke a go­od idea…"
  "You ha­ve to get the­se," I told Vee, tos­sing a scrap of silk at her, ho­ping to dist­ract her.
  She held up the pan­ti­es. Tiny red crabs emb­ro­ide­red the fab­ric. "That is the most dis­gus­ting thing I've ever se­en. I li­ke that black bra you're hol­ding, on the ot­her hand. I think you sho­uld get it. You go pay and I'll ke­ep lo­oking."
  I pa­id. Then, thin­king it wo­uld be easi­er to for­get abo­ut Patch if I was lo­oking at so­met­hing mo­re be­nign, I wan­de­red over to the wall of lo­ti­ons. I was snif­fing a bot­tle of Dre­am An­gels when I felt a fa­mi­li­ar pre­sen­ce ne­arby. It was li­ke so­me­one had drop­ped a sco­op of ice cre­am down the back of my shirt. It was the sa­me shi­ver) jolt I ex­pe­ri­en­ced whe­ne­ver Patch ap­pro­ac­hed.
  Vee and I we­re still the only two cus­to­mers in the shop, but on the ot­her si­de of the pla­te-glass win­dow, I saw a ho­oded fi­gu­re step back un­der a sha­do­wed aw­ning ac­ross the stre­et. Freshly un­set­tled, I sto­od im­mo­bi­le for a who­le mi­nu­te be­fo­re I pul­led myself to­get­her and went to find Vee.
  "Ti­me to go," I told her.
  She was flip­ping thro­ugh a rack of night­gowns. "Wow. Lo­ok at this-flan­nel pa­j­amas, fifty per­cent off. I ne­ed a pa­ir of flan­nel pj's."
  I kept one eye glu­ed to the win­dow. "I think I'm be­ing fol­lo­wed."
  Vee's he­ad jer­ked up. "Patch?"
  "No. Lo­ok ac­ross the stre­et."
  Vee squ­in­ted. "I don't see an­yo­ne."
  Ne­it­her did I any­mo­re. A car had dri­ven past, in­ter­rup­ting my li­ne of vi­si­on. "I think they went in­si­de the shop."
  "How do you know they're fol­lo­wing you?"
  "A bad fe­eling."
  "Did they lo­ok li­ke an­yo­ne we know? For examp­le… a cross bet­we­en Pip­pi Longs­toc­king and the Wic­ked Witch of the West wo­uld ob­vi­o­usly gi­ve us Mar­cie Mil­lar."
  "It wasn't Mar­cie," I sa­id, eyes still tra­ined ac­ross the stre­et. "When I left the ar­ca­de last night to buy cot­ton candy, I saw so­me­one watc­hing me. I think the sa­me per­son is he­re now."
  "Are you se­ri­o­us? Why are you just tel­ling me this now? Who is it?"
  I didn't know. And that sca­red me mo­re than anyt­hing.
  I di­rec­ted my vo­ice at the sa­les­lady. "Is the­re a back do­or to the shop?"
  She lo­oked up from tid­ying a dra­wer. "Emplo­ye­es only."
  "Is the per­son ma­le or fe­ma­le?" Vee wan­ted to know.
  "I can't tell."
  "Well, why do you think they're fol­lo­wing you? What do they want?"
  "To sca­re me." It se­emed re­aso­nab­le eno­ugh.
  "Why wo­uld they want to sca­re you?"
  Aga­in, I didn't know.
  "We ne­ed a di­ver­si­on," I told Vee.
  "Exactly what I was thin­king," she sa­id. "And we know I'm re­al­ly go­od at di­ver­si­ons. Gi­ve me yo­ur je­an jac­ket."
  I sta­red at her. "No way. We know not­hing abo­ut this per­son. I'm not let­ting you go out the­re dres­sed li­ke me. What if they're ar­med?"
  "So­me­ti­mes yo­ur ima­gi­na­ti­on sca­res me," Vee sa­id.
  I had to ad­mit, the idea that they we­re ar­med and out to kill was a lit­tle far-fetc­hed. But with all the cre­epy things hap­pe­ning la­tely, I didn't bla­me myself for fe­eling on ed­ge and as­su­ming the worst.
  "I'll go out first," sa­id Vee. "If they fol­low me, you fol­low them. I'll he­ad up the hill to­ward the ce­me­tery, and then we'll bo­okend them and set so­me ans­wers."
  A mi­nu­te la­ter Vee left the sto­re we­aring my je­an jac­ket. She pic­ked up my red umb­rel­la, hol­ding it low on her he­ad. Ot­her than the fact that she was a few inc­hes too tall, and a few po­unds too vo­lup­tu­o­us, she pas­sed as me. From whe­re I cro­uc­hed be­hind the rack of night­gowns, I watc­hed the ho­oded fi­gu­re step out of the sto­re ac­ross the stre­et and fol­low af­ter Vee. I crept clo­ser to the win­dow. Tho­ugh the fi­gu­re's baggy swe­ats­hirt and je­ans we­re me­ant to lo­ok and­rogy­no­us, the walk was fe­mi­ni­ne. De­fi­ni­tely fe­mi­ni­ne.
  Vee and the girl tur­ned the cor­ner and di­sap­pe­ared, and I jog­ged to the do­or. Out­si­de, the ra­in had tur­ned in­to a down­po­ur.
  Grab­bing Vee's umb­rel­la, I pic­ked up my pa­ce, ke­eping un­der the aw­nings, ste­ering cle­ar of the pel­ting ra­in. I co­uld fe­el the bot­toms of my je­ans dam­pe­ning. I wis­hed I'd worn bo­ots.
  Be­hind me the pi­er ex­ten­ded out to the ce­ment-gray oce­an. In front of me, the strip of shops en­ded at the ba­se of a ste­ep, grassy hill. At the top of the hill, I co­uld just ma­ke out the high cast-iron fen­ce of the lo­cal ce­me­tery.
  I un­loc­ked the Ne­on, cran­ked the def­ros­ter to high, and set the winds­hi­eld wi­pers to full po­wer. I dro­ve out of the lot and tur­ned left, ac­ce­le­ra­ting up the win­ding hill. The tre­es of the ce­me­tery lo­omed ahe­ad, the­ir branc­hes de­cep­ti­vely co­ming to li­fe thro­ugh the mad chop of the wi­pers. The whi­te marb­le he­ads­to­nes se­emed to stab up from the dark­ness. The gray he­ads­to­nes dis­sol­ved in­to the at­mosp­he­re.
  Out of now­he­re, a red obj­ect hurt­led in­to the winds­hi­eld. It smac­ked the glass di­rectly in my li­ne of vi­si­on, then flew up and over the car. I stom­ped on the bra­kes and the Ne­on skid­ded to a stop on the sho­ul­der of the ro­ad.
  I ope­ned the do­or and got out. I jog­ged to the back of the car, se­arc­hing for what had hit me.
  The­re was a mo­ment of con­fu­si­on as my mind pro­ces­sed what I was se­e­ing. My red umb­rel­la was tang­led in the we­eds. It was bro­ken; one si­de was col­lap­sed in the exact way I might ex­pect if it had be­en hur­led with for­ce aga­inst anot­her, har­der obj­ect.
  Thro­ugh the ons­la­ught of ra­in I he­ard a cho­ked sob.
  "Vee?" I sa­id. I jog­ged ac­ross the ro­ad, shi­el­ding my eyes from the ra­in as I swept my ga­ze over the lands­ca­pe. A body lay crump­led just ahe­ad. I star­ted run­ning.
  "Vee!" I drop­ped to my kne­es be­si­de her. She was on her si­de, her legs drawn up to her chest. She gro­aned.
  "What hap­pe­ned? Are you okay? Can you mo­ve?" I threw my he­ad back, blin­king ra­in. Think! I told myself. My cell pho­ne. Back in the car. I had to call 911.
  "I'm go­ing to get help," I told Vee.
  She mo­aned and clutc­hed my hand.
  I lo­we­red myself down on her, hol­ding her tightly. Te­ars bur­ned be­hind my eyes. "What hap­pe­ned? Was it the per­son who fol­lo­wed you? Did they do this to you? What did they do?"
  Vee mur­mu­red so­met­hing unin­tel­li­gib­le that might ha­ve be­en "hand­bag." Su­re eno­ugh, her hand­bag was mis­sing.
  "You're go­ing to be all right." I wor­ked to hold my vo­ice ste­ady. I had a dark fe­eling stir­ring in­si­de me, and I was trying to ke­ep it at bay. I was cer­ta­in the sa­me per­son who'd watc­hed me at Delp­hic and fol­lo­wed me shop­ping to­day was res­pon­sib­le, but I bla­med myself for put­ting Vee in harm's way. I ran back to the Ne­on and punc­hed 911 in­to my cell.
  Trying to ke­ep the hyste­ria out of my vo­ice, I sa­id, "I ne­ed an am­bu­lan­ce. My fri­end was at­tac­ked and rob­bed."

CHAPTER 11

  MON­DAY PAS­SED IN A DA­ZE. I WENT FROM CLASS TO class wa­iting for the fi­nal bell of the day. I'd cal­led the hos­pi­tal be­fo­re scho­ol and was told that Vee was he­ading in­to the OR. Her left arm had be­en bro­ken du­ring the at­tack, and sin­ce the bo­ne wasn't alig­ned, she ne­eded sur­gery.1 wan­ted to see her but co­uldn't un­til la­ter in the af­ter­no­on, when the anest­he­sia wo­re off and hos­pi­tal staff mo­ved her to her own ro­om. It was es­pe­ci­al­ly im­por­tant that I he­ar her ver­si­on of the at­tack be­fo­re she eit­her for­got the de­ta­ils or em­bel­lis­hed them. Anyt­hing she re­mem­be­red might fill a ho­le in the pic­tu­re and help me fi­gu­re out who had do­ne this.
  As the ho­urs stretc­hed to­ward af­ter­no­on, my fo­cus shif­ted from Vee to the girl out­si­de Vic­to­ria's Sec­ret. Who was she? What did she want? May­be it was a dis­tur­bing co­in­ci­den­ce that Vee had be­en at­tac­ked mi­nu­tes af­ter I'd watc­hed the girl fol­low af­ter her, but my ins­tincts di­sag­re­ed. I wis­hed I had a bet­ter pic­tu­re of what she lo­oked li­ke. The bulky ho­odie and je­ans, com­po­un­ded with the ra­in, had do­ne a go­od job of dis­gu­ising her. For all I knew it co­uld've be­en Mar­cie Mil­lar. But de­ep in­si­de it didn't fe­el li­ke the right match.
  I swung by my loc­ker to pick up my bi­ology text­bo­ok, then he­aded to my last class. I wal­ked in to find Patch's cha­ir empty. Typi­cal­ly, he ar­ri­ved at the last pos­sib­le mo­ment, tying with the tardy bell, but the bell rang and Co­ach to­ok his pla­ce at the chalk­bo­ard and star­ted lec­tu­ring on equ­ilib­ri­um.
  I pon­de­red Patch's empty cha­ir. A tiny vo­ice at the back of my he­ad spe­cu­la­ted that his ab­sen­ce might be con­nec­ted to Vee's at­tack. It was a lit­tle stran­ge that he was mis­sing on the mor­ning af­ter. And I co­uldn't for­get the icy chill I'd felt mo­ments be­fo­re lo­oking out­si­de Vic­to­ria's Sec­ret and re­ali­zing I was be­ing watc­hed. Every ot­her ti­me I'd felt that way, it was be­ca­use Patch was ne­ar.
  The vo­ice of re­ason qu­ickly ex­tin­gu­is­hed Patch's in­vol­ve­ment. He co­uld ha­ve ca­ught a cold. Or he co­uld ha­ve run out of gas on the dri­ve to scho­ol and was stran­ded mi­les away. Or may­be the­re was a high-bets po­ol ga­me go­ing on at Bo's Ar­ca­de and he fi­gu­red it was mo­re pro­fi­tab­le than an af­ter­no­on spent le­ar­ning the int­ri­ca­ci­es of the hu­man body.
  At the end of class, Co­ach stop­ped me on my way out the do­or.
  "Hang on a mi­nu­te, No­ra."
  I tur­ned back and hi­ked my back­pack up my sho­ul­der. "Yes?"
  He ex­ten­ded a fol­ded pi­ece of pa­per. "Miss Gre­ene stop­ped by be­fo­re class and as­ked me to gi­ve this to you," he sa­id.
  I ac­cep­ted the no­te. "Miss Gre­ene?" I didn't ha­ve any te­ac­hers by that na­me.
  "The new scho­ol psycho­lo­gist. She just rep­la­ced Dr. Hend­rick­son."
  I un­fol­ded the no­te and re­ad the mes­sa­ge scraw­led in­si­de.
  De­ar No­ra,
  I'll be ta­king over Dr. Hend­rick­son's ro­le as yo­ur scho­ol psycho­lo­gist. I no­ti­ced you mis­sed yo­ur last two ap­po­int­ments with Dr. H. Ple­ase co­me in right away so we can get ac­qu­a­in­ted. I've ma­iled a let­ter to yo­ur mot­her to ma­ke her awa­re of the chan­ge.
  All best,
  Miss Gre­ene
  "Thanks," I told Co­ach, fol­ding the no­te un­til it was small eno­ugh to tuck in­si­de my poc­ket.
  Out in the hall I mer­ged with the flow of the crowd. No avo­iding it now-I had to go. I ste­ered my way thro­ugh the halls un­til I co­uld see the clo­sed do­or to Dr. Hend­rick­son's of­fi­ce. Su­re eno­ugh, the­re was a new na­me pla­que on the do­or. The po­lis­hed brass gle­amed aga­inst the drab oak do­or: MISS D. GRE­ENE, SCHO­OL PSYCHO­LO­GIST.
  I knoc­ked on the do­or, and a mo­ment la­ter it ope­ned from wit­hin. Miss Gre­ene had flaw­less pa­le skin, sea blue eyes, a lush mo­uth, and fi­ne, stra­ight blond ha­ir that tumb­led past her el­bows. It was par­ted at the crown of her oval-sha­ped fa­ce. A pa­ir of tur­qu­o­ise cat's-eye glas­ses sat at the tip of her no­se, and she was dres­sed for­mal­ly in a gray her­ring­bo­ne pen­cil skirt and a pink silk blo­use. Her fi­gu­re was wil­lowy but fe­mi­ni­ne. She co­uldn't ha­ve be­en mo­re than fi­ve ye­ars ol­der than me.
  "You must be No­ra Grey. You lo­ok just li­ke the pic­tu­re in yo­ur fi­le," she sa­id, gi­ving my hand a firm pump. Her vo­ice was ab­rupt, but not ru­de. Bu­si­nes­sli­ke.
  Step­ping back, she sig­na­led me to en­ter the of­fi­ce.
  "Can I get you ju­ice, wa­ter?" she as­ked.
  "What hap­pe­ned to Dr. Hend­rick­son?"
  "He to­ok early re­ti­re­ment. I've had my eye on this job for a whi­le, so I jum­ped on the ope­ning. I went to Flo­ri­da Sta­te, but I grew up in Port­land, and my pa­rents still li­ve the­re. It's ni­ce to be clo­se to fa­mily aga­in."
  I sur­ve­yed the small of­fi­ce. It had chan­ged dras­ti­cal­ly sin­ce I'd last be­en in a few we­eks ago. The wall-to-wall bo­oks­hel­ves we­re now fil­led with aca­de­mic but ge­ne­ric-lo­oking hard­co­vers, all bo­und in ne­ut­ral co­lors with gold let­te­ring. Dr. Hend­rick­son had used the shel­ves to disp­lay fa­mily pic­tu­res, but the­re we­re no snaps­hots of Miss Gre­ene's pri­va­te li­fe. The sa­me fern hung by the win­dow, but un­der Dr. Hend­rick­son's ca­re, it had be­en far mo­re brown than gre­en. A few days with Miss Gre­ene and al­re­ady it lo­oked pert and ali­ve. The­re was a pink pa­is­ley cha­ir op­po­si­te the desk, and se­ve­ral mo­ving bo­xes stac­ked in the far cor­ner.
  "Fri­day was my first day," she exp­la­ined, se­e­ing my eyes fall on the mo­ving bo­xes. "I'm still un­pac­king. Ha­ve a se­at."
  I lo­we­red my back­pack down my arm and sat on the pa­is­ley cha­ir. Not­hing in the small ro­om ga­ve me any clu­es as to Miss Gre­ene's per­so­na­lity. She had a stack of fi­le fol­ders on her desk- not ne­at, but not messy, eit­her-and a whi­te mug of what lo­oked li­ke tea. The­re wasn't a tra­ce of per­fu­me or air fres­he­ner. Her com­pu­ter mo­ni­tor was black.
  Miss Gre­ene cro­uc­hed in front of a fi­le ca­bi­net be­hind her desk, tug­ged out a cle­an ma­ni­la fol­der, and prin­ted my na­me on the tab in black Ma­gic Mar­ker. She pla­ced it on her desk next to my old fi­le, which bo­re a few of Dr. Hend­rick­son's cof­fee-mug sta­ins.
  "I spent the who­le we­ekend go­ing thro­ugh Dr. Hend­rick­son's fi­les," she sa­id. "Just bet­we­en the two of us, his handw­ri­ting gi­ves me a mig­ra­ine, so I'm cop­ying over all the fi­les. I was ama­zed to find he didn't use a com­pu­ter to type his no­tes. Who still uses long­hand in this day and age?"
  She set­tled back in­to her swi­vel cha­ir, cros­sed her legs, and smi­led po­li­tely at me. "Well. Why don't you tell me a lit­tle bit abo­ut the his­tory of yo­ur me­etings with Dr. Hend­rick­son? I co­uld ba­rely de­cip­her his no­tes. It ap­pe­ared the two of you we­re dis­cus­sing how you fe­el abo­ut yo­ur mom's new job."
  "It's not all that new. She's be­en wor­king for a ye­ar."
  "She used to be a stay-at-ho­me mom, cor­rect? And af­ter yo­ur dad's pas­sing, she to­ok on a full-ti­me job." She squ­in­ted at a she­et of pa­per in my fi­le. "She works for an auc­ti­on com­pany, cor­rect? It lo­oks li­ke she co­or­di­na­tes es­ta­te auc­ti­ons all down the co­ast." She pe­eked at me over her glas­ses. "That must re­qu­ire a lot of ti­me away from ho­me."
  "We wan­ted to stay in our farm­ho­use," I sa­id, my to­ne to­uc­hing on the de­fen­si­ve. "We co­uldn't af­ford the mort­ga­ge if she to­ok a lo­cal job." I hadn't exactly lo­ved my ses­si­ons with Dr. Hend­rick­son, but I fo­und myself re­sen­ting him for re­ti­ring and aban­do­ning me to Miss Gre­ene. I was star­ting to get a fe­el for her, and she se­emed at­ten­ti­ve to de­ta­il. I sen­sed her itc­hing to dig in­to every dark cor­ner of my li­fe.
  "Yes, but you must be very lo­nely all by yo­ur­self at the farm­ho­use."
  "We ha­ve a ho­use­ke­eper who stays with me every af­ter­no­on un­til ni­ne or ten at night."
  "But a ho­use­ke­eper isn't the sa­me thing as a mot­her."
  I eyed the do­or. I didn't even try to be disc­re­et.
  "Do you ha­ve a best fri­end? A boyf­ri­end? So­me­one you can talk to when yo­ur ho­use­ke­eper do­esn't qu­ite… fit the bill?" She dun­ked a tea bag in the mug, then ra­ised it for a sip.
  "I ha­ve a best fri­end." I'd ma­de up my mind to say as lit­tle as pos­sib­le. The less I sa­id, the shor­ter the ap­po­int­ment. The shor­ter the ap­po­int­ment, the so­oner I co­uld vi­sit Vee.
  Her eyeb­rows pe­aked. "Boyf­ri­end?"
  "No."
  "You're an at­trac­ti­ve girl. I ima­gi­ne the­re must be so­me in­te­rest from the op­po­si­te sex."
  "He­re's the thing," I sa­id as pa­ti­ently as pos­sib­le. "I re­al­ly ap­pre­ci­ate that you're trying to help me, but I had this exact con­ver­sa­ti­on with Dr. Hend­rick­son a ye­ar ago when my dad di­ed. Re­has­hing it with you isn't hel­ping. It's li­ke go­ing back in ti­me and re­li­ving it all over aga­in. Yes, it was tra­gic and hor­rib­le, and I'm still de­aling with it every day, but what I re­al­ly ne­ed is to mo­ve on."
  The clock on the wall tic­ked bet­we­en us.
  "Well," Miss Gre­ene sa­id at last, plas­te­ring on a smi­le. "It's very help­ful to know yo­ur vi­ew­po­int, No­ra. Which is what I was trying to un­ders­tand all along. I'll ma­ke a no­te of yo­ur fe­elings in yo­ur fi­le. Anyt­hing el­se you want to talk abo­ut?"
  "No­pe." I smi­led to con­firm that, re­al­ly, I was do­ing fi­ne.
  She le­afed thro­ugh a few mo­re pa­ges of my fi­le. I had no idea what ob­ser­va­ti­ons Dr. Hend­rick­son had im­mor­ta­li­zed the­re, and I didn't want to wa­it aro­und long eno­ugh to find out.
  I lif­ted my back­pack off the flo­or and sco­oted to the ed­ge of the cha­ir. "I don't me­an to cut things short, but I ne­ed to be so­mew­he­re at fo­ur."
  "Oh?"
  I had no de­si­re to go in­to Vee's at­tack with Miss Gre­ene. "Lib­rary re­se­arch," I li­ed.
  "For which class?"
  I sa­id the first ans­wer that pop­ped to mind. "Bi­ology."
  "Spe­aking of clas­ses, how are yo­urs go­ing? Any con­cerns in that de­part­ment?"
  "No."
  She flip­ped a few mo­re pa­ges in my fi­le. "Excel­lent gra­des," she ob­ser­ved. "It says he­re you're tu­to­ring yo­ur bi­ology part­ner, Patch Cip­ri­ano." She lo­oked up, ap­pa­rently wan­ting my con­fir­ma­ti­on.
  I was surp­ri­sed my tu­to­ring as­sign­ment was im­por­tant eno­ugh to ma­ke it in­to the scho­ol psycho­lo­gist's fi­le. "So far we ha­ven't be­en ab­le to me­et. Conf­lic­ting sche­du­les." I ga­ve a What can you do? shrug.
  She tap­ped my fi­le on her desk, tid­ying all the lo­ose she­ets of pa­per in­to one cle­an stack, then in­ser­ted it in­to the new fi­le she'd hand-la­be­led. "To gi­ve you fa­ir war­ning, I'm go­ing to talk with Mr. McCo­na­ughy and see abo­ut set­ting so­me pa­ra­me­ters for yo­ur tu­to­ring ses­si­ons. I'd li­ke all me­etings to be held he­re at scho­ol, un­der the di­rect su­per­vi­si­on of a te­ac­her or ot­her fa­culty mem­ber. I don't want you tu­to­ring Patch off scho­ol pro­perty. I es­pe­ci­al­ly don't want the two of you me­eting alo­ne."
  A chill tip­to­ed along my skin. "Why? What's go­ing on?"
  "I can't dis­cuss it."
  The only re­ason I co­uld think why she didn't want me alo­ne with Patch was that he was dan­ge­ro­us. My past might frigh­ten you, he'd sa­id on the lo­ading plat­form of the Arc­han­gel.
  "Thanks for yo­ur ti­me. I won't ke­ep you any lon­ger," Miss Gre­ene sa­id. She stro­de to the do­or, prop­ping it open with her slen­der hip. She ga­ve a par­ting smi­le, but it lo­oked per­func­tory.
  After le­aving Miss Gre­ene's of­fi­ce, I cal­led the hos­pi­tal. Vee's sur­gery was over, but she was still in the re­co­very ro­om and co­uldn't ha­ve vi­si­tors un­til se­ven p.m. I con­sul­ted the clock on my pho­ne. Three ho­urs. I fo­und the Fi­at in the stu­dent par­king lot and drop­ped in­si­de, ho­ping an af­ter­no­on spent do­ing ho­me­work at the lib­rary wo­uld ke­ep my mind off the long wa­it.
  I sta­yed at the lib­rary thro­ugh the af­ter­no­on, and be­fo­re I re­ali­zed it, the clock on the wall had pas­sed qu­i­etly in­to eve­ning. My sto­mach rumb­led aga­inst the qu­i­et of the lib­rary, and my tho­ughts went to the ven­ding mac­hi­ne just in­si­de the ent­ran­ce.
  The last of my ho­me­work co­uld wa­it un­til la­ter, but the­re was still one pro­j­ect that re­qu­ired the help of lib­rary re­so­ur­ces. I had a vin­ta­ge IBM com­pu­ter at ho­me with di­al-up In­ter­net ser­vi­ce, and I typi­cal­ly tri­ed to sa­ve myself a lot of un­ne­ces­sary sho­uting and ha­ir pul­ling by using the lib­rary's com­pu­ter lab. I had a the­ater re­vi­ew of Ot­hel­lo due on the eZi­ne edi­tor's desk by ni­ne p.m., and I ma­de a de­al with myself, pro­mi­sing I'd go hunt down fo­od as so­on as I fi­nis­hed it.
  Pac­king up my be­lon­gings, I wal­ked to the ele­va­tors. In­si­de the ca­ge I pus­hed the but­ton to clo­se the do­ors, but didn't im­me­di­ately re­qu­est a flo­or. I pul­led out my cell and cal­led the hos­pi­tal aga­in.
  "Hi," I told the ans­we­ring nur­se. "My fri­end is re­co­ve­ring from sur­gery, and when I chec­ked in ear­li­er this af­ter­no­on, I was told she'd be out to­night. Her na­me is Vee Sky."
  The­re was a pa­use and the clic­king of com­pu­ter keys. "Lo­oks li­ke they'll be brin­ging her to a pri­va­te ro­om wit­hin the ho­ur."
  'What ti­me do vi­si­ting ho­urs end?"
  "Eight."
  "Thank you." I dis­con­nec­ted and pres­sed the third-flo­or but­ton, sen­ding me up.
  On the third flo­or I fol­lo­wed signs to col­lec­ti­ons, ho­ping that if I re­ad se­ve­ral the­ater re­vi­ews in the lo­cal news­pa­per, it wo­uld spark my mu­se.
  "Excu­se me," I sa­id to the lib­ra­ri­an be­hind the col­lec­ti­ons desk. "I'm trying to find co­pi­es of the Port­land Press He­rald from the past ye­ar. Par­ti­cu­larly the the­ater gu­ide."
  "We don't ke­ep anyt­hing that cur­rent in col­lec­ti­ons," she sa­id, "but if you lo­ok on­li­ne, I be­li­eve the Port­land Press He­rald ke­eps arc­hi­ves on the­ir web­si­te. He­ad stra­ight down the hal­lway be­hind you and you'll see the me­dia lab on yo­ur left."
  Insi­de the lab I sig­ned on­to a com­pu­ter. I was abo­ut to di­ve in­to my as­sign­ment when an idea struck me. I co­uldn't be­li­eve I hadn't tho­ught of it ear­li­er. Af­ter con­fir­ming no one was watc­hing over my sho­ul­der, I Go­og­led "Patch Cip­ri­ano." May­be I'd find an ar­tic­le that wo­uld shed light on his past. Or may­be he kept a blog.
  I frow­ned at the se­arch re­sults. Not­hing. No Fa­ce­bo­ok, no MySpa­ce, no blog. It was li­ke he didn't exist.
  "What's yo­ur story, Patch?" I mur­mu­red. "Who are you- re­al­ly?"
  Half an ho­ur la­ter, I'd re­ad se­ve­ral re­vi­ews and my eyes we­re gla­zing over. I spre­ad my on­li­ne se­arch to all news­pa­pers in Ma­ine. A link to King­horn Prep's scho­ol pa­per pop­ped up. A few se­conds pas­sed be­fo­re I pla­ced the fa­mi­li­ar na­me. El­li­ot had trans­fer­red from King­horn Prep. On a whim, I de­ci­ded to check it out. If the scho­ol was as eli­te as El­li­ot cla­imed, it pro­bably had a res­pec­tab­le pa­per.
  I clic­ked on the link, scrol­led over the arc­hi­ves pa­ge, and ran­domly cho­se March 21 of ear­li­er this ye­ar. A mo­ment la­ter I had a he­ad­li­ne.

STUDENT QUESTIONED IN KINGHORN PREP MURDER

  I sco­oted my cha­ir clo­ser, lu­red by the idea of re­ading so­met­hing mo­re ex­ci­ting than the­ater re­vi­ews.
  A six­te­en-ye­ar-old King­horn Pre­pa­ra­tory stu­dent who po­li­ce we­re qu­es­ti­oning in what has be­en dub­bed "The King­horn Han­ging" has be­en re­le­ased wit­ho­ut char­ge. Af­ter eigh­te­en-ye­ar-old Kj­irs­ten Hal­ver­son's body was fo­und han­ging from a tree on the wo­oded cam­pus of King­horn Prep, po­li­ce qu­es­ti­oned sop­ho­mo­re El­li­ot Sa­un­ders, who was se­en with the vic­tim on the night of her de­ath.
  My mind was slow to pro­cess the in­for­ma­ti­on. El­li­ot was qu­es­ti­oned as part of a mur­der in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on?
  Hal­ver­son wor­ked as a wa­it­ress at Blind Joe's. Po­li­ce con­firm that Hal­ver­son and Sa­un­ders we­re se­en wal­king the cam­pus to­get­her la­te Sa­tur­day night. Hal­ver­son's body was dis­co­ve­red Sun­day mor­ning, and Sa­un­ders was re­le­ased Mon­day af­ter­no­on af­ter a su­ici­de no­te was dis­co­ve­red in Hal­ver­son's apart­ment.
  "Find anyt­hing in­te­res­ting?"
  I jum­ped at the so­und of El­li­ot's vo­ice be­hind me. I whir­led aro­und to find him le­aning aga­inst the do­orj­amb. His eyes we­re nar­ro­wed ever so slightly, his mo­uth set in a li­ne. So­met­hing cold flus­hed thro­ugh me, li­ke a blush, only op­po­si­te.
  I whe­eled my cha­ir slightly to the right, trying to po­si­ti­on myself in front of the com­pu­ter's mo­ni­tor. "I'm-I'm just fi­nis­hing up ho­me­work. How abo­ut you? What are you do­ing? I didn't he­ar you co­me in. How long ha­ve you be­en stan­ding the­re?" My pitch was all over the pla­ce.
  Elli­ot pus­hed away from the do­orj­amb and wal­ked in­si­de the lab. I gro­ped blindly be­hind me for the mo­ni­tor's on/off but­ton.
  I sa­id, "I'm at­temp­ting to jump-start my ins­pi­ra­ti­on on a the­ater re­vi­ew I'm sup­po­sed to ha­ve to my edi­tor by la­ter to­night." I was still spe­aking much too fast. Whe­re was the but­ton?
  Elli­ot pe­ered aro­und me. "The­ater re­vi­ews?"
  My fin­gers brus­hed a but­ton, and I he­ard the mo­ni­tor dra­in to black. "I'm sorry, what did you say you're do­ing he­re?"
  "I was wal­king by when I saw you. So­met­hing wrong? You se­em… jumpy."
  "Uh-low blo­od su­gar." I swept my pa­pers and bo­oks in­to a pi­le and sho­ehor­ned them in­si­de my back­pack. "I ha­ven't eaten sin­ce lunch."
  Elli­ot ho­oked a ne­arby cha­ir and whe­eled it next to mi­ne. He sat back­ward on it and le­aned clo­se, in­va­ding my per­so­nal spa­ce. "May­be I can help with the re­vi­ew."
  I le­aned away. "Wow, that's re­al­ly ni­ce of you, but I'm go­ing to call it qu­its for now. I ne­ed to grab so­met­hing to eat. It's a go­od ti­me to bre­ak."
  "Let me buy you din­ner," he sa­id. "Isn't the­re a di­ner just aro­und the cor­ner?"
  "Thanks, but my mom will be ex­pec­ting me. She's be­en out of town all we­ek and gets back to­night." I sto­od and tri­ed to step aro­und him. He held his cell pho­ne out, and it ca­ught me in the na­vel.
  "Call her."
  I lo­we­red my ga­ze to the pho­ne and scramb­led for an ex­cu­se. "I'm not al­lo­wed to 20 out on scho­ol nights."
  "It's cal­led lying, No­ra. Tell her ho­me­work is ta­king lon­ger than you ex­pec­ted. Tell her you ne­ed anot­her ho­ur at the lib­rary. She's not go­ing to know the dif­fe­ren­ce."
  Elli­ot's vo­ice had ta­ken on an ed­ge I'd ne­ver he­ard be­fo­re. His blue eyes snap­ped with a new­fo­und cold­ness, his mo­uth lo­oked thin­ner.
  "My mom do­esn't li­ke me go­ing out with guys she hasn't met," I sa­id.
  Elli­ot smi­led, but the­re was no warmth. "We both know you're not too con­cer­ned with yo­ur mom's ru­les, sin­ce Sa­tur­day night you we­re with me at Delp­hic."
  I had my back­pack slung over one sho­ul­der, and I was clutc­hing the strap. I didn't say anyt­hing. I brus­hed past El­li­ot and wal­ked out of the lab in a hurry, re­ali­zing that if he tur­ned the mo­ni­tor on, he'd see the ar­tic­le. But the­re wasn't anyt­hing I co­uld do now.
  Half­way to the col­lec­ti­ons desk, I da­red a glan­ce over my sho­ul­der. The pla­te-glass walls sho­wed that the lab was empty. El­li­ot was now­he­re to be se­en. I ret­ra­ced my steps to the com­pu­ter, ke­eping my eyes on gu­ard in ca­se he re­ap­pe­ared. I tur­ned on the mo­ni­tor; the mur­der in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on ar­tic­le was still up. Sen­ding a copy to the ne­arest prin­ter, I tuc­ked it in­si­de my bin­der, log­ged off, and hur­ri­ed out.

CHAPTER 12

  MY CELL PHO­NE BUZ­ZED IN MY POC­KET, AND af­ter con­fir­ming I wasn't be­ing evil-eyed by a lib­ra­ri­an, I ans­we­red. "Mom?" "Go­od news," she sa­id. "The auc­ti­on wrap­ped up early. I got on the ro­ad an ho­ur ahe­ad of sche­du­le and sho­uld be ho­me so­on. Whe­re are you?"
  "Hi! I wasn't ex­pec­ting you un­til la­ter. I'm just le­aving the lib­rary. How was ups­ta­te New York?"
  "Upsta­te New York was… long." She la­ug­hed, but she so­un­ded dra­ined. "I can't wa­it to see you."
  I lo­oked aro­und for a clock. I wan­ted to stop by the hos­pi­tal and see Vee be­fo­re he­ading ho­me.
  "He­re's the de­al," I told my mom. "I ne­ed to vi­sit Vee. I might be a few mi­nu­tes la­te. I'll hur­ry-I pro­mi­se."
  "Of co­ur­se." I de­tec­ted the ti­ni­est di­sap­po­int­ment. "Any up­da­tes? I got yo­ur mes­sa­ge this mor­ning abo­ut her sur­gery."
  "Sur­gery is over. They're ta­king her to a pri­va­te ro­om any mi­nu­te now."
  "No­ra." I he­ard the swell of emo­ti­on in her vo­ice. "I'm so glad it wasn't you. I co­uldn't li­ve with myself if anyt­hing hap­pe­ned to you. Es­pe­ci­al­ly sin­ce yo­ur dad-" She bro­ke off. "I'm just glad we're both sa­fe. Say hi to Vee for me. See you so­on. Hugs and kis­ses."
  "Lo­ve you, Mom."
  Cold­wa­ter's Re­gi­onal Me­di­cal Cen­ter is a three-story redb­rick struc­tu­re with a co­ve­red walk­way le­ading up to the ma­in ent­ran­ce. I pas­sed thro­ugh the re­vol­ving glass do­ors and stop­ped at the ma­in desk to in­qu­ire abo­ut Vee. I was told she'd be­en mo­ved to a ro­om half an ho­ur ago, and that vi­si­ting ho­urs en­ded in fif­te­en mi­nu­tes. I lo­ca­ted the ele­va­tors and punc­hed the but­ton to send me up a flo­or.
  At ro­om 207 I pus­hed on the do­or. "Vee?" I co­axed a bo­uqu­et of bal­lo­ons in­si­de be­hind me, cros­sed the small fo­yer, and fo­und Vee rec­li­ning in bed, her left arm in a cast and slung ac­ross her body.
  "Hi!" I sa­id when I saw she was awa­ke.
  Vee ex­pel­led a lu­xu­ri­o­us sigh. "I lo­ve drugs. Re­al­ly. They're ama­zing. Even bet­ter than an En­zo cap­puc­ci­no. Hey, that rhymed. En­zo cap­puc­ci­no. It's a sign. I'm des­ti­ned to be a po­et. Want to he­ar anot­her po­em? I'm go­od at imp­romp­tu."
  "Uh-"
  A nur­se swis­hed in and tin­ke­red aro­und with Vee's IV. "Fe­eling okay?" she as­ked Vee.
  "For­get be­ing a po­et," Vee sa­id. "I'm des­ti­ned for stand-up co­medy. Knock, knock."
  "What?" I sa­id.
  The nur­se rol­led her eyes. "Who's the­re?"
  "Crab," sa­id Vee.
  "Crab who?"
  "Crab yo­ur to­wel, we're go­ing to the be­ach!"
  "May­be a lit­tle less pa­in­kil­lers," I told the nur­se.
  "Too la­te. I just ga­ve her anot­her do­se. Wa­it un­til you see her in ten mi­nu­tes." She swis­hed back out the do­or.
  "So?" I as­ked Vee. "What's the ver­dict?"
  "The ver­dict? My doc­tor is a lard-arse. Clo­sely re­semb­les an Oom­pa-Lo­om­pa. Don't gi­ve me yo­ur se­ve­re lo­ok. Last ti­me he ca­me in, he bro­ke in­to the Funk) Chic­ken. And he's fo­re­ver eating cho­co­la­te. Mostly cho­co­la­te ani­mals. You know the so­lid cho­co­la­te bun­ni­es they're sel­ling for Eas­ter? That's what the Oom­pa-Lo­om­pa ate for din­ner. Had a cho­co­la­te duck at lunch with a si­de of yel­low Pe­eps."
  "I me­ant the ver­dict…" I po­in­ted at the me­di­cal pa­rap­her­na­lia ador­ning her.
  "Oh. One bus­ted arm, a con­cus­si­on, and as­sor­ted cuts, scra­pes, and bru­ises. For­tu­na­tely for my qu­ick ref­le­xes, I jum­ped out of the way be­fo­re any ma­j­or da­ma­ge was do­ne. When it co­mes to ref­le­xes, I'm li­ke a cat. I'm Cat­wo­man. I'm in­vul­ne­rab­le. The only re­ason he got a pi­ece of me is be­ca­use of the ra­in. Cats don't li­ke wa­ter. It im­pa­irs us. It's our krypto­ni­te."
  "I'm so sorry," I told Vee sin­ce­rely. "I sho­uld be the one in the hos­pi­tal bed."
  "And get all the drugs? Uh-uh. No way."
  "Ha­ve the po­li­ce fo­und any le­ads?" I as­ked.
  "Na­da, zilch, ze­ro."
  "No eye­wit­nes­ses?"
  "We we­re at a ce­me­tery in the mid­dle of a ra­ins­torm," Vee po­in­ted out. "Most nor­mal pe­op­le we­re in­do­ors."
  She was right. Most nor­mal pe­op­le had be­en in­do­ors. Of co­ur­se, Vee and I had be­en out… along with the myste­ri­o­us girl who fol­lo­wed Vee out of Vic­to­ria's Sec­ret.
  "How did it hap­pen?" I as­ked.
  "I was wal­king to the ce­me­tery li­ke we plan­ned, when all of a sud­den I he­ard fo­ots­teps clo­sing in be­hind me," Vee exp­la­ined. "That's when I lo­oked back, and everyt­hing ca­me to­get­her re­al­ly fast. The­re was the flash of a gun, and him lun­ging for me. Li­ke I told the cops, my bra­in wasn't exactly trans­mit­ting, 'Get a vi­su­al ID.' It was mo­re li­ke, 'Holy fre­ak show, I'm abo­ut to go splat!' He grow­led, whac­ked me three or fo­ur ti­mes with the gun, grab­bed my hand­bag, and ran."
  I was mo­re con­fu­sed than ever. "Wa­it. It was a guy? You saw his fa­ce?"
  "Of co­ur­se it was a guy. He had dark eyes… char­co­al eyes. But that's all I saw. He was we­aring a ski mask."
  At the men­ti­on of the ski mask, my he­art skit­te­red thro­ugh se­ve­ral be­ats. It was the sa­me guy who'd jum­ped in front of the Ne­on, I was su­re of it. I hadn't ima­gi­ned him-Vee was pro­of. I re­mem­be­red the way all evi­den­ce of the crash had di­sap­pe­ared. May­be I hadn't ima­gi­ned that part eit­her. This guy, who­ever he was, was re­al. And he was out the­re. But if I hadn't ima­gi­ned the da­ma­ge to the Ne­on, what re­al­ly hap­pe­ned that night? Was my vi­si­on, or my me­mory, so­me­how… be­ing al­te­red?
  After a mo­ment, a slew of se­con­dary qu­es­ti­ons ra­ced to mind.
  What did he want this ti­me? Was he con­nec­ted to the girl out­si­de Vic­to­ria's Sec­ret? Had he known I'd be shop­ping at the pi­er? We­aring a ski mask cons­ti­tu­ted ad­van­ce plan­ning, so he must ha­ve known be­fo­re­hand whe­re I'd be. And he didn't want me to re­cog­ni­ze his fa­ce.
  "Who did you tell we we­re go­ing shop­ping?" I as­ked Vee sud­denly.
  She ram­med a pil­low be­hind her neck, trying to get com­for­tab­le. "My mom."
  "That's it? No­body el­se?"
  "I might ha­ve bro­ught it up to El­li­ot."
  My blo­od se­emed to sud­denly stop flo­wing. "You told El­li­ot?"
  "What's the big de­al?"
  "The­re's so­met­hing I ne­ed to tell you," I sa­id so­berly. "Re­mem­ber the night I dro­ve the Ne­on ho­me and hit a de­er?"
  "Ye­ah?" she sa­id, frow­ning.
  "It wasn't a de­er. It was a guy. A guy in a ski mask."
  "Shut up," she whis­pe­red. "You're tel­ling me my at­tack wasn't ran­dom? You're tel­ling me this guy wants so­met­hing from me? No, wa­it. He wants so­met­hing from you. I was we­aring yo­ur jac­ket. He tho­ught / was you"
  My who­le body felt le­aden.
  After a co­unt of si­len­ce, she sa­id, "Are you su­re you didn't tell Patch abo­ut shop­ping? Be­ca­use on furt­her ref­lec­ti­on, I'm thin­king the guy had Patch's bu­ild. Tal­lish. Le­anish. Stron­gish. Sex­yish, asi­de from the at­tac­king part."
  "Patch's eyes aren't char­co­al, they're black," I po­in­ted out, but I was un­com­for­tably awa­re that I had told Patch we we­re go­ing shop­ping at the pi­er.
  Vee ra­ised an in­de­ci­si­ve sho­ul­der. "May­be his eyes we­re black. I can't re­mem­ber. It hap­pe­ned re­al­ly fast. I can be spe­ci­fic abo­ut the gun," she sa­id help­ful­ly. "It was aimed at me. Li­ke, right at me."
  I pus­hed a few puz­zle pi­eces aro­und my mind. If Patch had at­tac­ked Vee, he must ha­ve se­en her le­ave the sto­re we­aring my jac­ket and tho­ught it was me. When he fi­gu­red out he was fol­lo­wing the wrong girl, he hit Vee with the gun out of an­ger and va­nis­hed. The only prob­lem was, I co­uldn't ima­gi­ne Patch bru­ta­li­zing Vee. It felt off. Be­si­des, he was sup­po­sedly at a part) on the co­ast all night.
  "Did yo­ur at­tac­ker lo­ok at all li­ke El­li­ot?" I as­ked.
  I watc­hed Vee ab­sorb the qu­es­ti­on. Wha­te­ver drug she'd be­en gi­ven, it se­emed to slow her tho­ught pro­cess, and I co­uld prac­ti­cal­ly he­ar each ge­ar in her bra­in grind in­to ac­ti­on.
  "He was abo­ut twenty po­unds too light and fo­ur inc­hes too tall to be El­li­ot."
  "This is all my fa­ult," I sa­id. "I ne­ver sho­uld ha­ve let you le­ave the sto­re we­aring my jac­ket."
  "I know you don't want to he­ar this," sa­id Vee, lo­oking li­ke she was figh­ting a drug-indu­ced yawn. "But the mo­re I think on it, the mo­re si­mi­la­ri­ti­es I see bet­we­en Patch and my at­tac­ker. Sa­me bu­ild. Sa­me long-leg­ged stri­de. Too bad his scho­ol fi­le was empty. We ne­ed an ad­dress. We ne­ed to can­vass his ne­igh­bor­ho­od. We ne­ed to find a gul­lib­le lit­tle granny ne­igh­bor who co­uld be co­axed in­to mo­un­ting a web­cam in her win­dow and aiming it at his ho­use. Be­ca­use so­met­hing abo­ut Patch just isn't right."
  "You ho­nestly think Patch co­uld ha­ve do­ne this to you?" I as­ked, still un­con­vin­ced.
  Vee che­wed at her lip. "I think he's hi­ding so­met­hing. So­met­hing big."
  I wasn't go­ing to ar­gue that.
  Vee sank de­eper in her bed. "My body's ting­ling. I fe­el go­od all over."
  "We don't ha­ve an ad­dress," I sa­id, "but we do know whe­re he works."
  "Are you thin­king what I'm thin­king?" Vee as­ked, eyes brigh­te­ning bri­efly thro­ugh the ha­ze of che­mi­cal se­da­ti­on.
  "Ba­sed on past ex­pe­ri­en­ce, I ho­pe not."
  "The truth is, we ne­ed to brush up on our sle­ut­hing skills," sa­id Vee. "Use them or lo­se them, that's what Co­ach sa­id. We ne­ed to find out mo­re abo­ut Patch's past. Hey, I bet if we do­cu­ment, Co­ach will even gi­ve us ext­ra cre­dit."
  Highly do­ubt­ful, gi­ven that if Vee was in­vol­ved, the sle­ut­hing wo­uld li­kely ta­ke an il­le­gal turn. Not to men­ti­on, this par­ti­cu­lar sle­ut­hing job had not­hing to do with bi­ology. Even re­mo­tely.
  The slight smi­le Vee had drag­ged out of me fa­ded. Fun as it was to be light­he­ar­ted abo­ut the si­tu­ati­on, I was frigh­te­ned. The guy in the ski mask was out the­re, plan­ning his next at­tack. It kind of ma­de sen­se that Patch might know what was go­ing on. The guy in the ski mask jum­ped in front of the Ne­on the day af­ter Patch be­ca­me my bi­ology part­ner. May­be it wasn't a co­in­ci­den­ce.
  Just then the nur­se pop­ped her he­ad in­si­de the do­or. "It's eight o'clock," she told me, tap­ping her watch. "Vi­si­ting ho­urs are over."
  "I'll be right out," I sa­id.
  As so­on as her fo­ots­teps fa­ded down the hall, I shut the do­or to Vee's ro­om. I wan­ted pri­vacy be­fo­re I told her abo­ut the mur­der in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on sur­ro­un­ding El­li­ot. Ho­we­ver, when I got back to Vee's bed, it was ap­pa­rent that her me­di­ca­ti­on had kic­ked in.
  "He­re it co­mes," she sa­id with an exp­res­si­on of pu­re bliss. "Drug rush… any mo­ment now… the sur­ge of warmth… byeb­ye, Mr. Pa­in…"
  "Vee-"
  "Knock, knock."
  "This is re­al­ly im­por­tant-"
  "Knock, knock."
  "It's abo­ut El­li­ot-"
  "Knock, kno­o­o­ock," she sa­id in a sing­song vo­ice.
  I sig­hed. "Who's the­re?"
  "Boo."
  "Boo who?"
  "Boo-hoo, so­me­body's crying, and it's not me!" She bro­ke in­to hyste­ri­cal la­ugh­ter.
  Re­ali­zing it was po­int­less to push the is­sue, I sa­id, "Call me to­mor­row af­ter you're disc­har­ged." I un­zip­ped my back­pack. "Be­fo­re I for­get, I bro­ught yo­ur ho­me­work. Whe­re do you want me to put it?"
  She po­in­ted at the trash can. "Right the­re will be fi­ne."
  I pul­led the Fi­at in­to the ga­ra­ge and poc­ke­ted the keys. The sky lac­ked stars on the dri­ve ho­me, and su­re eno­ugh, a light ra­in star­ted to fall. I tug­ged on the ga­ra­ge do­or, lo­we­ring it to the gro­und and loc­king it. I let myself in­to the kitc­hen. A light was on so­mew­he­re ups­ta­irs, and a mo­ment la­ter my mom ca­me run­ning down the sta­irs and threw her arms aro­und me.
  My mom has dark wavy ha­ir and gre­en eyes. She's an inch shor­ter than I am, but we sha­re the sa­me bo­ne struc­tu­re. She al­ways smells li­ke Lo­ve by Ralph La­uren.
  "I'm so glad you're sa­fe," she sa­id, squ­e­ezing me tight.
  Sa­fe-ish, I tho­ught.

CHAPTER 13

  THE FOL­LO­WING NIGHT AT SE­VEN, THE BOR­DER­LI­NE'S par­king lot was pac­ked. Af­ter ne­arly an ho­ur of beg­ging, Vee and I had con­vin­ced her pa­rents that we ne­eded to ce­leb­ra­te her first night out of the hos­pi­tal over chi­les rel­le­nos and vir­gin straw­ber­ry da­iqu­iris. At le­ast, that's what we we­re cla­iming. But we had an ul­te­ri­or mo­ti­ve.
  I tuc­ked the Ne­on in­to a tight par­king spa­ce and tur­ned off the en­gi­ne.
  "Ew," sa­id Vee when I pas­sed the keys back and my fin­gers brus­hed hers. "Think you co­uld swe­at a lit­tle mo­re?"
  "I'm ner­vo­us."
  "Gee, I had no clue."
  I inad­ver­tently lo­oked at the do­or.
  "I know what you're thin­king," Vee sa­id, tigh­te­ning her lips. "And the ans­wer is no. No as in no way"
  "You don't know what I'm thin­king," I sa­id.
  Vee vi­sed my arm. "The heck I don't."
  "I wasn't go­ing to run," I sa­id. "Not me."
  "Li­ar."
  Tu­es­day was Patch's night off, and Vee had put it in­to my he­ad that it wo­uld be the per­fect ti­me to in­ter­ro­ga­te his co­wor­kers. I en­vi­si­oned myself sas­ha­ying up to the bar, gi­ving the bar­ten­der a coy Mar­cie Mil­lar lo­ok, then se­gu­e­ing to the to­pic of Patch. I ne­eded his ho­me ad­dress. I ne­eded any pri­or ar­rests. I ne­eded to know if he had a con­nec­ti­on to the guy in the ski mask, no mat­ter how te­nu­o­us. And I ne­eded to fi­gu­re out why the guy in the ski mask and the myste­ri­o­us girl we­re in my li­fe.
  I pe­eked in­si­de my hand­bag, do­ub­le-chec­king to ma­ke su­re the list of in­ter­ro­ga­ti­on qu­es­ti­ons I'd pre­pa­red we­re still with me. One si­de of the list de­alt with qu­es­ti­ons abo­ut Patch's per­so­nal li­fe. The flip si­de had flir­ting prompts. Just in ca­se.
  "Whoa, whoa, whoa," Vee sa­id. "What is that?"
  "Not­hing," I sa­id, fol­ding the list.
  Vee tri­ed to grab the list, but I was fas­ter and had it cram­med de­ep in my hand­bag be­fo­re she co­uld get to it.
  "Ru­le num­ber one," Vee sa­id. "The­re is no such thing as no­tes in flir­ting."
  "The­re's an ex­cep­ti­on to ever) ru­le."
  "And you're not it!" She grab­bed two plas­tic 7-Ele­ven sacks from the back­se­at and swi­ve­led out of the car. As so­on as I step­ped out, she used her go­od arm to hurl the sacks over the top of the Ne­on at me.
  "What's this?" I as­ked, catc­hing the sacks. The hand­les we­re ti­ed and I co­uldn't see in­si­de, but the un­mis­ta­kab­le shaft of a sti­let­to he­el thre­ate­ned to po­ke thro­ugh the plas­tic.
  "Si­ze eight and a half," Vee sa­id. "Sharks­kin. It's easi­er to play the part when you lo­ok the part."
  "I can't walk in high he­els."
  "Go­od thing they're not high, then."
  "They lo­ok high," I sa­id, eying the prot­ru­ding sti­let­to.
  "Almost fi­ve inc­hes. They left 'high' be­hind at fo­ur."
  Lo­vely. If I didn't bre­ak my neck, I just might get to hu­mi­li­ate myself whi­le se­du­cing sec­rets out of Patch's co­wor­kers.
  "He­re's the de­al," sa­id Vee as we stro­de down the si­de­walk to the front do­ors. "I sort of in­vi­ted a co­up­le of pe­op­le. The mo­re the mer­ri­er, right?"
  "Who?" I as­ked, fe­eling the dark stir­rings of fo­re­bo­ding in the pit of my sto­mach.
  "Jules and El­li­ot."
  Be­fo­re I had ti­me to tell Vee exactly how bad I tho­ught this idea was, she sa­id, "Mo­ment of truth: I've sort of be­en se­e­ing Jules. On the sly."
  "What?"
  "You sho­uld see his ho­use. Bru­ce Way­ne can't com­pe­te. His pa­rents are eit­her So­uth Ame­ri­can drug lords or co­me from se­ri­o­us old mo­ney. Sin­ce I ha­ven't met them yet, I can't say which."
  I was at a loss for words. My mo­uth ope­ned and shut, but not­hing ca­me out. "When did this hap­pen?" I fi­nal­ly ma­na­ged to ask.
  "Pretty much right af­ter that fa­te­ful mor­ning at En­zo's."
  "Fa­te­ful? Vee, you ha­ve no idea-"
  "I ho­pe they got he­re first and re­ser­ved a tab­le," Vee sa­id, stretc­hing her neck whi­le eying the crowd ac­cu­mu­la­ting aro­und the do­ors. "I don't want to wa­it. I am se­ri­o­usly two thin mi­nu­tes away from de­ath by star­va­ti­on."
  I grab­bed Vee by her go­od el­bow, pul­ling her asi­de. "The­re's so­met­hing I ne­ed to tell you-"
  "I know, I know," she sa­id. "You think the­re's a slim chan­ce El­li­ot at­tac­ked me Sun­day night. Well, I think you've got El­li­ot con­fu­sed with Patch. And af­ter you do so­me sle­ut­hing to­night, the facts will back me up. Be­li­eve me, I want to know who at­tac­ked me just as much as you. Pro­bably even mo­re. It's per­so­nal now. And whi­le we're han­ding each ot­her ad­vi­ce, he­re's mi­ne. Stay away from Patch. Just to be sa­fe."
  "I'm glad you've tho­ught this thro­ugh," I sa­id ter­sely, "but he­re's the thing. I fo­und an ar­tic­le-"
  The do­ors to the Bor­der­li­ne ope­ned. A fresh wa­ve of he­at, car­rying the smell of li­mes and ci­lant­ro, swir­led out at us, along with the so­und of a ma­ri­ac­hi band pla­ying thro­ugh the spe­akers.
  "Wel­co­me to the Bor­der­li­ne," a hos­tess gre­eted us. "Just the two of you to­night?"
  Elli­ot was stan­ding be­hind her in­si­de the dim­med fo­yer. We saw each ot­her at the sa­me mo­ment. His mo­uth smi­led but his eyes did not.
  "La­di­es," he sa­id, san­ding his hands to­get­her as he wal­ked over. "Lo­oking mag­ni­fi­cent, as al­ways."
  My skin prick­led.
  "Whe­re's yo­ur part­ner in cri­me?" Vee as­ked, glan­cing aro­und the fo­yer. Pa­per lan­terns hung from the ce­iling, and a mu­ral of a Me­xi­can pu­eb­lo span­ned two walls. The wa­iting benc­hes we­re fil­led to ca­pa­city. The­re was no sign of Jules.
  "Bad news," sa­id El­li­ot. "The man is sick. You're go­ing to ha­ve to set­tle for me."
  "Sick?" Vee de­man­ded. "How sick? What kind of ex­cu­se is sick?"
  "Sick as in it's co­ming out both ends."
  Vee scrunc­hed her no­se. "Too much in­for­ma­ti­on."
  I was still ha­ving a dif­fi­cult ti­me gras­ping the idea that so­met­hing was go­ing on bet­we­en Vee and Jules. Jules ca­me ac­ross sul­len, bro­oding, and comp­le­tely di­sin­te­res­ted in Vee's com­pany or an­yo­ne el­se's. Not one part of me felt com­for­tab­le with the idea of Vee spen­ding ti­me alo­ne with Jules. Not ne­ces­sa­rily be­ca­use of how unp­le­asant he was or how lit­tle I knew abo­ut him, but be­ca­use of the one thing I did know: He was clo­se fri­ends with El­li­ot.
  The hos­tess pluc­ked three me­nus out of a slot­ted cub­byho­le and led us to a bo­oth so clo­se to the kitc­hen I co­uld fe­el the fi­re of the ovens co­ming thro­ugh the walls. To our left was the sal­sa bar. To our right glass do­ors mo­ist with con­den­sa­ti­on led out to a pa­tio. My pop­lin blo­use was al­re­ady clin­ging to my back. My swe­at might ha­ve had mo­re to do with the news abo­ut Vee and Jules than with the he­at, ho­we­ver.
  "Is this go­od?" the hos­tess as­ked, ges­tu­ring at the bo­oth.
  "It's gre­at," El­li­ot sa­id, shrug­ging out of his bom­ber jac­ket. "I lo­ve this pla­ce. If the ro­om do­esn't ma­ke you swe­at, the fo­od will."
  The hos­tess's smi­le lit up. "You've be­en he­re be­fo­re. Can I start you with chips and our ne­west jala­pe­no sal­sa? It's our hot­test yet."
  "I li­ke things hot," sa­id El­li­ot.
  I was pretty su­re he was be­ing slimy. I'd be­en way too ge­ne­ro­us in thin­king he wasn't as low as Mar­cie. I'd be­en way too ge­ne­ro­us abo­ut his cha­rac­ter, pe­ri­od. Es­pe­ci­al­ly now that I knew he had a mur­der in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on hi­ding along with who knew how many ot­her ske­le­tons in his clo­set.
  The hos­tess swept him an ap­pra­ising on­ce-over. "I'll be right back with chips and sal­sa. Yo­ur wa­it­ress will be he­re shortly to ta­ke yo­ur or­ders."
  Vee plop­ped in­to the bo­oth first. I slid in be­si­de her, and El­li­ot to­ok the se­at ac­ross from me. Our eyes con­nec­ted, and the­re was a fleck of so­met­hing dark in his. Very li­kely re­sent­ment. May­be even hos­ti­lity. I won­de­red if he knew I'd se­en the ar­tic­le.
  "Purp­le is yo­ur co­lor, No­ra," he sa­id, nod­ding at my scarf as I lo­ose­ned it from my neck and ti­ed it aro­und the hand­le of my hand­bag. "Brigh­tens yo­ur eyes."
  Vee nud­ged my fo­ot. She ac­tu­al­ly tho­ught he me­ant it as a comp­li­ment.
  "So," I sa­id to El­li­ot with an ar­ti­fi­ci­al smi­le, "why don't you tell us abo­ut King­horn Prep?"
  "Ye­ah," Vee chi­med in. "Are the­re sec­ret so­ci­eti­es the­re? Li­ke in the mo­vi­es?"
  "What's to tell?" El­li­ot sa­id. "Gre­at scho­ol. End of story." He pic­ked up his me­nu and scan­ned it. "Anyo­ne in­te­res­ted in an ap­pe­ti­zer? My tre­at."
  "If it's so gre­at, why did you trans­fer?" I met his eyes and held them. Ever so slightly, I arc­hed my eyeb­rows, chal­len­ging.
  A musc­le in El­li­ot's jaw jum­ped just be­fo­re he crac­ked a smi­le. "The girls. I he­ard they we­re a lot fi­ner aro­und the­se parts. The ru­mor pro­ved true." He win­ked at me, and an ice-cold fe­eling shot from my he­ad to my to­es.
  "Why didn't Jules trans­fer too?" as­ked Vee. "We co­uld ha­ve be­en the fa­bu­lo­us fo­ur, only with a lot mo­re punch. The phe­no­me­nal fo­ur."
  "Jules's pa­rents are ob­ses­sed with his edu­ca­ti­on. In­ten­se do­esn't be­gin to co­ver it. I swe­ar on my li­fe, he's go­ing all the way to the top. The guy can't be stop­ped. I me­an, I con­fess, I do okay in scho­ol. Bet­ter than most. But no­body tops Jules. He's an aca­de­mic god."
  The dre­amy lo­ok re­tur­ned to Vee's eyes. "I've ne­ver met his pa­rents," she sa­id. "Both ti­mes I've go­ne over, they're eit­her out of town or wor­king."
  "They work a lot," El­li­ot ag­re­ed, re­tur­ning his eyes to the me­nu, ma­king it hard for me to re­ad anyt­hing in them.
  "Whe­re do they work?" I as­ked.
  Elli­ot to­ok a long drink of his wa­ter. It se­emed to me li­ke he was bu­ying ti­me whi­le he de­vi­sed an ans­wer. "Di­amonds. They spend a lot of ti­me in Af­ri­ca and Aust­ra­lia."
  "I didn't know Aust­ra­lia was big in the di­amond bu­si­ness," I sa­id.
  "Ye­ah, ne­it­her did I," sa­id Vee.
  In fact, I was pretty su­re Aust­ra­lia had no di­amonds. Pe­ri­od.
  "Why are they li­ving in Ma­ine?" I as­ked. "Why not Af­ri­ca?"
  Elli­ot stu­di­ed his me­nu mo­re in­ten­sely. "What are you both ha­ving? I'm thin­king the ste­ak fa­j­itas lo­ok go­od."
  "If Jules's pa­rents are in the di­amond bu­si­ness, I bet they know a lot abo­ut cho­osing the per­fect en­ga­ge­ment ring," Vee sa­id. "I've al­ways wan­ted an eme­rald-cut so­li­ta­ire."
  I kic­ked Vee un­der the tab­le. She jab­bed me with her fork.
  "Oww," I sa­id.
  Our wa­it­ress pa­used at the end of the tab­le long eno­ugh to ask, "Anything to drink?"
  Elli­ot lo­oked over the top of his me­nu, first at me, then at Vee.
  "Di­et Co­ke," Vee sa­id.
  "Wa­ter with li­me wed­ges, ple­ase," I sa­id.
  The wa­it­ress re­tur­ned ama­zingly qu­ickly with our drinks. Her re­turn was my cue to le­ave the tab­le and ini­ti­ate step one of the Plan, and Vee re­min­ded me with a se­cond un­der-the-tab­le prod from her fork.
  "Vee," I sa­id thro­ugh my te­eth, "wo­uld you li­ke to ac­com­pany me to the la­di­es' ro­om?" I sud­denly didn't want to go thro­ugh with the Plan. I didn't want to le­ave Vee alo­ne with El­li­ot. What I did want was to drag her out, tell her abo­ut the mur­der in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on, then find so­me way to ma­ke both El­li­ot and Jules di­sap­pe­ar from our li­ves.
  "Why don't you go alo­ne?" sa­id Vee. "I think that wo­uld be a bet­ter plan" She jer­ked her he­ad at the bar and mo­ut­hed Go, whi­le ma­king disc­re­et sho­o­ing mo­ti­ons be­low the tab­le.
  "I was plan­ning on go­ing alo­ne, but I'd re­al­ly li­ke you to jo­in me."
  "What is it with girls?" El­li­ot sa­id, split­ting a smi­le bet­we­en us. "I swe­ar, I've ne­ver known a girl who co­uld go to the bath­ro­om alo­ne." He le­aned for­ward and grin­ned cons­pi­ra­to­ri­al­ly. "Let me in on the sec­ret. Se­ri­o­usly. I'll pay you fi­ve bucks each." He re­ac­hed for his back poc­ket. "Ten, if I can co­me along and see what the big de­al is."
  Vee flas­hed a grin. "Per­vert. Don't for­get the­se," she told me, stuf­fing the 7-Ele­ven sacks in­to my arms.
  Elli­ot's eyeb­rows lif­ted.
  "Trash," Vee exp­la­ined to him with a to­uch of snark. "Our gar­ba­ge can is full. My mom as­ked if I co­uld throw the­se away sin­ce I was go­ing out."
  Elli­ot didn't lo­ok li­ke he be­li­eved her, and Vee didn't lo­ok li­ke she ca­red. I got up, my arms lo­aded with cos­tu­me ge­ar, and swal­lo­wed my bur­ning frust­ra­ti­on.
  We­aving thro­ugh the tab­les, I to­ok the hall le­ading back to the rest­ro­oms. The hall was pa­in­ted ter­ra-cot­ta and was de­co­ra­ted with ma­ra­cas, straw hats, and wo­oden dolls. It was hot­ter back he­re, and I wi­ped my fo­re­he­ad. The Plan now was to get this over with as qu­ickly as pos­sib­le. As so­on as I was back at the tab­le, I'd for­mu­la­te an ex­cu­se abo­ut ne­eding to le­ave, and ha­ul Vee out. With or wit­ho­ut her con­sent.
  After pe­eking be­low the three stalls in the la­di­es' ro­om and con­fir­ming I was alo­ne, I loc­ked the ma­in do­or and dum­ped the con­tents of the 7-Ele­ven sacks on­to the co­un­ter. One pla­ti­num blond wig, one purp­le push-up bra, one black tu­be top, one se­qu­ined mi­nis­kirt, hot pink fish­net tights, and one pa­ir of si­ze eight and a half sharks­kin sti­let­to he­els.
  I stuf­fed the bra, the tu­be top and the tights back in­si­de the sacks. Af­ter slo­ug­hing off my je­ans, I pul­led on the mi­nis­kirt. I tuc­ked my ha­ir un­der the wig and ap­pli­ed the lips­tick. I top­ped it off with a ge­ne­ro­us co­at of high-shi­ne lip gloss.
  "You can do this," I told my ref­lec­ti­on, snap­ping the cap back the gloss and blot­ting my lips to­get­her. "You can pull a Mar­cie Mil­lar. Se­du­ce men for sec­rets. How hard can it be?"
  I kic­ked off my dri­ving mocs, stuf­fed them in­to a sack along with my je­ans, then pus­hed the sack un­der the co­un­ter, out of sight. "Be­si­des," I con­ti­nu­ed, "the­re's not­hing wrong with sac­ri­fi­cing a lit­tle pri­de for the sa­ke of in­tel­li­gen­ce. If you want to ap­pro­ach this with a mor­bid out­lo­ok, you co­uld even say if you don't get ans­wers, you co­uld wind up de­ad. Be­ca­use li­ke it or not, so­me­one out the­re me­ans you harm."
  I dang­led the sharks­kin he­els in my li­ne of vi­si­on. They we­ren't the ug­li­est things I'd ever se­en. In fact, they co­uld be con­si­de­red sexy. Jaws me­ets Cold­wa­ter, Ma­ine. I strap­ped myself in­to them and prac­ti­ced wal­king ac­ross the bath­ro­om se­ve­ral ti­mes.
  Two mi­nu­tes la­ter I eased myself on top of a bar sto­ol at the bar.
  The bar­ten­der eyed me. "Six­te­en?" he gu­es­sed. "Se­ven­te­en?"
  He lo­oked abo­ut ten ye­ars ol­der than me and had re­ce­ding brown ha­ir that he wo­re sha­ved clo­se. A sil­ver ho­op hung from his right ear­lo­be. Whi­te T-shirt and Le­vi's. Not bad lo­oking… not gre­at, eit­her.
  "I'm not an un­de­ra­ge drin­ker," I cal­led lo­udly abo­ve the mu­sic and sur­ro­un­ding con­ver­sa­ti­on. "I'm wa­iting for a fri­end. I've got a gre­at vi­ew of the do­ors he­re." I ret­ri­eved the list of qu­es­ti­ons from my hand­bag and co­vertly po­si­ti­oned the pa­per un­der a glass salt sha­ker.
  "What's that?" the bar­ten­der as­ked, wi­ping his hands on a to­wel and nod­ding at the list.
  I slid the list fart­her un­der the salt sha­ker. "Not­hing," I sa­id, all in­no­cen­ce.
  He ra­ised an eyeb­row.
  I de­ci­ded to be lo­ose with the truth. "It's a… shop­ping list. I ha­ve to pick up so­me gro­ce­ri­es for my mom on the way ho­me." What hap­pe­ned to flir­ting? I as­ked myself. What hap­pe­ned to Mar­cie Mil­lar?
  He ga­ve me a scru­ti­ni­zing lo­ok that I de­ci­ded wasn't all ne­ga­ti­ve. "After wor­king this job for fi­ve ye­ars, I'm pretty go­od at spot­ting li­ars."
  "I'm not a li­ar," I sa­id. "May­be I was lying a mo­ment ago, but it was just one lie. One lit­tle lie do­esn't ma­ke a li­ar."
  "You lo­ok li­ke a re­por­ter," he sa­id.
  "I work for my high scho­ol's eZi­ne." I wan­ted to sha­ke myself. Re­por­ters didn't ins­till trust in pe­op­le. Pe­op­le we­re ge­ne­ral­ly sus­pi­ci­o­us of re­por­ters. "But I'm not wor­king to­night," I amen­ded qu­ickly. "Strictly ple­asu­re to­night. No bu­si­ness. No un­derl­ying agen­das. No­ne what­so­ever."
  After a co­unt of si­len­ce I de­ci­ded the best mo­ve was to plow ahe­ad. I cle­ared my thro­at and sa­id, "Is the Bor­der­li­ne a po­pu­lar pla­ce of emp­loy­ment for high scho­ol stu­dents?"
  "We get a lot of tho­se, ye­ah. Hos­tes­ses and bus­boys and the li­ke."
  "Re­al­ly?" I sa­id, fe­ig­ning surp­ri­se. "May­be I know so­me of them. Try me."
  The bar­ten­der ang­led his eyes to­ward the ce­iling and scratc­hed the stub­ble on his chin. His blank sta­re wasn't ins­pi­ring my con­fi­den­ce. Not to men­ti­on that I didn't ha­ve a lot of ti­me. El­li­ot co­uld be slip­ping let­hal drugs in­to Vee's Di­et Co­ke.
  "How abo­ut Patch Cip­ri­ano?" I as­ked. "Do­es he work he­re?"
  "Patch? Ye­ah. He works he­re. A co­up­le nights, and we­ekends."
  "Was he wor­king Sun­day night?" I tri­ed not to so­und too cu­ri­o­us. But I ne­eded to know if it was pos­sib­le for Patch to ha­ve be­en at the pi­er. He sa­id he had a part) on the co­ast, but may­be his plans had chan­ged. If so­me­one ve­ri­fi­ed that he was at work Sun­day eve­ning, I co­uld ru­le out his in­vol­ve­ment in the at­tack on Vee.
  "Sun­day?" Mo­re scratc­hing. "The nights blur to­get­her. Try the hos­tes­ses. One of them will re­mem­ber. They all gig­gle and go a lit­tle screwy when he's aro­und." He smi­led as if I might so­me­how sympat­hi­ze with them.
  I sa­id, "You wo­uldn't hap­pen to ha­ve ac­cess to his job ap­pli­ca­ti­on?" Inc­lu­ding his ho­me ad­dress.
  "That wo­uld be a no"
  "Just out of cu­ri­osity," I sa­id, "do you know if it's pos­sib­le to get hi­red he­re if you ha­ve a fe­lony on yo­ur re­cord?"
  "Okay, may­be not a fe­lony, but how abo­ut a mis­de­me­anor?"
  He spre­ad his palms on the co­un­ter and le­aned clo­se. "No." His to­ne had shif­ted from hu­mo­ring to in­sul­ted.
  "That's go­od. That's re­al­ly go­od to know." I re­po­si­ti­oned myself on the bar sto­ol, and felt the skin on my thighs pe­el away from the vinyl. I was swe­ating. If ru­le num­ber one of flir­ting was no lists, I was fa­irly cer­ta­in ru­le num­ber two was no swe­ating.
  I con­sul­ted my list.
  "Do you know if Patch has ever had any rest­ra­ining or­ders? Do­es he ha­ve a his­tory of stal­king?" I sus­pec­ted the bar­ten­der was get­ting a bad vi­be from me, and I de­ci­ded to throw all my qu­es­ti­ons out in a last-ditch ef­fort be­fo­re he sent me away from the bar-or wor­se, had me evic­ted from the res­ta­urant for ha­ras­sment and sus­pi­ci­o­us be­ha­vi­or. "Do­es he ha­ve a girlf­ri­end?" I blur­ted.
  "Go ask him," he sa­id.
  I blin­ked. "He's not wor­king to­night."
  "A fe­lony?" He ga­ve a bark of la­ugh­ter. "You kid­ding me?
  At the bar­ten­der's grin, my sto­mach se­emed to un­ra­vel.
  "He's not wor­king to­night… is he?" I as­ked, my vo­ice inc­hing up an oc­ta­ve. "He's sup­po­sed to ha­ve Tu­es­days off!"
  "Usu­al­ly, ye­ah. But he's co­ve­ring for Be­nji. Be­nji went to the hos­pi­tal. Rup­tu­red ap­pen­dix."
  "You me­an Patch is he­re"? Right now?" I glan­ced over my sho­ul­der, brus­hing the wig to co­ver my pro­fi­le whi­le I scan­ned the di­ning area for him.
  "He wal­ked back to the kitc­hen a co­up­le mi­nu­tes ago."
  I was al­re­ady di­sen­ga­ging myself from the bar sto­ol. "I think I left my car run­ning. But it was gre­at tal­king to you!" I hur­ri­ed as qu­ickly as I co­uld to the rest­ro­oms.
  Insi­de the la­di­es' ro­om I loc­ked the do­or be­hind me, drew a few bre­aths with my back pres­sed to the do­or, then went to the sink and splas­hed cold wa­ter on my fa­ce. Patch was go­ing to find out I'd spi­ed on him. My me­mo­rab­le per­for­man­ce gu­aran­te­ed that. On the sur­fa­ce, this was a bad thing be­ca­use it was, well, hu­mi­li­ating. But when I tho­ught abo­ut it, I had to fa­ce the fact that Patch was very sec­re­ti­ve. Sec­re­ti­ve pe­op­le didn't li­ke the­ir li­ves pri­ed in­to. How wo­uld he re­act when he le­ar­ned I was hol­ding him un­der a mag­nif­ying glass?
  And now I won­de­red why I'd co­me he­re at all, sin­ce de­ep in­si­de, I didn't be­li­eve Patch was the guy be­hind the ski mask. May­be he had dark, dis­tur­bing sec­rets, but run­ning aro­und in a ski mask wasn't one of them.
  I tur­ned off the tap, and when I lo­oked up, Patch's fa­ce was ref­lec­ted in the mir­ror. I shri­eked and swung aro­und.
  He wasn't smi­ling, and he didn't lo­ok par­ti­cu­larly amu­sed.
  "What are you do­ing he­re?" I gas­ped.
  "I work he­re."
  "I me­an he­re. Can't you re­ad? The sign on the do­or-"
  "I'm star­ting to think you're fol­lo­wing me. Every ti­me I turn aro­und, the­re you are."
  "I wan­ted to ta­ke Vee out," I exp­la­ined. "She's be­en in the hos­pi­tal." I so­un­ded de­fen­si­ve. I was cer­ta­in that only ma­de me lo­ok mo­re gu­ilty. "I ne­ver dre­amed I'd run in­to you. It's sup­po­sed to be yo­ur night off. And what are you tal­king abo­ut? Every ti­me / turn aro­und, the­re you are."
  Patch's eyes we­re sharp, in­ti­mi­da­ting, ext­rac­ting. They cal­cu­la­ted my every word, my every mo­ve­ment.
  "Want to exp­la­in the tack) ha­ir?" he sa­id.
  I yan­ked off the wig and tos­sed it on the co­un­ter. "Want to exp­la­in whe­re you've be­en? You mis­sed the last two days of scho­ol."
  I was al­most cer­ta­in Patch wo­uldn't re­ve­al his whe­re­abo­uts, but he sa­id, "Pla­ying pa­int­ball. What we­re you do­ing at the bar?"
  "Tal­king with the bar­ten­der. Is that a cri­me?" Ba­lan­cing one hand aga­inst the co­un­ter, I ra­ised my fo­ot to un­buck­le a sharks­kin he­el. I bent over slightly, and as I did, the in­ter­ro­ga­ti­on list flut­te­red out of my neck­li­ne and on­to the flo­or.
  I went down on my kne­es for it, but Patch was fas­ter. He held it over his he­ad whi­le I jum­ped for it.
  "Gi­ve it back!" I sa­id.
  " 'Do­es Patch ha­ve a rest­ra­ining or­der aga­inst him?'" he re­ad. " 'Is Patch a fe­lon?'"
  "Gi­ve-me-that!" I his­sed fu­ri­o­usly.
  Patch ga­ve a soft la­ugh, and I knew he'd se­en the next qu­es­ti­on. " 'Do­es Patch ha­ve a girlf­ri­end?' "
  Patch put the pa­per in his back poc­ket. I was so­rely temp­ted to go af­ter it, des­pi­te its lo­ca­ti­on.
  He le­aned back aga­inst the co­un­ter and le­ve­led our eyes. "If you're go­ing to dig aro­und for in­for­ma­ti­on, I'd pre­fer that you ask me."
  "Tho­se qu­es­ti­ons"-I wa­ved whe­re he'd hid­den them-"we­re a joke. Vee wro­te them," I ad­ded in a flash of ins­pi­ra­ti­on. "It's all her fa­ult."
  "I know yo­ur handw­ri­ting, No­ra."
  "Well, okay, fi­ne" I be­gan, hun­ting for a smart reply, but I to­ok too long and lost my chan­ce.
  "No rest­ra­ining or­ders," he sa­id. "No fe­lo­ni­es."
  I til­ted my chin up. "Girlf­ri­end?" I told myself I didn't ca­re how he ans­we­red. Eit­her way was fi­ne with me.
  "That's no­ne of yo­ur bu­si­ness."
  "You tri­ed to kiss me," I re­min­ded him. "You ma­de it my bu­si­ness."
  The ghost of a pi­ra­te smi­le lur­ked at his mo­uth. I got the imp­res­si­on he was re­cal­ling ever) last de­ta­il of that ne­ar kiss, inc­lu­ding my sigh-slash-mo­an.
  "Ex-girlf­ri­end," he sa­id af­ter a mo­ment.
  My sto­mach drop­ped as a sud­den tho­ught pop­ped in­to my mind. What if the girl from Delp­hic and Vic­to­ria's Sec­ret was Patch's ex? What if she saw me tal­king to Patch at the ar­ca­de and- mis­ta­kenly-assu­med the­re was a lot mo­re to our re­la­ti­ons­hip? If she was still at­trac­ted to Patch, it ma­de sen­se that she might be je­alo­us eno­ugh to fol­low me aro­und. A few puz­zle pi­eces se­emed to fall in­to pla­ce…
  And then Patch sa­id, "But she's not aro­und."
  "What do you me­an she's not aro­und?"
  "She's go­ne. She's ne­ver co­ming back."
  "You me­an… she's de­ad?" I as­ked.
  Patch didn't deny it.
  My sto­mach sud­denly felt he­avy and twis­ted. I hadn't ex­pec­ted this. Patch had a girlf­ri­end, and now she was de­ad.
  The do­or to the la­di­es' ro­om rat­tled as so­me­one tri­ed to en­ter. I'd for­got­ten I'd loc­ked it. Which ma­de me won­der how Patch got in. Eit­her he had a key, or the­re was anot­her exp­la­na­ti­on. An exp­la­na­ti­on I pro­bably didn't want to think abo­ut, such as gli­ding un­der the do­or li­ke air. Li­ke smo­ke.
  "I ne­ed to get back to work," Patch sa­id. He ga­ve me a on­ce-over that lin­ge­red a bit be­low the hips. "Kil­ler skirt. De­adly legs."
  Be­fo­re I'd for­med a sing­le co­he­rent tho­ught, he was thro­ugh the do­or.
  The ol­der wo­man wa­iting for ad­mit­tan­ce lo­oked at me, then over her sho­ul­der at Patch, who was va­nis­hing down the hall. "Ho­ney," she told me, "he lo­oks slip­per) as so­ap."
  "Go­od desc­rip­ti­on," I mumb­led.
  She fluf­fed her short, corksc­rew gray ha­ir. "A girl co­uld lat­her up in so­ap li­ke that."
  After I chan­ged back in­to my clot­hes, I re­tur­ned to the bo­oth and slid in be­si­de Vee. El­li­ot chec­ked his watch and lif­ted his eyeb­rows at me.
  "Sony1 was go­ne so long," I sa­id. "Did I miss anyt­hing?"
  "No­pe," sa­id Vee. "Sa­me old, sa­me old." She bum­ped my knee, and the qu­es­ti­on was imp­li­ed. Well?
  Be­fo­re I co­uld re­turn the bump, El­li­ot sa­id, "You mis­sed the wa­it­ress. I or­de­red you a red bur­ri­to." A cre­epy smi­le tug­ged at the cor­ners of his mo­uth.
  I saw my chan­ce.
  "Actu­al­ly, I'm not su­re I'm up to eating." I ma­na­ged a na­use­ated fa­ce that wasn't al­to­get­her cont­ri­ved. "I think I ca­ught what Jules has."
  "Oh, man," Vee sa­id. "Are you okay?"
  I sho­ok my he­ad.
  "I'll hunt down our wa­it­ress and get her to box the fo­od," Vee sug­ges­ted, dig­ging in her pur­se for keys.
  "What abo­ut me?" sa­id El­li­ot, so­un­ding only half joking.
  "Ra­in check?" Vee sa­id.
  Bin­go, I tho­ught.

CHAPTER 14

  I GOT BACK TO THE FARM­HO­USE SHORTLY BE­FO­RE EIGHT. I tur­ned my key in the lock, grab­bed the do­ork­nob, and sho­ved my hip aga­inst the do­or. I'd cal­led my mom a few ho­urs be­fo­re din­ner; she was at the of­fi­ce, tying up a few lo­ose ends, not su­re when she'd be ho­me, and I ex­pec­ted to find the ho­use qu­i­et, dark, and cold.
  On the third sho­ve, the do­or ga­ve way, and I hur­led my hand­bag in­to the dark­ness, then wrest­led with the key still jam­med in the lock. Ever sin­ce the night Patch ca­me over, the lock had de­ve­lo­ped a gre­edy dis­po­si­ti­on. I won­de­red if Do­rot­hea had no­ti­ced it ear­li­er in the day.
  "Gi­ve-me-the-dumb-key," I sa­id, jig­gling it free.
  The grand­fat­her clock in the hall tic­ked on the ho­ur, and eight lo­ud dongs re­ver­be­ra­ted thro­ugh the si­len­ce. I was wal­king in­to the li­ving ro­om to start a fi­re in the wo­od-bur­ning sto­ve when the­re was the rust­le of fab­ric and a low cre­ak from ac­ross the ro­om.
  I scre­amed.
  "No­ra!" my mom sa­id, thro­wing off a blan­ket and scramb­ling in­to a sit­ting po­si­ti­on on the so­fa. "What in the world's the mat­ter?"
  I had one hand spla­yed ac­ross my he­art and the ot­her flat­te­ned aga­inst the wall, sup­por­ting me. "You sca­red me!"
  "I fell as­le­ep. If I'd he­ard you co­me in, I wo­uld ha­ve sa­id so­met­hing." She pus­hed her ha­ir off her fa­ce and blin­ked ow­lishly. "What ti­me is it?"
  I col­lap­sed in­to the ne­arest armc­ha­ir and tri­ed to re­co­ver my nor­mal he­art ra­te. My ima­gi­na­ti­on had co­nj­ured up a pa­ir of ruth­less eyes be­hind a ski mask. Now that I was po­si­ti­ve he wasn't a fig­ment of my ima­gi­na­ti­on, I had an overw­hel­ming de­si­re to tell my mom everyt­hing, from the way he'd jum­ped on the Ne­on to his ro­le as Vee's at­tac­ker. He was stal­king me, and he was vi­olent. We'd get new locks on the do­ors. And it se­emed lo­gi­cal that the po­li­ce wo­uld get in­vol­ved. I'd fe­el much sa­fer at night with an of­fi­cer par­ked on the curb.
  "I was go­ing to wa­it to bring this up," my mom sa­id, in­ter­rup­ting my tho­ught pro­cess, "but Fm not su­re the per­fect mo­ment is ever go­ing to pre­sent it­self."
  I frow­ned. "What's go­ing on?"
  She ga­ve a long, tro­ub­led sigh. "I'm thin­king abo­ut put­ting the farm­ho­use up for sa­le."
  "Why?"
  "We've be­en strug­gling for a ye­ar, and I'm not pul­ling in as much as I'd ho­ped. I've con­si­de­red ta­king a se­cond job, but ho­nestly I'm not su­re the­re are eno­ugh ho­urs in the day." She la­ug­hed wit­ho­ut any tra­ce of hu­mor. "Do­rot­hea's wa­ges are mo­dest, but it's ext­ra mo­ney we don't ha­ve. The only ot­her thing I can think of is mo­ving in­to a smal­ler ho­use. Or an apart­ment."
  "But this is our ho­use." All my me­mo­ri­es we­re he­re. The me­mory of my dad was he­re. I co­uldn't be­li­eve she didn't fe­el the sa­me way. I wo­uld do wha­te­ver it to­ok to stay.
  "I'll gi­ve it three mo­re months," she sa­id. "But I don't want to get yo­ur ho­pes up."
  Right then I knew I co­uldn't tell my mom abo­ut the guy in the ski mask. She'd qu­it work to­mor­row. She'd get a lo­cal job, and the­re'd be ab­so­lu­tely no cho­ice but to sell the farm­ho­use.
  "Let's talk abo­ut so­met­hing brigh­ter," Mom sa­id, pus­hing her mo­uth in­to a smi­le. "How was din­ner?"
  "Fi­ne," I sa­id mo­ro­sely.
  "And Vee? How's she re­co­ve­ring?"
  "She can go back to scho­ol to­mor­row."
  Mom smi­led wryly. "It's a go­od thing she bro­ke her left arm. Ot­her­wi­se she wo­uldn't be ab­le to ta­ke no­tes in class, and I can only ima­gi­ne how di­sap­po­in­ting that wo­uld ha­ve be­en for her."
  "Ha, ha," I sa­id. "I'm go­ing to ma­ke hot cho­co­la­te." I sto­od and po­in­ted over my sho­ul­der in­to the kitc­hen. "Want so­me?"
  "That ac­tu­al­ly so­unds per­fect. I'll start the fi­re."
  After a qu­ick trip to the kitc­hen to ro­und up mugs, su­gar, and the co­coa ca­nis­ter, I ca­me back to find that Mom had a ket­tle of wa­ter on the wo­od-bur­ning sto­ve. I perc­hed myself on the arm of the so­fa and han­ded her a mug.
  "How did you know you we­re in lo­ve with Dad?" I as­ked, stri­ving to so­und ca­su­al. The­re was al­ways the chan­ce that dis­cus­sing Dad wo­uld bring on a te­ar fest, so­met­hing I ho­ped to avo­id.
  Mom set­tled in­to the so­fa and prop­ped her fe­et up on the cof­fee tab­le. "I didn't. Not un­til we'd be­en mar­ri­ed abo­ut a ye­ar."
  It wasn't the ans­we­red I'd ex­pec­ted. "Then… why did you marry him?"
  "Be­ca­use I tho­ught I was in lo­ve. And when you think you're in lo­ve, you're wil­ling to stick it out and ma­ke it work un­til it is lo­ve."
  "We­re you sca­red?"
  "To marry him?" She la­ug­hed. "That was the ex­ci­ting part. Shop­ping for a gown, re­ser­ving the cha­pel, we­aring my di­amond so­li­ta­ire."
  I pic­tu­red Patch's misc­hi­evo­us smi­le. "We­re you ever sca­red of Dad?"
  "Whe­ne­ver the New Eng­land Pat­ri­ots lost."
  Whe­ne­ver the Pat­ri­ots lost, my dad went to the ga­ra­ge and rev­ved up his cha­in­saw. Two autumns ago he ha­uled the cha­in-saw to the wo­ods be­hind our pro­perty, fel­led ten tre­es, and di­ced them in­to fi­re­wo­od. We still ha­ve mo­re than half the pi­le to burn thro­ugh.
  Mom pat­ted the so­fa be­si­de her, and I cur­led up aga­inst her, res­ting my he­ad on her sho­ul­der. "I miss him," I sa­id.
  "Me too."
  "I'm af­ra­id I'll for­get what he lo­oked li­ke. Not in pic­tu­res, but han­ging aro­und on a Sa­tur­day mor­ning in swe­ats, ma­king scramb­led eggs."
  Mom la­ced her fin­gers thro­ugh mi­ne. "You've al­ways be­en so much li­ke him, right from the start."
  "Re­al­ly?" I sat up. "In what way?"
  "He was a go­od stu­dent, very cle­ver. He wasn't flashy or outs­po­ken, but pe­op­le res­pec­ted him."
  "Was Dad ever… myste­ri­o­us?"
  Mom se­emed to turn this over in her mind. "Myste­ri­o­us pe­op­le ha­ve a lot of sec­rets. Yo­ur fat­her was very open."
  "Was he ever re­bel­li­o­us?"
  She ga­ve a short, start­led la­ugh. "Did you see him that way? Har­ri­son Grey, the world's most et­hi­cal ac­co­un­tant… re­bel­li­o­us?" She ga­ve a the­at­ri­cal gasp. "He­aven for­bid! He did we­ar his ha­ir long for a whi­le. It was wavy and blond-li­ke a sur­fer's. Of co­ur­se, his horn-rim­med glas­ses kil­led the lo­ok. So… do I da­re ask what got us on this su­bj­ect?"
  I had no idea how to exp­la­in my conf­lic­ting fe­elings for Patch to my mom. I had no idea how to exp­la­in Patch, pe­ri­od. My mom was pro­bably ex­pec­ting a desc­rip­ti­on that inc­lu­ded his pa­rents' na­mes, his GPA, the var­sity sports he pla­yed, and which col­le­ges he plan­ned on ap­plying to. I didn't want to alarm her by sa­ying I was wil­ling to bet my piggy bank that Patch had a rap she­et. "The­re's this guy," I sa­id, unab­le to hold back a smi­le at the tho­ught of Patch. "We've be­en han­ging out la­tely. Mostly scho­ol stuff."
  "Ooh, a boy," she sa­id myste­ri­o­usly. "Well? Is he in the Chess Club? Stu­dent Co­un­cil? The ten­nis te­am?"
  "He li­kes po­ol," I of­fe­red op­ti­mis­ti­cal­ly.
  "A swim­mer! Is he as cu­te as Mic­ha­el Phelps? Of co­ur­se, I al­ways le­aned to­ward Ryan Loch­te when it ca­me to ap­pe­aran­ces."
  I tho­ught abo­ut cor­rec­ting my mom. On se­cond tho­ught, it was pro­bably best not to cla­rify. Po­ol, swim­ming… clo­se eno­ugh, right?
  The pho­ne rang and Mom stretc­hed ac­ross the so­fa to ans­wer it. Ten se­conds in­to the call she flop­ped back aga­inst the so­fa and slap­ped a hand to her fo­re­he­ad. "No, it's not a prob­lem. I'll run over, pick it up, and bring it by first thing to­mor­row mor­ning."
  "Hu­go?" I as­ked af­ter she hung up. Hu­go was my mom's boss, and to say he cal­led all the ti­me was put­ting it mildly. On­ce, he'd cal­led her in­to work on a Sun­day be­ca­use he co­uldn't fi­gu­re out how to ope­ra­te the copy mac­hi­ne.
  "He left so­me un­fi­nis­hed pa­per­work in the of­fi­ce and ne­eds me to run over. I ha­ve to ma­ke co­pi­es, but I sho­uldn't be go­ne mo­re than an ho­ur. Ha­ve you fi­nis­hed yo­ur ho­me­work?"
  "Not yet."
  "Then I'll tell myself we co­uldn't ha­ve spent ti­me to­get­her even if I was he­re." She sig­hed and ro­se to her fe­et. "See you in an ho­ur?"
  "Tell Hu­go he sho­uld pay you mo­re."
  She la­ug­hed. "-4 lot mo­re."
  As so­on as I had the ho­use to myself, I cle­ared the bre­ak­fast dis­hes off the kitc­hen tab­le and ma­de ro­om for my text­bo­oks. Eng­lish, world his­tory, bi­ology. Ar­ming myself with a brand-new num­ber two pen­cil, I flip­ped open the top bo­ok and went to work.
  Fif­te­en mi­nu­tes la­ter my mind re­bel­led, re­fu­sing to di­gest anot­her pa­rag­raph on Euro­pe­an fe­udal systems. I won­de­red what Patch was do­ing af­ter he got off work. Ho­me­work? Hard to be­li­eve. Eating piz­za and watc­hing bas­ket­ball on TV? May­be, but it didn't fe­el right. Pla­cing bets and pla­ying po­ol at Bo's Ar­ca­de? It se­emed li­ke a go­od gu­ess.
  I had the unexp­la­inab­le de­si­re to dri­ve to Bo's and de­fend my ear­li­er be­ha­vi­or, but the tho­ught was qu­ickly put in­to pers­pec­ti­ve by the simp­le fact that I didn't ha­ve ti­me. My mom wo­uld be ho­me in less ti­me than it to­ok to ma­ke the half-ho­ur dri­ve the­re. Not to men­ti­on, Patch wasn't the kind of guy I co­uld just go hunt down. In the past, our me­etings had ope­ra­ted on his sche­du­le, not mi­ne. Al­ways.
  I clim­bed the sta­irs to chan­ge in­to so­met­hing comfy. I pus­hed on my bed­ro­om do­or and to­ok three steps in­si­de be­fo­re stop­ping short. My dres­ser dra­wers we­re yan­ked out, clot­hes strewn ac­ross the flo­or. The bed was rip­ped apart. The clo­set do­ors we­re open, han­ging as­kew by the­ir hin­ges. Bo­oks and pic­tu­re fra­mes lit­te­red the flo­or.
  I saw the ref­lec­ti­on of mo­ve­ment in the win­dow ac­ross the ro­om and swung aro­und. He sto­od aga­inst the wall be­hind me, dres­sed he­ad to toe in black and we­aring the ski mask. My bra­in was in a swir­ling fog, just be­gin­ning to trans­mit run! to my legs, when he lun­ged for the win­dow, threw it open, and duc­ked lit­hely out.
  I to­ok the sta­irs down three at a ti­me. I flung myself aro­und the ba­nis­ter, flew down the hall to the kitc­hen, and di­aled 911.
  Fif­te­en mi­nu­tes la­ter a pat­rol car bum­ped in­to the dri­ve­way. Sha­king, I un­bol­ted the do­or and let the two of­fi­cers in. The first of­fi­cer to step in­si­de was short and thick-wa­is­ted with salt-and-pep­per ha­ir. The ot­her was tall and le­an with ha­ir al­most as dark as Patch's, but crop­ped abo­ve his ears. In a stran­ge way, he va­gu­ely re­semb­led Patch. Me­di­ter­ra­ne­an comp­le­xi­on, symmet­ri­cal fa­ce, eyes with an ed­ge.
  They int­ro­du­ced them­sel­ves; the dark-ha­ired of­fi­cer was De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so. His part­ner was De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic.
  "Are you No­ra Grey?" De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic as­ked.
  I nod­ded.
  "Yo­ur pa­rents ho­me?"
  "My mom left a few mi­nu­tes be­fo­re I cal­led 911."
  "So you're ho­me alo­ne?"
  Anot­her nod.
  "Why don't you tell us what hap­pe­ned?" he as­ked, cros­sing his arms and plan­ting his fe­et wi­de, whi­le De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so wal­ked a few pa­ces in­si­de the ho­use and to­ok a lo­ok aro­und.
  "I ca­me ho­me at eight and did so­me ho­me­work," I sa­id. "When I went up to my bed­ro­om, I saw him. Everyt­hing was a mess. He to­re my ro­om apart."
  "Did you re­cog­ni­ze him?"
  "He was we­aring a ski mask. And the lights we­re off."
  "Any dis­tin­gu­is­hing marks? Tat­to­os?"
  "No."
  "He­ight? We­ight?"
  I del­ved re­luc­tantly in­to my short-term me­mory. I didn't want to re­li­ve the mo­ment, but it was im­por­tant that I re­call any clu­es. "Ave­ra­ge we­ight, but a lit­tle on the tall si­de. Abo­ut the sa­me si­ze as De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so."
  "Did he say anyt­hing?"
  I sho­ok my he­ad.
  De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so re­ap­pe­ared and sa­id, "All cle­ar," to his part­ner. Then he clim­bed to the se­cond flo­or. The flo­or­bo­ards cre­aked over­he­ad as he mo­ved down the hall, ope­ning and shut­ting do­ors.
  De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic crac­ked the front do­or and squ­at­ted to exa­mi­ne the de­ad­bolt. "Was the do­or un­loc­ked or da­ma­ged when you ca­me ho­me?"
  "No. I used my key to get in. My mom was as­le­ep in the li­ving ro­om."
  De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so ap­pe­ared at the top of the sta­irs.
  "Can you show us what's da­ma­ged?" he as­ked me.
  De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic and I clim­bed the sta­irs to­get­her, and I led the way down the hall to whe­re De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so sto­od just in­si­de my bed­ro­om do­or with his hands on his hips, sur­ve­ying my ro­om.
  I held per­fectly still, a ting­le of fe­ar cre­eping thro­ugh me. My bed was ma­de. My pa­j­amas we­re in a he­ap on my pil­low, just the way I'd left them this mor­ning. My dres­ser dra­wers we­re shut, pic­tu­re fra­mes ar­ran­ged ne­atly on top. The trunk at the fo­ot of the bed was clo­sed. The flo­ors we­re cle­an. The win­dow dra­pes hung in long, smo­oth pa­nels, one on eit­her si­de of the clo­sed win­dow.
  "You sa­id you saw the int­ru­der," sa­id De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so. He was sta­ring down at me with hard eyes that didn't miss a thing. Eyes that we­re ex­pert at fil­te­ring li­es.
  I step­ped in­si­de the ro­om, but it lac­ked the fa­mi­li­ar to­uch of com­fort and sa­fety. The­re was an un­derl­ying no­te of vi­ola­ti­on and me­na­ce. I po­in­ted ac­ross the ro­om at the win­dow, trying to hold my hand ste­ady. "When I wal­ked in, he jum­ped out the win­dow."
  De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so glan­ced out the win­dow. "Long way to the gro­und," he ob­ser­ved. He at­temp­ted to open the win­dow. "Did you lock it af­ter he left?"
  "No. I ran downs­ta­irs and cal­led 911."
  "So­me­body loc­ked it." De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so was still eye­ing me with ra­zor eyes, his mo­uth pres­sed in a tight li­ne.
  "Not su­re any­body'd be ab­le to get away af­ter a jump li­ke that," De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic sa­id, jo­ining his part­ner at the win­dow. "They'd be luck) to get off with a bro­ken leg."
  "May­be he didn't jump, may­be he clim­bed down the tree," I sa­id.
  De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so whip­ped his he­ad aro­und. "Well? Which is it? Did he climb or jump? He co­uld ha­ve pus­hed past you and go­ne out the front do­or. That wo­uld be the lo­gi­cal op­ti­on. That's what I'd ha­ve do­ne. I'm go­ing to ask on­ce mo­re. Think re­al ca­re­ful. Did you re­al­ly see so­me­one in yo­ur ro­om to­night?"
  He didn't be­li­eve me. He tho­ught I'd in­ven­ted it. For a mo­ment I was temp­ted to think si­mi­larly. What was wrong with me? Why was my re­ality con­vo­lu­ted? Why did the truth ne­ver match up? For the sa­ke of my sa­nity, I told myself it wasn't me. It was him. The guy in the ski mask. He was do­ing this. I didn't know how, but he was to bla­me.
  De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic bro­ke the ten­se si­len­ce by sa­ying, "When will yo­ur pa­rents be ho­me?"
  "I li­ve with my mom. She had to ma­ke a qu­ick trip to the of­fi­ce."
  "We ne­ed to ask you both a few qu­es­ti­ons," he con­ti­nu­ed. He po­in­ted for me to ta­ke a se­at on my bed, but I sho­ok my he­ad numbly. "Ha­ve you re­cently bro­ken up with a boyf­ri­end?"
  "No."
  "How abo­ut drugs? Ha­ve you had a prob­lem, now or in the past?"
  "No."
  "You men­ti­oned that you li­ve with yo­ur mom. How abo­ut Dad? Whe­re's he?"
  "This was a mis­ta­ke," I sa­id. "I'm sorry. I sho­uldn't ha­ve cal­led."
  The two of­fi­cers exc­han­ged lo­oks. De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic shut his eyes and mas­sa­ged the in­ner cor­ners. De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so lo­oked li­ke he'd was­ted eno­ugh ti­me and was re­ady to blow it off.
  "We've got things to do," he sa­id. "Are you go­ing to be all right he­re alo­ne un­til yo­ur mom gets back?"
  I hardly he­ard him; I co­uldn't pull my eyes off the win­dow. How was he do­ing it? Fif­te­en mi­nu­tes. He had fif­te­en mi­nu­tes to find a way back in­si­de and put the ro­om in or­der be­fo­re the po­li­ce ar­ri­ved. And with me downs­ta­irs the who­le ti­me. At the re­ali­za­ti­on that we'd be­en alo­ne in the ho­use to­get­her, I shud­de­red.
  De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic ex­ten­ded his bu­si­ness card. "Co­uld you ha­ve yo­ur mom call us when she gets in?"
  "We'll see our­sel­ves out," De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so sa­id. He was al­re­ady half­way down the hall.

CHAPTER 15

"YOU THINK ELLIOT MURDERED SOMEONE?"

  "Shh!" I his­sed at Vee, glan­cing ac­ross the rows of lab tab­les to ma­ke su­re no one had over­he­ard.
  "No of­fen­se, ba­be, but this is star­ting to get ri­di­cu­lo­us. First he at­tac­ked me. Now he's a kil­ler. I'm sorry, but El­li­ot? A mur­de­rer? He's, li­ke, the ni­cest guy I've ever met. When was the last ti­me he for­got to hold open a do­or for you? Oh, ye­ah, that's right… ne­ver"
  Vee and I we­re in bi­ology, and Vee was lying fa­ce­up on a tab­le. We we­re run­ning a lab on blo­od pres­su­re, and Vee was sup­po­sed to be res­ting si­lently for fi­ve mi­nu­tes. Nor­mal­ly I wo­uld ha­ve wor­ked with Patch, but Co­ach had gi­ven us a free day, which me­ant we we­re free to cho­ose our own part­ners. Vee and I we­re at the back of the ro­om; Patch was wor­king with a jock na­med Tho­mas Ro­okery at the front of the ro­om.
  "He was qu­es­ti­oned as a sus­pect in a mur­der in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on," I whis­pe­red, fe­eling Co­ach's eyes gra­vi­ta­te to­ward us. I scrib­bled a few no­tes on my lab she­et. Su­bj­ect is calm and re­la­xed. Su­bj­ect has ref­ra­ined from spe­aking for three and a half mi­nu­tes. "The po­li­ce ob­vi­o­usly tho­ught he had mo­ti­ve and me­ans."
  "Are you su­re it's the sa­me El­li­ot?"
  "How many El­li­ot Sa­un­der­ses do you think the­re we­re at King­horn in Feb­ru­ary?"
  Vee strum­med her fin­gers on her sto­mach. "It just se­ems re­al­ly, re­al­ly hard to be­li­eve. And any­way, so what if he was qu­es­ti­oned? The im­por­tant thing is, he was re­le­ased. They didn't find him gu­ilty."
  "Be­ca­use po­li­ce fo­und a su­ici­de no­te writ­ten by Hal­ver­son."
  "Who's Hal­ver­son aga­in?"
  "Kj­irs­ten Hal­ver­son," I sa­id im­pa­ti­ently. "The girl who sup­po­sedly han­ged her­self."
  "May­be she did hang her­self. I me­an, what if one day she sa­id, 'Hey, li­fe sucks,' and strung her­self to a tree? It has hap­pe­ned."
  "You don't find it a lit­tle too co­in­ci­den­tal that her apart­ment sho­wed evi­den­ce of a bre­ak-in when they dis­co­ve­red the su­ici­de no­te?"
  "She li­ved in Port­land. Bre­ak-ins hap­pen."
  "I think so­me­one pla­ced the no­te. So­me­one who wan­ted El­li­ot off the ho­ok."
  "Who wo­uld want El­li­ot off the ho­ok?" Vee as­ked.
  I ga­ve her my best duh lo­ok.
  Vee prop­ped her­self up with her go­od el­bow. "So you're sa­ying El­li­ot ha­uled Kj­irs­ten up a tree, ti­ed a ro­pe aro­und her neck, pus­hed her off the limb, then did a bre­aking-and-ente­ring job on her apart­ment and plan­ted evi­den­ce po­in­ting to a su­ici­de."
  "Why not?"
  Vee re­tur­ned the duh lo­ok. "Be­ca­use the cops al­re­ady analy­zed everyt­hing. If they're ru­ling it a su­ici­de, so am I."
  "How abo­ut this," I sa­id. "Just we­eks af­ter El­li­ot was re­le­ased from qu­es­ti­oning, he trans­fer­red scho­ols. Why wo­uld so­me­one le­ave King­horn Prep to co­me to CHS?"
  "You've got a po­int the­re."
  "I think he's trying to es­ca­pe his past. I think it be­ca­me too un­com­for­tab­le at­ten­ding scho­ol on the sa­me cam­pus whe­re he kil­led Kj­irs­ten. He has a gu­ilty cons­ci­en­ce." I tap­ped my pen­cil aga­inst my lip. "I ne­ed to dri­ve out to King­horn and ask qu­es­ti­ons. She just di­ed two months ago; ever­yo­ne will still be buz­zing abo­ut it."
  "I don't know, No­ra. I'm get­ting bad vi­bes abo­ut ini­ti­ating a spy ope­ra­ti­on at King­horn. I me­an, are you go­ing to ask abo­ut El­li­ot spe­ci­fi­cal­ly? What if he finds out? What's he go­ing to think?"
  I lo­oked down at her. "He only has so­met­hing to worry abo­ut if he's gu­ilty."
  "And then he'll kill you to si­len­ce you." Vee grin­ned li­ke the Ches­hi­re cat. I didn't. "I want to find out who at­tac­ked me just as much as you do," she con­ti­nu­ed on a mo­re se­ri­o­us no­te, "but I swe­ar on my li­fe it wasn't El­li­ot. I've rep­la­yed the me­mory, li­ke, a hund­red ti­mes. It's not a match. Not even clo­se. Trust me."
  "Okay, may­be El­li­ot didn't at­tack you," I sa­id, trying to ap­pe­ase Vee but not abo­ut to cle­ar El­li­ot's na­me. "He still has a lot go­ing aga­inst him. He was in­vol­ved in a mur­der in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on, for one. And he's al­most too ni­ce, for two. It's cre­epy. And he's fri­ends with Jules, for three."
  Vee frow­ned. "Jules? What's wrong with Jules?"
  "Don't you think it's odd that every ti­me we're with them, Jules ba­ils?"
  "What's that sup­po­sed to me­an?"
  "The night we went to Delp­hic, Jules left al­most im­me­di­ately to use the bath­ro­om. Did he ever co­me back? Af­ter I left to buy cot­ton candy, did El­li­ot find him?"
  "No, but I chal­ked it up to in­ter­nal plum­bing is­su­es."
  "Then, last night, he myste­ri­o­usly cal­led in sick." I scrub­bed my pen­cil's era­ser down the length of my no­se, thin­king. "He se­ems to get sick a lot."
  "I think you're ove­ra­naly­zing this. May­be… may­be he has IBS." 
  "IBS?" 
  "Irri­tab­le bo­wel syndro­me."
  I dis­car­ded Vee's sug­ges­ti­on in fa­vor of men­tal­ly stretc­hing for an idea that flo­ated just out of re­ach. King­horn Prep was easily an ho­ur away by car. If the scho­ol was as aca­de­mi­cal­ly ri­go­ro­us as El­li­ot cla­imed, how did Jules con­ti­nu­al­ly ha­ve ti­me to ma­ke the dri­ve to Cold­wa­ter to vi­sit? I saw him ne­arly every mor­ning on my way to scho­ol at En­zo's Bist­ro with El­li­ot. Plus, he ga­ve El­li­ot a ri­de ho­me af­ter scho­ol. It was al­most li­ke El­li­ot had Jules in the palm of his hand.
  But that wasn't all of it. I scrub­bed the era­ser mo­re fu­ri­o­usly aga­inst my no­se. What was I mis­sing?
  "Why wo­uld El­li­ot kill Kj­irs­ten?" I won­de­red out lo­ud. "May­be she saw him do so­met­hing il­le­gal, and he kil­led her to si­len­ce her."
  Vee let go of a sigh. "This is star­ting to drift in­to the land of This Ma­kes Ab­so­lu­tely No Sen­se."
  "The­re's so­met­hing el­se. So­met­hing we're not se­e­ing."
  Vee lo­oked at me li­ke my lo­gic was va­ca­ti­oning in outer spa­ce. "Per­so­nal­ly, I think you're se­e­ing too much. This fe­els a lot li­ke a witch hunt."
  And then all of a sud­den I knew what I was mis­sing. It had be­en nag­ging me all day, cal­ling to me from the back of my mind, but I'd be­en too overw­hel­med with everyt­hing el­se to pay at­ten­ti­on. De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so had as­ked me if anyt­hing was mis­sing. It just now hit me that so­met­hing was. I'd set the ar­tic­le abo­ut El­li­ot on top of my dres­ser last night. But this mor­ning-I con­sul­ted my me­mory to be su­re-it was go­ne. De­fi­ni­tely go­ne.
  "Omi­gosh," I sa­id. "Elli­ot bro­ke in­to my ho­use last night. It was him! He sto­le the ar­tic­le." Sin­ce the ar­tic­le was in pla­in sight, it was ob­vi­o­us El­li­ot had torn apart my ro­om to ter­ro­ri­ze me-pos­sibly as pu­nish­ment for fin­ding the ar­tic­le in the first pla­ce.
  "Whoa, what?" Vee sa­id.
  "What's wrong?" as­ked Co­ach, co­ming to a stop be­si­de me.
  "Ye­ah, what's wrong?" Vee chi­med in. She po­in­ted and la­ug­hed at me from be­hind Co­ach's back.
  "Urn-the su­bj­ect do­esn't ap­pe­ar to ha­ve a pul­se," I sa­id, gi­ving Vee's wrist a hard pinch.
  Whi­le Co­ach pro­bed for Vee's pul­se, she ma­de swo­oning mo­ti­ons and fan­ned her­self. Co­ach flic­ked his eyes to mi­ne, lo­oking at me over the top of his glas­ses. "Right he­re, No­ra. Be­ating lo­ud and strong. Are you su­re the su­bj­ect ref­ra­ined from ac­ti­vity, inc­lu­ding tal­king, for the full fi­ve mi­nu­tes? This pul­se isn't as slow as I wo­uld ha­ve ex­pec­ted."
  "The su­bj­ect strug­gled with the no-tal­king step," Vee in­te­rj­ec­ted. "And the su­bj­ect has a hard ti­me re­la­xing on a rock-hard bi­ology tab­le. The su­bj­ect wo­uld li­ke to pro­po­se switc­hing pla­ces so No­ra can be the new su­bj­ect." Vee used her right hand to grab me and pull her­self up­right.
  "Don't ma­ke me reg­ret al­lo­wing you to cho­ose yo­ur own part­ners," Co­ach told us.
  "Don't ma­ke me reg­ret co­ming to scho­ol to­day," sa­id Vee swe­etly.
  Co­ach shot her a war­ning lo­ok, then pic­ked up my lab she­et, eyes skim­ming the all-but-blank pa­ge.
  "The su­bj­ect equ­ates bi­ology labs with over­do­sing on presc­rip­ti­on-strength se­da­ti­ves," Vee sa­id.
  Co­ach chir­ped his whist­le, and all eyes in the class swung our way.
  "Patch?" he sa­id. "Mind ta­king over he­re? We se­em to ha­ve run in­to a part­ner prob­lem."
  "I was so kid­ding," Vee sa­id qu­ickly. "He­re-I'll do the lab."
  "You sho­uld ha­ve tho­ught of that fif­te­en mi­nu­tes ago," Co­ach sa­id.
  "Ple­ase for­gi­ve me?" she as­ked, bat­ting her eye­las­hes an­ge­li­cal­ly. Co­ach tuc­ked her no­te­bo­ok un­der her go­od arm. "No."
  Sorry! Vee mo­ut­hed over her sho­ul­der at me as she wal­ked re­luc­tantly to the front of the ro­om.
  A mo­ment la­ter Patch to­ok a se­at on the tab­le be­si­de me. He clas­ped his hands lo­osely bet­we­en his kne­es and kept a ste­ady ga­ze on me.
  "What?" I sa­id, fe­eling un­ner­ved by the we­ight of his sta­re.
  He smi­led. "I was re­mem­be­ring the shark sho­es. Last night."
  I got the usu­al Patch-indu­ced flut­ter in my sto­mach, and li­ke usu­al, I co­uldn't dis­tin­gu­ish if it was a go­od thing or a bad thing.
  "How was yo­ur night?" I as­ked, my vo­ice ca­re­ful­ly ne­ut­ral as I at­temp­ted to bre­ak the ice. My spying ad­ven­tu­res still hung un­com­for­tably bet­we­en us.
  "Inte­res­ting. Yo­urs?"
  "Not so much."
  "Ho­me­work was bru­tal, huh?"
  He was ma­king fun of me. "I didn't do ho­me­work."
  He had the smi­le of a fox. "Who did you do?"
  I was spe­ech­less a mo­ment. I sto­od the­re with my mo­uth slightly open. "Was that an in­nu­en­do?"
  "Just cu­ri­o­us what my com­pe­ti­ti­on is."
  "Grow up."
  His smi­le stretc­hed. "Lo­osen up."
  "I'm al­re­ady wal­king on thin ice with Co­ach, so do me a fa­vor and let's con­cent­ra­te on the lab. I'm not in the mo­od to play test su­bj­ect, so if you don't mind…" I lo­oked po­in­tedly at the tab­le.
  "Can't," he sa­id. "I don't ha­ve a he­art."
  I told myself he wasn't be­ing li­te­ral.
  I lo­we­red myself down on the tab­le and stac­ked my hands on my sto­mach. "Tell me when fi­ve mi­nu­tes are up." I shut my eyes, pre­fer­ring not to watch Patch's black eyes exa­mi­ne me.
  A few mi­nu­tes la­ter I ope­ned one eye a slit.
  "Ti­me's up," sa­id Patch.
  I held one up­tur­ned wrist out so he co­uld ta­ke my pul­se. Patch to­ok my hand, and a jolt of he­at shot up my arm and en­ded with a squ­e­eze in my sto­mach.
  "The su­bj­ect's pul­se inc­re­ased on con­tact," he sa­id.
  "Don't wri­te that." It was sup­po­sed to so­und in­dig­nant. If anyt­hing, it so­un­ded li­ke I was rep­res­sing a smi­le.
  "Co­ach wants us to be tho­ro­ugh."
  "What do you want?" I as­ked him.
  Patch's eyes con­nec­ted with mi­ne. On the in­si­de, he was grin­ning. I co­uld tell.
  "Except, you know, that," I sa­id.
  After scho­ol I swung by Miss Gre­ene's of­fi­ce for our sche­du­led ap­po­int­ment. At the end of the scho­ol day, Dr. Hend­rick­son had al­ways kept his do­or wi­de open, a non­ver­bal in­vi­ta­ti­on for stu­dents to stop by. Every ti­me I pas­sed down this stretch of hal­lway now, Miss Gre­ene had the do­or clo­sed. All the way. The Do not dis­turb was imp­li­cit.
  "No­ra," she sa­id, ope­ning the do­or af­ter my knock, "ple­ase co­me in. Ha­ve a se­at."
  Her of­fi­ce was fully un­pac­ked and de­co­ra­ted to­day. She'd bro­ught in se­ve­ral mo­re plants, and a pa­nel of fra­med bo­ta­ni­cal prints hung in a row on the wall abo­ve her desk.
  Miss Gre­ene sa­id, "I've be­en thin­king a lot abo­ut what you sa­id last we­ek. I ca­me to the ob­vi­o­us conc­lu­si­on that our re­la­ti­ons­hip ne­eds to be bu­ilt on trust and res­pect. We won't dis­cuss yo­ur dad aga­in, un­less you spe­cify."
  "Okay," I sa­id wa­rily. What we­re we go­ing to talk abo­ut?
  "I he­ard so­me rat­her di­sap­po­in­ting news," she sa­id. Her smi­le fa­ded and she le­aned for­ward, res­ting her el­bows on the desk. She was hol­ding a pen, and she rol­led it bet­we­en her palms. "I don't me­an to pry in­to yo­ur pri­va­te li­fe, No­ra, but I tho­ught I ma­de myself per­fectly cle­ar con­cer­ning yo­ur in­vol­ve­ment with Patch."
  I wasn't qu­ite su­re whe­re she was go­ing with this. "I ha­ven't tu­to­red him." And, re­al­ly, was it any of her bu­si­ness?
  "Sa­tur­day night Patch ga­ve you a ri­de ho­me from Delp­hic Se­aport. And you in­vi­ted him in­si­de yo­ur ho­use."
  I fo­ught to hold in a cho­ke of pro­test. "How do you know abo­ut that?"
  "Part of my job as yo­ur scho­ol psycho­lo­gist is to gi­ve you gu­idan­ce," Miss Gre­ene sa­id. "Ple­ase pro­mi­se me you'll be very, very ca­re­ful aro­und Patch." She lo­oked at me li­ke she was ac­tu­al­ly wa­iting for my oath of pro­mi­se.
  "It's kind of comp­li­ca­ted," I sa­id. "My ri­de left me stran­ded at Delp­hic. I didn't ha­ve a cho­ice. It's not li­ke I se­ek out op­por­tu­ni­ti­es to spend ti­me with Patch." Well, ex­cept for last night at the Bor­der­li­ne. In my de­fen­se, I ho­nestly hadn't ex­pec­ted to see Patch. He was sup­po­sed to ha­ve the night off.
  "I'm very glad to he­ar it," Miss Gre­ene ans­we­red, but she didn't so­und fully con­vin­ced of my in­no­cen­ce. "With that out of the way, is the­re anyt­hing el­se you'd li­ke to talk abo­ut to­day? Anyt­hing we­ig­hing on yo­ur mind?"
  I wasn't abo­ut to tell her that El­li­ot bro­ke in­to my ho­use. I didn't trust Miss Gre­ene. I co­uldn't put my fin­ger on it, but so­met­hing abo­ut her bot­he­red me. And I didn't li­ke the way she kept hin­ting that Patch was dan­ge­ro­us but wo­uldn't tell me why. It was al­most li­ke she had an agen­da.
  I ho­is­ted my back­pack off the gro­und and ope­ned the do­or. "No," I sa­id.

CHAPTER 16

  VEE WAS LE­ANING AGA­INST MY LOC­KER, DO­OD­LING on her cast with a purp­le mar­ker.
  "Hi," she sa­id when the­re was not­hing of the hal­lway left bet­we­en us. "Whe­re've you be­en? I chec­ked the eZi­ne lab and the lib­rary."
  "I had a me­eting with Miss Gre­ene, the new scho­ol psych." I sa­id it very mat­ter-of-factly, but on the in­si­de, I had a hol­low, trembly fe­eling. I co­uldn't stop thin­king abo­ut El­li­ot bre­aking in­to my ho­use. What was stop­ping him from do­ing it aga­in? Or from do­ing so­met­hing wor­se?
  "What hap­pe­ned?" Vee as­ked.
  I spun my loc­ker com­bi­na­ti­on and tra­ded out bo­oks. "Do you know how much a go­od alarm system costs?"
  "No of­fen­se, ba­be, but no­body's go­ing to ste­al yo­ur car."
  I pin­ned Vee with a black lo­ok. "For my ho­use. I want to ma­ke su­re El­li­ot can't get in­si­de aga­in."
  Vee glan­ced aro­und and cle­ared her thro­at.
  "What?" I sa­id.
  Vee did a hands-up. "Not­hing. Not­hing at all. If you're still bent on na­iling this to El­li­ot… that's yo­ur pre­ro­ga­ti­ve. It's a crazy pre­ro­ga­ti­ve, but hey. It's yo­urs."
  I sho­ved my loc­ker do­or clo­sed, and the rat­tle ec­ho­ed down the hall. I bit back an ac­cu­sa­tory res­pon­se that she of all pe­op­le sho­uld be­li­eve me and ins­te­ad sa­id, "I'm on my way to the lib­rary, and I'm sort of in a hurry." We exi­ted the bu­il­ding and cros­sed the gro­unds to the par­king lot, and I ca­me up short. I lo­oked aro­und for the Fi­at, but that's when I re­mem­be­red my mom had drop­ped me off on her way to work this mor­ning. And with Vee's arm bro­ken, she wasn't dri­ving.
  "Crap," Vee sa­id, re­ading my tho­ughts, "we're ear­less."
  Shi­el­ding my eyes from the sun, I squ­in­ted down the stre­et. "Gu­ess this me­ans we'll ha­ve to walk."
  "Not we. You. I'd co­me with, but on­ce a we­ek is my lib­rary li­mit."
  "You ha­ven't be­en to the lib­rary this we­ek," I po­in­ted out.
  "Ye­ah, but I might ha­ve to go to­mor­row."
  "To­mor­row's Thurs­day. In all yo­ur li­fe, ha­ve you ever stu­di­ed on a Thurs­day?"
  Vee tap­ped a fin­ger­na­il to her lip and adop­ted a tho­ught­ful exp­res­si­on. "Ha­ve I ever stu­di­ed on a Wed­nes­day?"
  "Not that I re­call."
  "The­re you ha­ve it. I can't go. It wo­uld be an­ti-tra­di­ti­on."
  Thirty mi­nu­tes la­ter, I hi­ked up the steps le­ading to the lib­rary's ma­in do­ors. On­ce in­si­de, I put ho­me­work on the back bur­ner and went di­rectly to the me­dia lab, whe­re I com­bed the In­ter­net trying to find mo­re in­for­ma­ti­on on the "King­horn Han­ging." I didn't find much. Ori­gi­nal­ly the­re had be­en a lot of hype, but af­ter the su­ici­de no­te was dis­co­ve­red and El­li­ot was re­le­ased, the news mo­ved on.
  It was ti­me to ta­ke a trip to Port­land. I wasn't go­ing to le­arn much mo­re sif­ting thro­ugh arc­hi­ved news ar­tic­les, but may­be I'd ha­ve bet­ter luck do­ing leg­work the­re.
  I log­ged off and cal­led my mom.
  "Do I ne­ed to be ho­me by ni­ne to­night?"
  "Yes, why?"
  "I was thin­king of ta­king a bus out to Port­land."
  She ga­ve me one of her You must think I'm crazy la­ughs.
  "I ne­ed to in­ter­vi­ew so­me stu­dents at King­horn Prep," I sa­id. "It's for a pro­j­ect I've be­en re­se­arc­hing." It wasn't a lie. Not re­al­ly. Of co­ur­se, it wo­uld ha­ve be­en much easi­er to jus­tify if I we­ren't bur­de­ned by the gu­ilt of ke­eping the bre­ak-in and en­su­ing po­li­ce vi­sit from her. I'd tho­ught abo­ut tel­ling her, but every ti­me I ope­ned my mo­uth to say the words, they slip­ped away. We we­re strug­gling to sur­vi­ve. We ne­eded my mom's in­co­me. If I told her abo­ut El­li­ot, she'd qu­it im­me­di­ately.
  "You can't go to the city alo­ne. It's a scho­ol night and it will be dark so­on. Be­si­des, by the ti­me you get the­re, the stu­dents will ha­ve left."
  I he­aved a sigh. "Okay, I'll be ho­me so­on."
  "I know I pro­mi­sed you a ri­de, but I'm stuck at my of­fi­ce." I he­ard her shuf­fling pa­pers in the backg­ro­und, and I ima­gi­ned she had the pho­ne crad­led un­der her chin and the pho­ne cord wrap­ped aro­und her body se­ve­ral ti­mes. "Is it too much to ask you to walk?"
  The we­at­her was just this si­de of co­ol, I had my je­an jac­ket, and I had two legs. I co­uld walk. The plan so­un­ded a lot mo­re re­aso­nab­le in my he­ad, be­ca­use the tho­ught of wal­king ho­me left my in­si­des hol­low. But asi­de from spen­ding the night in the lib­rary, 1 didn't see any ot­her cho­ice.
  I was al­most thro­ugh the lib­rary do­ors when I he­ard my na­me cal­led. Tur­ning aro­und, I fo­und Mar­cie Mil­lar clo­sing the dis­tan­ce bet­we­en us.
  "I he­ard abo­ut Vee," she sa­id. "It's re­al­ly sad. I me­an, who wo­uld at­tack her? Un­less, you know, they co­uldn't help it. May­be it was self-de­fen­se. I he­ard it was dark and ra­ining. It wo­uld be easy to mis­ta­ke Vee for a mo­ose. Or a be­ar, or a buf­fa­lo. Re­al­ly, any hul­king ani­mal wo­uld do."
  "Gosh, it was ni­ce tal­king to you, but I've got a lot of things I'd rat­her be do­ing. Li­ke stic­king my hand in the gar­ba­ge dis­po­sal." I con­ti­nu­ed to­ward the exit.
  "I ho­pe she sta­yed cle­ar of tho­se hos­pi­tal me­als," Mar­cie sa­id, ke­eping at my he­els. "I he­ar they're high in fat. She can't stand to ga­in a lot of we­ight."
  I spun aro­und. "That's it. One mo­re word, and I'll…" We both knew it was an empty thre­at.
  Mar­cie sim­pe­red. "You'll what?"
  "Skank," I sa­id.
  "Ge­ek."
  "Slut."
  "Fre­ak."
  "Ano­re­xic pig."
  "Wow," sa­id Mar­cie, stag­ge­ring back me­lod­ra­ma­ti­cal­ly with a hand pres­sed to her he­art. "Am I sup­po­sed to act of­fen­ded? Try this on for si­ze. Old news. At le­ast I know how to exer­ci­se a lit­tle self-cont­rol."
  The se­cu­rity gu­ard stan­ding at the do­ors cle­ared his thro­at. "All right, bre­ak it up. Ta­ke this out­si­de or I'm go­ing to cart the both of you in­si­de my of­fi­ce and start cal­ling pa­rents."
  "Talk to her," Mar­cie sa­id, po­in­ting a fin­ger at me. "I'm the one who's trying to be ni­ce. She ver­bal­ly at­tac­ked me. I was just of­fe­ring my con­do­len­ces to her fri­end."
  "I sa­id out­si­de"
  "You lo­ok go­od in uni­form," Mar­cie told him, flas­hing her tra­de­mark to­xic smi­le.
  He jer­ked his he­ad at the do­ors. "Get out of he­re." But it didn't so­und half so gruff.
  Mar­cie sas­ha­yed up to the do­ors. "Mind get­ting the do­or for me? I'm short on hands." She was hol­ding one bo­ok. A pa­per­back.
  The gu­ard pus­hed on the han­di­cap­ped but­ton, and the do­ors auto­ma­ti­cal­ly gli­ded open.
  "Why, thank you," Mar­cie sa­id, blo­wing him a kiss.
  I didn't fol­low her. I wasn't su­re what wo­uld hap­pen if I did, but I was fil­led with eno­ugh ne­ga­ti­ve emo­ti­on that I just might do so­met­hing I'd reg­ret. Na­me-cal­ling and figh­ting we­re be­ne­ath me. Un­less I was de­aling with Mar­cie Mil­lar.
  I tur­ned aro­und and he­aded back in­to the lib­rary. At the ele­va­tors, I step­ped in­to the me­tal ca­ge and punc­hed the but­ton for the ba­se­ment le­vel. I co­uld've wa­ited aro­und a few mi­nu­tes for Mar­cie to le­ave, but I knew anot­her way out and de­ci­ded to ta­ke it. Fi­ve ye­ars ago the city had ap­pro­ved mo­ving the pub­lic lib­rary in­to a his­to­ric bu­il­ding smack in the cen­ter of Old Town Cold­wa­ter. The red brick da­ted back to the 1850s, and the bu­il­ding was comp­le­te with a ro­man­tic cu­po­la and a wi­dow's walk to watch for ves­sels co­ming in from sea. Un­for­tu­na­tely, the bu­il­ding didn't inc­lu­de a par­king lot, so an un­derg­ro­und tun­nel had be­en dug to con­nect the lib­rary to the un­derg­ro­und par­king ga­ra­ge of the co­urt­ho­use ac­ross the stre­et. The ga­ra­ge now ser­ved both bu­il­dings.
  The ele­va­tor clan­ked to a stop and I step­ped off. The tun­nel was lit with flu­ores­cent lights that flic­ke­red pa­le purp­le. It to­ok me a mo­ment to for­ce my fe­et to walk. I was struck by the sud­den tho­ught of my dad the night he was kil­led. I won­de­red if he'd be­en on a stre­et as re­mo­te and dark as the tun­nel ahe­ad.
  Pull it to­get­her, I told myself. It was a ran­dom act of vi­olen­ce. You've spent the last ye­ar pa­ra­no­id abo­ut every dark al­ley, dark ro­om, dark clo­set. You can t li­ve the rest of yo­ur li­fe ter­ri­fi­ed of ha­ving a gun pul­led on you.
  De­ter­mi­ned to pro­ve my fe­ar was all in my he­ad, I he­aded down the tun­nel, he­aring the soft tap of my sho­es on conc­re­te. Shif­ting my back­pack to my left sho­ul­der, I cal­cu­la­ted how long it wo­uld ta­ke to walk ho­me, and whet­her or not I was up for ta­king a short­cut ac­ross the ra­il­ro­ad tracks now that it was dusk. I ho­ped that if I kept my tho­ughts up­be­at and busy, I wo­uldn't ha­ve ti­me to con­cent­ra­te on my gro­wing sen­se of alarm.
  The tun­nel en­ded, and a dark form sto­od stra­ight ahe­ad.
  I stop­ped midst­ri­de, and my he­art drop­ped a few be­ats. Patch was we­aring a black T-shirt, lo­ose je­ans, ste­el-to­ed bo­ots. His eyes lo­oked li­ke they didn't play by the ru­les. His smi­le was a lit­tle too cun­ning for com­fort.
  "What are you do­ing he­re?" I as­ked, pus­hing a hand­ful of ha­ir off my fa­ce and glan­cing past him to the car exit le­ading abo­ve gro­und. I knew it was stra­ight ahe­ad, but se­ve­ral of the over­he­ad flu­ores­cent lights we­re out of ser­vi­ce, ma­king it dif­fi­cult to see cle­arly. If ra­pe, mur­der, or any ot­her misc­re­ant ac­ti­vi­ti­es we­re on Patch's mind, he'd cor­ne­red me in the per­fect pla­ce.
  As Patch mo­ved to­ward me, I bac­ked up. I ca­me up short aga­inst a car and saw my chan­ce. I scramb­led aro­und it, po­si­ti­oning myself op­po­si­te Patch, with the car bet­we­en us.
  Patch lo­oked at me over the top of the car. His eyeb­rows lif­ted.
  "I ha­ve qu­es­ti­ons," I sa­id. "A lot of them."
  "Abo­ut?"
  "Abo­ut everyt­hing."
  His mo­uth twitc­hed, and I was pretty su­re he was figh­ting a smi­le. "And if my ans­wers don't ma­ke the cut, you're go­ing to ma­ke a bre­ak for it?" He ga­ve a nod in the di­rec­ti­on of the ga­ra­ge's exit.
  That was the plan. Mo­re or less. Gi­ve or ta­ke a few gla­ring ho­les, li­ke the fact that Patch was a lot fas­ter than me.
  "Let's he­ar tho­se qu­es­ti­ons," he sa­id.
  "How did you know I'd be at the lib­rary to­night?"
  "Se­emed li­ke a go­od gu­ess."
  I didn't for one mo­ment be­li­eve Patch was he­re on a hunch. The­re was a si­de to him that was al­most pre­da­tory. If the ar­med for­ces knew abo­ut him, they'd do everyt­hing in the­ir po­wer to rec­ru­it him.
  Patch lun­ged to his left. I co­un­te­red his mo­ve, scur­rying to­ward the re­ar of the car. When Patch ca­me up short, I did too. He was at the no­se of the car, and I was at the ta­il.
  "Whe­re we­re you Sun­day af­ter­no­on?" I as­ked. "Did you fol­low me when I went shop­ping with Vee?" Patch may not ha­ve be­en the guy in the ski mask, but that didn't me­an he hadn't be­en in­vol­ved in the cha­in of re­cent dis­tur­bing events. He was ke­eping so­met­hing from me. He'd be­en ke­eping so­met­hing from me sin­ce the day we met. Was it a co­in­ci­den­ce that the last nor­mal day in my li­fe had be­en right be­fo­re that fa­te­ful day? I didn't think so.
  "No. How did that go, by the way? Buy anyt­hing?"
  "May­be," I sa­id, thrown off gu­ard.
  "Li­ke?"
  I tho­ught back. Vee and I had only ma­de it as far as Vic­to­ria's Sec­ret. I'd spent thirty dol­lars on the lacy black bra, but I wasn't abo­ut to go the­re. Ins­te­ad I re­la­ted my eve­ning, star­ting with sen­sing I was be­ing fol­lo­wed, and en­ding with fin­ding Vee on the si­de of the ro­ad, the vic­tim of a bru­tal mug­ging.
  'Well?" I de­man­ded when I fi­nis­hed. "Do you ha­ve anyt­hing to say?"
  "No."
  "You ha­ve no idea what hap­pe­ned to Vee?"
  "Aga­in, no."
  "I don't be­li­eve you."
  "That's be­ca­use you ha­ve trust is­su­es." He spla­yed both hands on the car, le­aning ac­ross the ho­od. "We've be­en over this."
  I felt my tem­per spark. Patch had flip­ped the con­ver­sa­ti­on aga­in. Ins­te­ad of shi­ning on him, the spot­light was di­rec­ted back on me. I es­pe­ci­al­ly didn't li­ke be­ing re­min­ded that he knew all sorts of things abo­ut me. Pri­va­te things. Li­ke my trust is­su­es.
  Patch lun­ged clock­wi­se. I ran away from him, hal­ting when he did. Whi­le we we­re at a stands­till aga­in, his eyes loc­ked on mi­ne, al­most as if he was trying to gle­an my next mo­ve from them.
  "What hap­pe­ned on the Arc­han­gel? Did you sa­ve me?" I as­ked.
  "If I'd sa­ved you, we wo­uldn't be stan­ding he­re ha­ving this con­ver­sa­ti­on."
  "You me­an if you hadn't sa­ved me we wo­uldn't be he­re. I'd be de­ad."
  "That's not what I sa­id."
  I had no idea what he me­ant. "Why wo­uldn't we be stan­ding he­re?"
  "You'd still be he­re." He pa­used. "I pro­bably wo­uldn't."
  Be­fo­re I co­uld fi­gu­re out what he was tal­king abo­ut, he dar­ted for me aga­in, this ti­me at­tac­king from the right. Mo­men­ta­rily con­fu­sed, I ga­ve up so­me of the dis­tan­ce bet­we­en us. Ins­te­ad of stop­ping, Patch skir­ted aro­und the car. I ma­de a bre­ak for it, run­ning down the stra­igh­ta­way of the ga­ra­ge.
  I ma­de it three cars be­fo­re he ca­ught hold of my arm. He spun me aro­und and bac­ked me aga­inst a ce­ment be­am.
  "So much for that plan," he sa­id.
  I gla­red at him. The­re was a lot of pa­nic be­hind it, tho­ugh. He flas­hed a grin brim­ming with dark in­tent, con­fir­ming that I had every re­ason to swe­at fre­ely.
  "What's go­ing on?" I sa­id, wor­king hard to so­und hos­ti­le. "How co­me I swe­ar I can he­ar yo­ur vo­ice in my he­ad? And why did you say you ca­me to scho­ol for me?"
  "I was ti­red of ad­mi­ring yo­ur legs from a dis­tan­ce."
  "I want the truth." I swal­lo­wed hard. "I de­ser­ve full disc­lo­su­re."
  "Full disc­lo­su­re," he re­pe­ated with a sly grin. "Do­es this ha­ve anyt­hing to do with the pro­mi­se you ma­de to ex­po­se me? What exactly are we tal­king abo­ut he­re?"
  I co­uldn't re­mem­ber what we we­re tal­king abo­ut. All I knew was that Patch's ga­ze felt es­pe­ci­al­ly hot. I had to bre­ak eye con­tact, so I tra­ined my eyes on my hands. They we­re glis­te­ning with swe­at, and I slid them be­hind my back.
  "I ha­ve to go," I sa­id. "I ha­ve ho­me­work."
  "What hap­pe­ned in the­re?" He til­ted his chin back at the ele­va­tors.
  "Not­hing."
  Be­fo­re I co­uld stop him, he had my palm pres­sed to his, for­ming a ste­ep­le with our hands. He slid his fin­gers bet­we­en mi­ne, loc­king me to him. "Yo­ur knuck­les are whi­te," he sa­id, brus­hing his mo­uth ac­ross them. "And you ca­me out lo­oking wor­ked up."
  "Let go. And I'm not wor­ked up. Not re­al­ly. If you'll ex­cu­se me, I ha­ve ho­me­work-"
  "No­ra." Patch spo­ke my na­me softly, yet with every in­ten­ti­on of get­ting what he wan­ted.
  "I had a fight with Mar­cie Mil­lar." I had no idea whe­re the con­fes­si­on ca­me from. The last thing I wan­ted was to gi­ve Patch anot­her win­dow in­si­de me. "Okay?" I sa­id, pus­hing a no­te of exas­pe­ra­ti­on in­to my vo­ice. "Sa­tis­fi­ed? Will you ple­ase let go now?"
  "Mar­cie Mil­lar?"
  I tri­ed to un­la­ce my fin­gers, but Patch had a dif­fe­rent idea.
  "You don't know Mar­cie?" I sa­id cyni­cal­ly. "Hard to be­li­eve, con­si­de­ring you at­tend Cold­wa­ter High, for one. And you ha­ve a Y chro­mo­so­me, for two."
  "Tell me abo­ut the fight," he sa­id.
  "She cal­led Vee fat."
  "And?"
  "I cal­led her an ano­re­xic pig."
  Patch lo­oked li­ke he was trying not to crack a grin. "That's it? No punc­hes? No bi­ting, cla­wing, or ha­ir pul­ling?"
  I nar­ro­wed a lo­ok at him.
  "Are we go­ing to ha­ve to te­ach you to fight, An­gel?"
  "I can fight." I tip­ped my chin up in spi­te of the lie.
  This ti­me he didn't bot­her rest­ra­ining the grin.
  "In fact, I've had bo­xing les­sons." Kick­bo­xing. At the gym. On­ce.
  Patch held out his hand as a tar­get. "Gi­ve me a shot. Hard as you can."
  "I'm-not a fan of sen­se­less vi­olen­ce."
  "We're all alo­ne down he­re." Patch's bo­ots we­re flush with the to­es of my sho­es. "A guy li­ke me co­uld ta­ke ad­van­ta­ge of a girl li­ke you. Bet­ter show me what you've got."
  I inc­hed back­ward, and Patch's black mo­torcyc­le ca­me in­to vi­ew.
  "Let me gi­ve you a ri­de," he of­fe­red.
  "I'll walk."
  "It's la­te, and dark."
  He had a po­int. Whet­her or not I li­ked it.
  But in­wardly, I was ca­ught in a fi­er­ce ga­me of rug-of-war. I'd be­en idi­otic to walk ho­me in the first pla­ce, and now I was stuck bet­we­en two bad de­ci­si­ons: ri­de with Patch, or risk the chan­ce the­re was so­me­one wor­se out the­re.
  "I'm star­ting to think the only re­ason you ke­ep of­fe­ring me a ri­de is be­ca­use you know how not fond I am of this thing." I blew out a jit­tery sigh, scrunc­hed the hel­met on, then swung on be­hind him. It wasn't en­ti­rely my fa­ult that I was snug­gled up clo­se to him. The se­at wasn't exactly spa­ci­o­us.
  Patch ma­de a low so­und of amu­se­ment. "I can think of a co­up­le ot­her re­asons."
  He sped down the stra­igh­ta­way of the ga­ra­ge, gun­ning it to­ward the exit. A red-and-whi­te-stri­ped traf­fic arm and an auto­ma­tic tic­ket mac­hi­ne bar­red the exit. I was just won­de­ring if Patch wo­uld slow long eno­ugh to fe­ed mo­ney in­to the mac­hi­ne, when he bro­ught the bi­ke to a smo­oth stop, jol­ting me even clo­ser in­to him. He fed the mac­hi­ne, then flo­ored the bi­ke up on­to the stre­et abo­ve.
  Patch ed­ged his bi­ke up my dri­ve­way, and I held on to him to ke­ep my ba­lan­ce whi­le I clim­bed off. I han­ded back the hel­met.
  "Thanks for the ri­de," I sa­id.
  "What are you do­ing Sa­tur­day night?"
  A mo­ment's pa­use. "I ha­ve a da­te with the usu­al."
  This ap­pe­ared to spark his in­te­rest. "The usu­al?"
  "Ho­me­work."
  "Can­cel."
  I was fe­eling a lot mo­re re­la­xed. Patch was warm and so­lid, and he smel­led fan­tas­tic. Li­ke mint and rich, dark earth. No­body had jum­ped out at us on the ri­de ho­me, and all the win­dows on the lo­wer le­vel of the farm­ho­use glo­wed with light. For the first ti­me all day I felt sa­fe.
  Except that Patch had cor­ne­red me in a dark tun­nel and was pos­sibly stal­king me. May­be not so sa­fe.
  "I don't go out with stran­gers," I sa­id.
  "Go­od thing I do. I'll pick you up at fi­ve."

CHAPTER 17

  THE­RE WAS COLD RA­IN ALL SA­TUR­DAY, AND I SAT NE­AR the win­dow watc­hing it pep­per down on the gro­wing pud­dles in the lawn. I had a dog-eared copy of Ham­let in my lap, a pen tuc­ked be­hind my ear, and an empty mug of hot cho­co­la­te at my fe­et. The she­et of re­ading comp­re­hen­si­on qu­es­ti­ons on the si­de tab­le was just as whi­te as it had be­en when Mrs. Le­mon pas­sed it out two days ago. Al­ways a bad thing.
  My mom had left for yo­ga class al­most thirty mi­nu­tes ago, and whi­le I'd prac­ti­ced a few dif­fe­rent ways of bre­aking the news of my da­te with Patch to her, in the end I'd let her walk out the do­or wit­ho­ut vo­ca­li­zing any of them. I told myself it was no big de­al, I was six­te­en and co­uld de­ci­de when and why I left the ho­use, but the truth was, I sho­uld ha­ve told her I was go­ing out. Per­fect. Now I was go­ing to be car­ting aro­und my gu­ilt all night.
  When the grand­fat­her clock in the hall chi­med to an­no­un­ce 4:30, I gladly tos­sed asi­de the bo­ok and jog­ged ups­ta­irs to my bed­ro­om. I'd bur­ned thro­ugh most of the day with ho­me­work and cho­res, and that had kept my mind off to­night's da­te. But now that I was down to the fi­nal mi­nu­tes, ner­vo­us an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on over­ru­led all. Whet­her or not I wan­ted to think abo­ut it, Patch and I had un­fi­nis­hed bu­si­ness. Our last kiss got cut short. So­oner or la­ter, the kiss wo­uld ne­ed re­sol­ving. I had no do­ubt I wan­ted re­so­lu­ti­on, I just wasn't su­re I was re­ady for it to­night. On top of all this, it didn't help that Vee's war­ning kept pop­ping up li­ke a red flag at the back of my mind. Stay away from Patch.
  I po­si­ti­oned myself in front of the bu­re­au mir­ror and to­ok in­ven­tory. Ma­ke­up was mi­ni­mal, re­ser­ved to a swe­ep of mas­ca­ra. Too much tumb­le­we­ed ha­ir, but what el­se was new? Lips co­uld use so­me gloss. I lic­ked my bot­tom lip, gi­ving it a wet shi­ne. That got me thin­king mo­re abo­ut my al­most-kiss with Patch, and I got an in­vo­lun­tary rush of he­at. If an al­most-kiss co­uld do that, I won­de­red what a full-on kiss co­uld do. My ref­lec­ti­on smi­led.
  "No big de­al," I told myself whi­le trying on ear­rings. The first pa­ir was big, lo­opy, and tur­qu­o­ise… and tri­ed too hard. I put them asi­de and tri­ed aga­in with to­paz te­ard­rops. Bet­ter. I won­de­red what Patch had in mind. Din­ner? A mo­vie? "It's a lot li­ke a bi­ology study da­te," I told my ref­lec­ti­on nonc­ha­lantly. "Only… wit­ho­ut the bi­ology and stud­ying."
  I tug­ged on matchs­tick je­ans and bal­let flats. I wrap­ped a Hal­ly-blue silk scarf aro­und my wa­ist, up over my tor­so, then ti­ed the ends be­hind my neck to fas­hi­on a hal­ter-style blo­use. I fluf­fed my ha­ir, and the­re was a knock at the do­or.
  "Co­ming!" I hol­le­red down the sta­irs.
  I did one fi­nal check in the hall mir­ror, then ope­ned the front do­or and fo­und two men in dark trench co­ats stan­ding on the porch.
  "No­ra Grey," sa­id De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so, hol­ding up his po­li­ce bad­ge. "We me­et aga­in."
  It to­ok a mo­ment to find my vo­ice. "What are you do­ing he­re?"
  He tip­ped his he­ad si­de­ways. "You re­mem­ber my part­ner, De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic. Mind if we step in­si­de and ask you a few qu­es­ti­ons?" It didn't so­und li­ke he was as­king per­mis­si­on. In fact, it so­un­ded just this si­de of a thre­at.
  "What's wrong?" I as­ked, di­vi­ding a glan­ce bet­we­en them.
  "Is yo­ur mom ho­me?" De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so as­ked.
  "She's at yo­ga. Why? What's go­ing on?"
  They wi­ped the­ir fe­et and step­ped in­si­de.
  "Can you tell us what hap­pe­ned bet­we­en you and Mar­cie Mil­lar at the lib­rary Wed­nes­day eve­ning?" De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic as­ked, plun­king down on the so­fa. De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so re­ma­ined stan­ding, scru­ti­ni­zing the fa­mily pic­tu­res ar­ran­ged on the man­tel.
  His words to­ok a mo­ment to re­gis­ter. The lib­rary. Wed­nes­day eve­ning. Mar­cie Mil­lar.
  "Is Mar­cie okay?" I as­ked. It was no sec­ret I didn't hold a warm, af­fec­ti­ona­te pla­ce in my he­art for Mar­cie. But that didn't me­an I wan­ted her in tro­ub­le, or wor­se, in dan­ger. I es­pe­ci­al­ly didn't want her in tro­ub­le if it ap­pe­ared to in­vol­ve me.
  De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so put his hands on his hips. "What ma­kes you think she's not okay?"
  "I didn't do anyt­hing to Mar­cie."
  "What we­re the two of you ar­gu­ing abo­ut?" De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic as­ked. "Lib­rary se­cu­rity told us things we­re get­ting he­ated."
  "It wasn't li­ke that."
  "What was it li­ke?"
  "We cal­led each ot­her a few na­mes," I sa­id, ho­ping we co­uld le­ave it at that.
  "What kind of na­mes?"
  "Stu­pid na­mes," I sa­id in ret­ros­pect.
  "I'm go­ing to ne­ed to he­ar tho­se na­mes, No­ra."
  "I cal­led her an ano­re­xic pig." My che­eks stung and my vo­ice was hu­mi­li­ated. If the si­tu­ati­on hadn't be­en so se­ri­o­us, I might ha­ve wis­hed I'd in­ven­ted so­met­hing a lot mo­re cru­el and de­me­aning. Not to men­ti­on so­met­hing that ma­de a lit­tle mo­re sen­se.
  The de­tec­ti­ves exc­han­ged a lo­ok.
  'Did you thre­aten her?" as­ked De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic.
  'No."
  "Whe­re did you go af­ter the lib­rary?"
  'Ho­me."
  'Did you fol­low Mar­cie?"
  "No. Li­ke I sa­id, I ca­me ho­me. Are you go­ing to tell me what hap­pe­ned to Mar­cie?"
  "Can an­yo­ne vo­uch for that?" De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so as­ked.
  "My bi­ology part­ner. He saw me at the lib­rary and of­fe­red me a ri­de."
  I had a sho­ul­der prop­ped aga­inst one si­de of the French do­ors le­ading in­to the ro­om, and De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so wal­ked over and to­ok up a post on the op­po­si­te si­de, ac­ross from me. "Let's he­ar abo­ut this bi­ology part­ner."
  "What kind of qu­es­ti­on is that?"
  He spre­ad his hands. "It's a pretty ba­sic qu­es­ti­on. But if you want me to get mo­re spe­ci­fic, I can. When I was in high scho­ol, I only of­fe­red ri­des to girls I was in­te­res­ted in. Let's carry that a step furt­her. What's yo­ur re­la­ti­ons­hip with yo­ur bio part­ner… out­si­de the clas­sro­om?"
  "You're joking, right?"
  One si­de of De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so's mo­uth hitc­hed up. "That's what I tho­ught. Did you ha­ve yo­ur boyf­ri­end be­at up Mar­cie Mil­lar?"
  "Mar­cie was be­at up?"
  He pus­hed up from the do­or­way and po­si­ti­oned him­self di­rectly in front of me, sharp eyes bo­ring in­to me. "Did you want to show her what hap­pens when girls li­ke her don't ke­ep the­ir mo­uths shut? Did you think she de­ser­ved to get a lit­tle ro­ug­hed up? I knew girls li­ke Mar­cie when I went to scho­ol. They ask for it, don't they? Was Mar­cie as­king for it, No­ra? So­me­one be­at her up pretty bad Wed­nes­day night, and I think you know mo­re than you're sa­ying."
  I was wor­king hard to sup­press my tho­ughts, af­ra­id they might so­me­how show on my fa­ce. May­be it was a co­in­ci­den­ce that on the sa­me night I comp­la­ined to Patch abo­ut Mar­cie, she to­ok a be­ating.
  Then aga­in, may­be it wasn't.
  "We're go­ing to ne­ed to talk to yo­ur boyf­ri­end," De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic sa­id.
  "He's not my boyf­ri­end. He's my bi­ology part­ner."
  "Is he on his way he­re now?"
  I knew I sho­uld be up-front. But on furt­her ref­lec­ti­on, I co­uld not ac­cept that Patch wo­uld hurt Mar­cie. Mar­cie wasn't the ni­cest per­son, and she'd ac­qu­ired mo­re than a hand­ful of ene­mi­es. A few of tho­se ene­mi­es might be ca­pab­le of bru­ta­lity, but Patch wasn't one of them. Sen­se­less be­ating wasn't his style. "No," I sa­id.
  De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so ga­ve a stiff smi­le. "All dres­sed up for a Sa­tur­day night in?"
  "So­met­hing li­ke that," I sa­id in the col­dest to­ne I da­red.
  De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic pul­led a small no­te­pad out of his co­at poc­ket, flip­ped it open, and clic­ked his pen. "We're go­ing to ne­ed his na­me and num­ber."
  Ten mi­nu­tes af­ter the de­tec­ti­ves left, a black Je­ep Com­man­der rol­led to the curb. Patch jog­ged thro­ugh the ra­in to the porch, we­aring dark je­ans, bo­ots, and a ther­mal gray T-shirt.
  "New car?" I as­ked af­ter I ope­ned the do­or.
  He ga­ve me a myste­ri­o­us smi­le. "I won it a co­up­le nights ago off a ga­me of po­ol."
  "So­me­one bet the­ir car?"
  "He wasn't happy abo­ut it. I'm trying to stay cle­ar of dark al­leys for the next lit­tle whi­le."
  "Did you he­ar abo­ut Mar­cie Mil­lar?" I threw it out the­re, ho­ping the qu­es­ti­on wo­uld ta­ke him by surp­ri­se.
  "No. What's up?" His ans­wer ca­me easily, and I de­ci­ded it pro­bably me­ant he was tel­ling the truth. Un­for­tu­na­tely, when it ca­me to tel­ling li­es, Patch didn't stri­ke me as an ama­te­ur.
  "So­me­one be­at her up."
  "A sha­me."
  "Any idea who might ha­ve do­ne it?"
  If Patch he­ard the con­cern in my vo­ice, he didn't show it. He le­aned back aga­inst the porch ra­iling and rub­bed a hand tho­ught­ful­ly ac­ross his jaw. "No­pe."
  I as­ked myself if I tho­ught he was hi­ding so­met­hing. But re­ading li­es wasn't a strong po­int of mi­ne. I didn't ha­ve a lot of ex­pe­ri­en­ce. Typi­cal­ly I hung aro­und pe­op­le I trus­ted… typi­cal­ly.
  Patch par­ked the Je­ep be­hind Bo's Ar­ca­de. When we got to the front of the li­ne, the cas­hi­er la­id eyes first on Patch, then on me. Back and forth they went, trying to ma­ke a con­nec­ti­on.
  "What's up?" Patch sa­id, and put three tens on the co­un­ter.
  The cas­hi­er tra­ined his watch­ful sta­re on me. He'd no­ti­ced that I co­uldn't stop sta­ring at the moldy-gre­en tat­to­os co­ve­ring every ava­ilab­le inch of skin on his fo­re­arms. He mo­ved a wad of gum? to­bac­co? to the ot­her si­de of his bot­tom lip and sa­id, "You lo­oking at so­met­hing?"
  "I li­ke yo­ur tat-," I be­gan. He ba­red po­in­ted dog te­eth.
  "I don't think he li­kes me," I whis­pe­red to Patch when we we­re a sa­fe dis­tan­ce away.
  "Bo do­esn't li­ke any­body."
  "That's Bo of Bo's Ar­ca­de?"
  "That's Bo Juni­or of Bo's Ar­ca­de. Bo Se­ni­or di­ed a few ye­ars ago."
  "How?" I as­ked.
  "Bar brawl. Downs­ta­irs."
  I felt an overw­hel­ming de­si­re to run back to the Je­ep and pe­el out of the lot.
  "Are we sa­fe?" I as­ked.
  Patch slan­ted a lo­ok si­de­ways. "Angel."
  "Just as­king."
  Downs­ta­irs, the po­ol hall lo­oked exactly li­ke it had the first night I'd co­me. Cin­der-block walls pa­in­ted black. Red felt po­ol tab­les at the cen­ter of the ro­om. Po­ker tab­les scat­te­red aro­und the frin­ge. Low track ligh­ting cur­ving ac­ross the ce­iling. The con­ges­ted smell of ci­gar smo­ke clog­ging the air.
  Patch cho­se the tab­le fart­hest from the sta­irs. He ret­ri­eved two UPs from the bar and pop­ped the­ir caps on the ed­ge of the co­un­ter.
  "I've ne­ver pla­yed po­ol be­fo­re," I con­fes­sed.
  "Cho­ose a cue." He mo­ti­oned to the rack of po­ol sticks mo­un­ted on the wall. I lif­ted one down and car­ri­ed it back to the po­ol tab­le.
  Patch wi­ped a hand down his mo­uth to era­se a smi­le.
  "What?" I sa­id.
  "Can't hit a ho­me run in po­ol."
  I nod­ded. "No ho­me runs. Got it."
  His smi­led stretc­hed. "You're hol­ding yo­ur cue li­ke a bat."
  I lo­oked down at my hands. He was right. I was hol­ding it li­ke a bat. "It fe­els com­for­tab­le this way."
  He mo­ved be­hind me, put his hands on my hips, and po­si­ti­oned me in front of the tab­le. He slid his arms aro­und me and to­ok hold of the po­ol stick.
  "Li­ke this," he sa­id, re­po­si­ti­oning my right hand up se­ve­ral inc­hes. "And… this," he went on, ta­king my left hand and for­ming a circ­le with my thumb and in­dex fin­ger. Then he plan­ted my left hand on the po­ol tab­le, li­ke a tri­pod. He pus­hed the tip of the po­ol stick thro­ugh the circ­le and over the knuck­le of my mid­dle fin­ger. "Bend at the wa­ist."
  I le­aned in­to the po­ol tab­le, with Patch's bre­ath war­ming my neck. He pul­led back on the po­ol stick, and it gli­ded thro­ugh the circ­le.
  "Which ball do you want to hit?" he as­ked, re­fer­ring to the tri­ang­le of balls ar­ran­ged at the far end of the tab­le. "The yel­low one in front's a go­od cho­ice."
  "Red's my fa­vo­ri­te co­lor."
  "Red it is."
  Patch drew the stick back and forth thro­ugh the circ­le, aiming at the cue ball, prac­ti­cing my stro­ke.
  I squ­in­ted at the cue ball, then at the tri­ang­le of balls fart­her down the tab­le. "You're a tiny bit off," I sa­id.
  I felt him smi­le. "How much you want to bet?"
  "Fi­ve dol­lars."
  I felt him gi­ve a soft sha­ke of his he­ad. "Yo­ur jac­ket."
  "You want my jac­ket?"
  "I want it off."
  My arm jer­ked for­ward, and the po­ol stick shot thro­ugh my fin­gers, ram­ming the cue ball. In turn, the cue ball shot for­ward, im­pac­ted with the so­lid red, and shat­te­red the tri­ang­le, balls ri­coc­he­ting in all di­rec­ti­ons.
  "Okay," I sa­id, shuc­king off my je­an jac­ket, "may­be I'm a lit­tle bit imp­res­sed."
  Patch exa­mi­ned my silk-scarf-slash-hal­ter. His eyes we­re as black as a mid­night oce­an, his exp­res­si­on con­temp­la­ti­ve. "Ni­ce," he sa­id. Then he mo­ved aro­und the tab­le, scru­ti­ni­zing the la­yo­ut of balls.
  "Fi­ve dol­lars says you can't sink the blue stri­ped one," I sa­id, se­lec­ting it pur­po­sely; it was shi­el­ded from the whi­te cue ball by a mass of co­lor­ful balls.
  "I don't want yo­ur mo­ney," Patch sa­id. Our eyes loc­ked, and the ti­ni­est dimp­le sur­fa­ced in his che­ek.
  My in­ter­nal tem­pe­ra­tu­re ro­se anot­her deg­ree.
  "What do you want?" I as­ked.
  Patch lo­we­red his po­ol stick to the tab­le, to­ok one prac­ti­ce stro­ke, and dril­led the cue ball. The mo­men­tum of the cue ball trans­fer­red to the so­lid gre­en, then to the eight ball, and punc­hed the stri­ped blue in­to a poc­ket.
  I ga­ve a ner­vo­us la­ugh and tri­ed to co­ver it up by crac­king my knuck­les, a bad ha­bit I ne­ver suc­cum­bed to. "Okay, may­be I'm mo­re than a lit­tle imp­res­sed."
  Patch was still bent over the tab­le, and he lo­oked up at me. The lo­ok war­med my skin.
  "We ne­ver ag­re­ed on a bet," I sa­id, re­sis­ting the ur­ge to shift my we­ight. The po­ol stick felt a lit­tle slick in my hands, and I disc­re­etly wi­ped a hand on my thigh.
  As if I wasn't al­re­ady swe­ating eno­ugh, Patch sa­id, "You owe me. So­me­day I'll co­me to col­lect."
  I la­ug­hed, but it wasn't qu­ite on pitch. "You wish."
  Fo­ots­teps bar­re­led down the sta­irs ac­ross the ro­om. A tall, stringy guy with a hawk no­se and shaggy blue-black ha­ir ap­pe­ared at the bot­tom. He lo­oked at Patch first, then shif­ted his ga­ze to me. A slow grin ap­pe­ared, and he stro­de over and tip­ped back my 7UP, which I'd left on the rim of the po­ol tab­le.
  "Excu­se me, I be­li­eve that's-," I be­gan.
  "You didn't tell me she was so soft on the eyes," he sa­id to Patch, wi­ping his mo­uth with the back of his hand. He spo­ke with a he­avy Irish ac­cent.
  "I didn't tell her how hard you are on them eit­her," Patch re­tur­ned, his mo­uth at the re­la­xed sta­ge just be­fo­re a grin.
  The guy bac­ked up aga­inst the po­ol tab­le be­si­de me and stuck his hand out si­de­ways. "The na­me's Ri­xon, lo­ve," he told me.
  I re­luc­tantly slid my hand in­to his. "No­ra."
  "Am I in­ter­rup­ting so­met­hing he­re?" Ri­xon sa­id, di­vi­ding an in­qu­iring lo­ok bet­we­en me and Patch.
  "No," I sa­id at the sa­me ti­me Patch sa­id, "Yes."
  Sud­denly Ri­xon lun­ged play­ful­ly at Patch, and the two drop­ped to the flo­or, rol­ling and thro­wing punc­hes. The­re was the so­und of husk) la­ugh­ter, fists la­ying in­to flesh, and fab­ric te­aring, and Patch's ba­re back ca­me in­to vi­ew. Two thick gas­hes ran the length of it. They star­ted ne­ar his kid­neys and en­ded at his sho­ul­der bla­des, wi­de­ning to form an up­si­de-down V. The gas­hes we­re so gro­tes­que I al­most gas­ped in hor­ror.
  "Aye, get off me!" Ri­xon bel­lo­wed.
  Patch swung off him, and as he got to his fe­et, his torn shirt flut­te­red open. He slo­ug­hed it off and tos­sed it in­to the trash can in the cor­ner. "Gi­ve me yo­ur shirt," he told Ri­xon.
  Ri­xon di­rec­ted a wic­ked wink at me. "What do you think, No­ra? Sho­uld we gi­ve him a shirt?"
  Patch ma­de a play­ful lun­ge for­ward, and Ri­xon's hands flew up to his sho­ul­ders.
  "Easy now," he sa­id, bac­king up. He pe­eled off his swe­ats­hirt and tos­sed it at Patch, re­ve­aling a fit­ted whi­te tee un­der­ne­ath.
  As Patch rol­led the swe­ats­hirt down over abs hard eno­ugh to put a flut­ter in my sto­mach, Ri­xon tur­ned to me. "He told you how he got his nick­na­me, didn't he?"
  "Sorry?"
  "Be­fo­re our go­od fri­end Patch he­re got mi­xed up in po­ol, the lad fa­vo­red Irish ba­re-knuck­le bo­xing. Wasn't very go­od at it." Ri­xon wag­ged his he­ad. "Truth be told, he was down­right pat­he­tic. I spent most nights patc­hing him up, and so­on af­ter, ever­yo­ne star­ted cal­ling him Patch. Told him to gi­ve up bo­xing, but he wo­uldn't lis­ten."
  Patch ca­ught my eye and pas­sed me a gold-me­dal bar-fight grin. The grin alo­ne was scary eno­ugh, but un­der the ro­ugh ex­te­ri­or, it held a no­te of de­si­re. Mo­re than a no­te, ac­tu­al­ly. A who­le symphony of de­si­re.
  Patch tip­ped his he­ad at the sta­irs and held his hand out to me. "Let's get out of he­re," he sa­id.
  "Whe­re are we go­ing?" I as­ked, my sto­mach tumb­ling to my kne­es.
  "You'll see."
  As we as­cen­ded the sta­irs, Ri­xon cal­led out to me, "Go­od luck with that one, lo­ve!"

CHAPTER 18

  ON THE DRI­VE BACK, PATCH TO­OK THE TOPS­HAM EXIT and par­ked along­si­de the his­to­ric Tops­ham pa­per mill sit­ting on the bank of the And­ros­cog­gin Ri­ver. At one po­int, the mill had be­en used to turn tree pulp in­to pa­per. Now a big sign ac­ross the si­de of the bu­il­ding re­ad SEA DOG BRE­WING CO. The ri­ver was wi­de and choppy, with ma­tu­re tre­es sho­oting up on both si­des.
  It was still ra­ining hard, and night had set­tled down aro­und us. I had to be­at my mom ho­me. I hadn't told her I was go­ing out be­ca­use… well, the ho­nest truth was, Patch wasn't the kind of guy mot­hers smi­led on. He was the kind of guy they chan­ged the ho­use locks for.
  "Can we get ta­ke­o­ut?" I as­ked.
  Patch ope­ned the dri­ver's-si­de do­or. "Any re­qu­ests?"
  "A tur­key sand­wich. But no pick­les. Oh, and no ma­yon­na­ise."
  I co­uld tell I'd ear­ned one of his smi­les that ne­ver qu­ite ma­de it to the sur­fa­ce. I se­emed to earn a lot of tho­se. This ti­me, I co­uldn't fi­gu­re out what I'd sa­id.
  "I'll see what I can do," he sa­id, sli­ding out.
  Patch left the keys in the ig­ni­ti­on and the he­ater pum­ping. For the first co­up­le of mi­nu­tes, I rep­la­yed our eve­ning so far in my mind. And then it daw­ned on me that I was alo­ne in Patch's Je­ep. His pri­va­te spa­ce.
  If I we­re Patch, and I wan­ted to hi­de so­met­hing highly sec­re­ti­ve, I wo­uldn't hi­de it in my ro­om, my scho­ol loc­ker, or even my back­pack, all of which co­uld be con­fis­ca­ted or se­arc­hed wit­ho­ut war­ning. I'd hi­de it in my shiny black Je­ep with the sop­his­ti­ca­ted alarm system.
  I un­buck­led my se­at belt and rum­ma­ged thro­ugh the stack of text­bo­oks ne­ar my fe­et, fe­eling a myste­ri­o­us smi­le cre­ep to my mo­uth at the tho­ught of un­co­ve­ring one of Patch's sec­rets. I wasn't ex­pec­ting to find anyt­hing in par­ti­cu­lar; I wo­uld ha­ve set­tled for the com­bi­na­ti­on to his loc­ker or his cell pho­ne num­ber. To­e­ing aro­und old scho­ol as­sign­ments clut­te­ring the flo­or mats, I fo­und a fa­ded pi­ne-scen­ted air fres­he­ner, an AC/DC High­way to Hell CD, pen­cil stubs, and a re­ce­ipt from the 7-Ele­ven da­ted Wed­nes­day at 10:18 p.m. Not­hing es­pe­ci­al­ly surp­ri­sing or re­ve­aling.
  I pop­ped open the glo­ve com­part­ment and sif­ted thro­ugh the ope­ra­ting ma­nu­al and ot­her of­fi­ci­al do­cu­ments. The­re was a gle­am of chro­me, and my fin­ger­tips brus­hed me­tal. I pul­led out a ste­el flash­light and tur­ned it on, but not­hing hap­pe­ned. I unsc­re­wed the bot­tom, thin­king the flash­light felt a lit­tle light, and su­re eno­ugh, the­re we­re no bat­te­ri­es. I won­de­red why Patch kept a non­wor­king flash­light sto­red in his glo­ve com­part­ment. It was the last tho­ught I had be­fo­re my eyes ho­med in on the rust) li­qu­id that had dri­ed at one end of the flash­light.
  Blo­od.
  Very ca­re­ful­ly, I re­tur­ned the flash­light to the glo­ve com­part­ment and shut it out of sight. I told myself the­re we­re lots of things that wo­uld le­ave blo­od on a flash­light. Li­ke hol­ding it with an inj­ured hand, using it to push a de­ad ani­mal to the si­de of the ro­ad… swin­ging it with for­ce aga­inst a body re­pe­atedly un­til it bro­ke skin.
  With my he­art thun­de­ring, I jum­ped on the first conc­lu­si­on that pre­sen­ted it­self. Patch had li­ed. He'd at­tac­ked Mar­cie. He'd drop­ped me off Wed­nes­day eve­ning, tra­ded his mo­torcyc­le for the Je­ep, and go­ne out lo­oking for her. Or may­be the­ir paths had in­ter­sec­ted by chan­ce and he'd ac­ted on im­pul­se. Eit­her way, Mar­cie was hurt, the po­li­ce we­re in­vol­ved, and Patch was gu­ilty.
  Ra­ti­onal­ly, I knew it was a qu­ick draw and a big le­ap, but emo­ti­onal­ly, the sta­kes we­re too high to step back and think it over. Patch had a frigh­te­ning past and many, many sec­rets. If bru­tal and sen­se­less vi­olen­ce was one of them, I wasn't sa­fe ri­ding aro­und alo­ne with him.
  A flash of dis­tant light­ning brigh­te­ned the ho­ri­zon. Patch exi­ted the res­ta­urant and jog­ged ac­ross the par­king lot hol­ding a brown bag in one hand and two so­das in the ot­her. He went aro­und to the dri­ver's si­de and duc­ked in­si­de the Je­ep. He lif­ted his ball cap and scrub­bed ra­in out of his ha­ir. Dark wa­ves flip­ped up everyw­he­re. He han­ded me the brown bag. "One tur­key sand­wich, hold the ma­yo and pick­les, and so­met­hing to wash it down."
  "Did you at­tack Mar­cie Mil­lar?" I as­ked qu­i­etly. "I want the truth-now."
  Patch lo­we­red his 7UP from his mo­uth. His eyes sli­ced in­to mi­ne. "What?"
  "The flash­light in yo­ur glo­ve com­part­ment. Exp­la­in it."
  "You went thro­ugh my glo­ve com­part­ment?" He didn't so­und an­no­yed, but he didn't so­und ple­ased, eit­her.
  "The flash­light has dri­ed blo­od on it. The po­li­ce ca­me to my ho­use ear­li­er. They think I'm in­vol­ved. Mar­cie was at­tac­ked Wed­nes­day night, right af­ter I told you how much I can't stand her."
  Patch ga­ve a curt la­ugh, mi­nus the hu­mor. "You think I used the flash­light to be­at up Mar­cie."
  He re­ac­hed be­hind his se­at and drag­ged out a lar­ge gun. I scre­amed.
  He le­aned over and se­aled my mo­uth with his hand. "Pa­int­ball gun," he sa­id. His to­ne had chil­led.
  I di­vi­ded lo­oks bet­we­en the gun and Patch, fe­eling a lot of whi­te sho­wing aro­und my eyes.
  "I pla­yed pa­int­ball ear­li­er this we­ek," he sa­id. "I tho­ught we went over this."
  "Th-that do­esn't exp­la­in the blo­od on the flash­light."
  "Not blo­od," he sa­id, "pa­int. We we­re pla­ying Cap­tu­re the Flag."
  My eyes shif­ted back to the glo­ve com­part­ment sto­ring the flash­light. The flash­light was… the flag. A mix of re­li­ef, idi­ocy, and gu­ilt at ac­cu­sing Patch swam thro­ugh me. "Oh," I sa­id la­mely. "I'm-sor­ry." But it se­emed a lit­tle too la­te for sorry.
  Patch sta­red stra­ight ahe­ad thro­ugh the winds­hi­eld, his bre­at­hing de­ep. I won­de­red if he was using the si­len­ce to let go of a lit­tle ste­am. I had just ac­cu­sed him of as­sa­ult, af­ter all. I felt ter­rib­le abo­ut it, but my mind was too rat­tled to co­me up with the right apo­logy.
  "From yo­ur desc­rip­ti­on of Mar­cie, it so­unds li­ke she's pro­bably rac­ked up a few ene­mi­es," he sa­id.
  "I'm pretty su­re Vee and I top the list," I sa­id, trying to ligh­ten the mo­od, but not en­ti­rely joking, eit­her.
  Patch pul­led up to the farm­ho­use and kil­led the en­gi­ne. His ball cap was low over his eyes, but now his mo­uth held the sug­ges­ti­on of a smi­le. His lips lo­oked soft and smo­oth, and I was ha­ving a hard ti­me aver­ting my eyes. Most of all, I was gra­te­ful he se­emed to ha­ve for­gi­ven me.
  "We're go­ing to ha­ve to work on yo­ur po­ol ga­me, An­gel," Patch sa­id.
  "Spe­aking of po­ol." I cle­ared my thro­at. "I'd li­ke to know when and how you're go­ing to col­lect on that… thing I owe you."
  "Not to­night." His eyes watc­hed mi­ne clo­sely, jud­ging my res­pon­se. I was ca­ught bet­we­en an easing of my mind and di­sap­po­int­ment. But mostly di­sap­po­int­ment.
  "I ha­ve so­met­hing for you," Patch sa­id. He re­ac­hed un­der his se­at and pul­led out a whi­te pa­per bag with red chi­li pep­pers prin­ted ac­ross it. A to-go bag from the Bor­der­li­ne. He set it bet­we­en us.
  "What's this for?" I as­ked, pe­eking in­si­de the bag, ha­ving ab­so­lu­tely no idea as to what might be in­si­de.
  'Open it."
  I pul­led a brown card­bo­ard box out of the to-go bag and lif­ted the lid. In­si­de was a snow glo­be with a mi­ni­atu­re Delp­hic Se­aport Amu­se­ment Park cap­tu­red in­si­de. Brass wi­res we­re bent ro­ughly in­to a circ­le for the Fer­ris whe­el and twis­ting lo­ops for the rol­ler co­as­ter; flat she­ets of tar­nis­hed me­tal for­med the Ma­gic Car­pet ri­de.
  "It's be­a­uti­ful," I sa­id, a lit­tle as­to­nis­hed that Patch had tho­ught of me, let alo­ne go­ne to the tro­ub­le of bu­ying me a pre­sent. "Thank you. I me­an it. I lo­ve it."
  He to­uc­hed the cur­ved glass. "The­re's the Arc­han­gel, be­fo­re it was re­mo­de­led." Be­hind the Fer­ris whe­el a thin wi­re rib­bo­ned to form the hills and val­leys of the Arc­han­gel. An an­gel with bro­ken wings sto­od at the hig­hest po­int, bo­wing his he­ad, ga­zing down wit­ho­ut eyes. "What re­al­ly hap­pe­ned the night we ro­de it to­get­her?" I as­ked.
  "You don't want to know."
  "If you tell me you'll ha­ve to kill me?" I half joked.
  "We're not alo­ne," Patch ans­we­red, lo­oking thro­ugh the winds­hi­eld.
  I glan­ced up and ca­ught my mom stan­ding in the open do­or­way. To my hor­ror, she step­ped out and wal­ked to­ward the Je­ep.
  "Let me do all the tal­king," I sa­id, stuf­fing the snow glo­be back in the box. "Don't say a word-not one word!"
  Patch hop­ped out and ca­me aro­und for my do­or. We met my mom half­way up the dri­ve­way.
  "I didn't know you we­re go­ing out," she told me, smi­ling, but not in a re­la­xed way. It was a smi­le that sa­id, We'l1 talk la­ter.
  "It was sort of last mi­nu­te," I exp­la­ined.
  "I ca­me ho­me right af­ter yo­ga," she sa­id. The rest was imp­li­ed. Lucky for me, not so lucky for you. I'd be­en co­un­ting on her go­ing out for smo­ot­hi­es with her fri­ends af­ter class. Ni­ne ti­mes out of ten, she did. She tur­ned her at­ten­ti­on to Patch. "It's ni­ce to fi­nal­ly me­et you. Ap­pa­rently my da­ugh­ter's a big fan."
  I ope­ned my mo­uth to gi­ve an ext­re­mely con­ci­se int­ro­duc­ti­on and send Patch on his way, but Mom be­at me to it. "I'm No­ra's mom. Blythe Grey."
  "This is Patch," I sa­id, rac­king my bra­in for so­met­hing to say that wo­uld bring the ple­asant­ri­es to an ab­rupt halt. But the only things I co­uld think of we­re scre­aming Fi­re! or fa­king a se­izu­re. So­me­how, both se­emed mo­re hu­mi­li­ating than bra­ving a con­ver­sa­ti­on bet­we­en Patch and my mom.
  "No­ra tells me you're a swim­mer," Mom sa­id.
  I felt Patch sha­ke with la­ugh­ter be­si­de me. "A swim­mer?"
  "Are you on the scho­ol swim te­am, or is it a city le­ague?"
  "Mo­re… rec­re­ati­onal," sa­id Patch, pas­sing me a qu­es­ti­oning glan­ce.
  "Well rec­re­ati­onal is go­od too," Mom sa­id. "Whe­re do you swim? The rec cen­ter?"
  "I'm mo­re of an out­do­or guy. Ri­vers and la­kes."
  "Isn't that cold?" as­ked Mom.
  At my si­de, Patch jer­ked. I won­de­red what I'd mis­sed. Not­hing abo­ut the con­ver­sa­ti­on se­emed out of the or­di­nary. And I had to si­de with my mom on this one. Ma­ine was not a warm, tro­pi­cal pla­ce. Out­do­or swim­ming was cold, even in the sum­mer­ti­me. If Patch re­al­ly was swim­ming out­do­ors, he was eit­her crazy or he had a high pa­in thres­hold.
  "All right!" I sa­id, ta­king ad­van­ta­ge of the lull. "Patch ne­eds to get go­ing." Go! I mo­ut­hed at him.
  That's a very ni­ce Je­ep," Mom sa­id. "Did yo­ur pa­rents buy it for you?"
  "I got it myself."
  "You must ha­ve qu­ite a job."
  "I bus tab­les at the Bor­der­li­ne."
  Patch was sa­ying as lit­tle as pos­sib­le, ke­eping him­self ca­re­ful­ly sha­do­wed in mystery. I won­de­red what his li­fe was li­ke when he wasn't aro­und me. At the way back of my mind, I co­uldn't stop thin­king abo­ut his frigh­te­ning past. Up un­til now I'd fan­ta­si­zed abo­ut dis­co­ve­ring his de­ep, dark sec­rets be­ca­use I wan­ted to pro­ve to myself and to Patch that I was ca­pab­le of fi­gu­ring him out. But now I wan­ted to know his sec­rets be­ca­use they we­re a part of him.
  And des­pi­te the fact that I ro­uti­nely tri­ed to deny it, I felt so­met­hing for him. The mo­re ti­me I spent with him, the mo­re I knew the fe­elings we­ren't go­ing away.
  Mom frow­ned. "I ho­pe work do­esn't get in the way of stud­ying. Per­so­nal­ly, I don't be­li­eve high scho­ol stu­dents sho­uld work du­ring the scho­ol ye­ar. You ha­ve eno­ugh on yo­ur pla­tes al­re­ady."
  Patch smi­led. "It hasn't be­en a prob­lem."
  "Mind if I ask yo­ur GPA?" Mom sa­id. "Is that too ru­de?"
  "Gee, it's get­ting la­te-," I be­gan lo­udly, con­sul­ting the watch I didn't we­ar. I co­uldn't be­li­eve my mom was be­ing so un­co­ol abo­ut this. It was a bad sign. It co­uld only me­an her first imp­res­si­on of Patch was wor­se than I'd fe­ared. This wasn't an int­ro­duc­ti­on. It was an in­ter­vi­ew.
  "Two-po­int-two," Patch sa­id.
  My mom sta­red at him.
  "He's joking," I sa­id qu­ickly. I ga­ve Patch a disc­re­et push in the di­rec­ti­on of the Je­ep. "Patch has things to do. Pla­ces to go. Po­ol to play-" I clam­ped a hand over my mo­uth.
  "Play?" my mom sa­id, so­un­ding con­fu­sed.
  "No­ra's re­fer­ring to Bo's Ar­ca­de," Patch exp­la­ined. "But that's not whe­re I'm he­aded. I've got a few er­rands to run."
  "I've ne­ver be­en to Bo's," she sa­id.
  "It's not all that ex­ci­ting," I sa­id. "You're not mis­sing anyt­hing."
  "Wa­it," sa­id Mom, so­un­ding a lot li­ke a red flag had just sprung up in her me­mory. "Is it out on the co­ast? Clo­se to Delp­hic Se­aport? Wasn't the­re a sho­oto­ut at Bo's se­ve­ral ye­ars ago?"
  "It's ta­mer than it used to be," Patch sa­id. I nar­ro­wed my eyes at him. He'd be­aten me to the punch. I'd plan­ned on out­right lying abo­ut Bo's ha­ving any his­tory of vi­olen­ce.
  "Wo­uld you li­ke to co­me in for ice cre­am?" Mom as­ked, so­un­ding flus­te­red, ca­ught bet­we­en do­ing the po­li­te thing and ac­ting on the im­pul­se to drag me in­si­de and bolt the do­or. "We only ha­ve va­nil­la," she ad­ded to so­ur the de­al. "It's a few we­eks old."
  Patch sho­ok his he­ad. "I've got to get go­ing. May­be next ti­me. It was ni­ce me­eting you, Blythe."
  I to­ok the bre­ak in con­ver­sa­ti­on as my cue and pul­led my mom to­ward the front do­or, re­li­eved that the con­ver­sa­ti­on hadn't be­en as bad as it co­uld ha­ve be­en. Sud­denly Mom tur­ned back.
  "What did you and No­ra do to­night?" she as­ked Patch.
  Patch lo­oked at me and ra­ised his eyeb­rows ever so slightly.
  "We grab­bed din­ner in Tops­ham," I ans­we­red qu­ickly. "Sand­wic­hes and so­das. Pu­rely harm­less night."
  The tro­ub­le was, my fe­elings for Patch we­ren't 't harm­less.

CHAPTER 19

  I LEFT THE SNOW GLO­BE IN ITS BOX AND TUC­KED it in­si­de my clo­set be­hind a stack of argy­le swe­aters I'd po­ac­hed from my dad. When I'd ope­ned the pre­sent in front of Patch, Delp­hic had lo­oked shim­mer) and be­a­uti­ful, light swir­ling ra­in­bows from the wi­res. But alo­ne in my bed­ro­om, the amu­se­ment park lo­oked ha­un­ted. A camp ide­al for di­sem­bo­di­ed spi­rits. And I wasn't en­ti­rely su­re the­re wasn't a hid­den ca­me­ra in­si­de.
  After chan­ging in­to a stretchy ca­mi­so­le and flo­ral pj pants, I cal­led Vee.
  "Well?" she sa­id. "How'd it go? Ob­vi­o­usly he didn't kill you, so that's a go­od start."
  "We pla­yed po­ol."
  "You ha­te po­ol."
  "He ga­ve me a few po­in­ters. Now that I know what I'm do­ing, it's not so bad."
  "I bet he co­uld gi­ve you po­in­ters in a few ot­her are­as of yo­ur li­fe."
  "Hmm." Nor­mal­ly, her com­ment might ha­ve in­ci­ted at le­ast a flush from me, but my mo­od was too se­ri­o­us. I was hard at work, thin­king.
  "I know I've sa­id this be­fo­re, but Patch do­esn't ins­till a de­ep sen­se of com­fort in me," Vee sa­id. "I still ha­ve night­ma­res abo­ut the guy in the ski mask. In one of my night­ma­res, he rip­ped off his mask, and gu­ess who was hi­ding un­der it? Patch. Per­so­nal­ly, I think you sho­uld tre­at him li­ke a lo­aded gun. So­met­hing abo­ut him isn't nor­mal."
  This was exactly what I wan­ted to talk abo­ut.
  "What wo­uld ca­use so­me­one to ha­ve a V-sha­ped scar on the­ir back?" I as­ked her.
  The­re was a mo­ment of si­len­ce.
  "Fre­ak," Vee cho­ked. "You saw him na­ked? Whe­re did it hap­pen? His Je­ep? His ho­use? Yo­ur bed­ro­om?"
  "I did not see him na­ked! It was sort of an ac­ci­dent."
  "Uh-huh, I've he­ard that ex­cu­se be­fo­re," sa­id Vee.
  "He had a hu­ge, up­si­de down V-sha­ped scar on his back. Isn't that a lit­tle we­ird?"
  "Of co­ur­se it's we­ird. But this is Patch we're tal­king abo­ut. He has a few screws lo­ose. I'm go­ing to ta­ke a wild gu­ess and say… gang fight? Pri­son scars? Skid marks from a hit-and-run?"
  One half of my bra­in was ke­eping track of my con­ver­sa­ti­on with Vee, but the ot­her, mo­re sub­cons­ci­o­us half had stra­yed. My me­mory went back to the night Patch da­red me to ri­de the Arc­han­gel. I re­cap­tu­red the cre­epy and bi­zar­re pa­in­tings on the si­de of the cars. I re­mem­be­red the hor­ned be­asts rip­ping the wings off the an­gel. I re­mem­be­red the black up­si­de-down V whe­re the an­gel's wings used to be.
  I al­most drop­ped the pho­ne.
  "S-sorry, what?" I as­ked Vee when I re­ali­zed she'd car­ri­ed the con­ver­sa­ti­on furt­her and was wa­iting for my res­pon­se.
  "What. Hap­pe­ned. Next?" she re­pe­ated, enun­ci­ating each word. "Earth to No­ra. I ne­ed de­ta­ils. I'm dying he­re."
  "He got in a fight and his shirt rip­ped. End of story. The­re's no what-hap­pe­ned-next."
  Vee suc­ked in a bre­ath. "This is what I'm tal­king abo­ut. The two of you are out to­get­her… and he gets in a fight? What's his prob­lem? It's li­ke he's mo­re ani­mal than hu­man."
  In my mind I switc­hed back and forth bet­we­en the pa­in­ting of the an­gel's scars and Patch's scars. Both scars had he­aled to the co­lor of black li­co­ri­ce, both ran from the sho­ul­der bla­des to the kid­neys, and both cur­ved out as they tra­ve­led the length of the back. I told myself the­re was a go­od chan­ce it was me­rely a very cre­epy co­in­ci­den­ce that the pa­in­tings on the Arc­han­gel de­pic­ted Patch's scars per­fectly. I told myself a lot of things co­uld ca­use scars li­ke Patch's. Gang fight, pri­son scars, skid marks-just li­ke Vee sa­id. Un­for­tu­na­tely, all the ex­cu­ses felt li­ke li­es. Li­ke the truth was sta­ring me in the fa­ce, but I wasn't bra­ve eno­ugh to lo­ok back.
  "Was he an an­gel?" Vee as­ked.
  I snap­ped to myself. "What?"
  "Was he an an­gel, or did he li­ve up to his bad-boy ima­ge? Be­ca­use, ho­nestly? I'm not bu­ying this who­le he-didn't-try-anything ver­si­on of the story."
  "Vee? I ha­ve to go." My vo­ice was strewn with cob­webs.
  "I see how it is. You're go­ing to hang up be­fo­re I get the de­ta­ils on the big she­bang."
  "Not­hing hap­pe­ned on the da­te, and not­hing hap­pe­ned af­ter. My mom met us in the dri­ve­way."
  "Shut up!"
  "I don't think she li­kes Patch."
  "You don't say!" Vee sa­id. "Who'd ha­ve gu­es­sed?"
  "I'll call you to­mor­row, okay?"
  "Swe­et dre­ams, ba­be."
  Fat chan­ce, I tho­ught.
  After I got off the pho­ne with Vee, I wal­ked down the hall to my mom's ma­kes­hift ho­me of­fi­ce and bo­oted up our vin­ta­ge IBM. The ro­om was small, with a pitc­hed ro­of, mo­re of a gab­le than a ro­om. One gre­asy win­dow with fa­ded oran­ge cur­ta­ins from the 1970s lo­oked out at the si­de yard. I co­uld stand up to my full he­ight in abo­ut 30 per­cent of the ro­om. In the ot­her 70 per­cent, the top of my ha­ir brus­hed the ex­po­sed be­ams of the raf­ters. A sing­le ba­re bulb hung the­re.
  Ten mi­nu­tes la­ter the com­pu­ter se­cu­red a di­al-up con­nec­ti­on to the In­ter­net, and I typed "angel wing scars" in­to the Go­og­le se­arch bar. I ho­ve­red with my fin­ger abo­ve the en­ter key, af­ra­id that if I went thro­ugh with it, I'd ha­ve to ad­mit I was ac­tu­al­ly con­si­de­ring the pos­si­bi­lity that Patch was-well, not… hu­man.
  I hit en­ter and mo­use-clic­ked on the first link be­fo­re I co­uld talk myself out of it.

FALLEN ANGELS: THE FRIGHTENING TRUTH

  At the cre­ati­on of the gar­den of Eden, he­avenly an­gels we­re dis­patc­hed to Earth to watch over Adam and Eve. So­on, ho­we­ver, so­me an­gels set the­ir sights on the world be­yond the gar­den walls. They saw them­sel­ves as fu­tu­re ru­lers over the Earth's po­pu­la­ti­on, lus­ting af­ter po­wer, mo­ney, and even hu­man wo­men.
  To­get­her they temp­ted and con­vin­ced Eve to eat the for­bid­den fru­it, ope­ning the ga­tes gu­ar­ding Eden. As pu­nish­ment for this gra­ve sin and for de­ser­ting the­ir du­ti­es, god strip­ped the an­gels' wings and ba­nis­hed them to Earth fo­re­ver.
  I skim­med down a few pa­rag­raphs, my he­art be­ating er­ra­ti­cal­ly.
  Fal­len an­gels are the sa­me evil spi­rits (or de­mons) desc­ri­bed in the Bib­le as ta­king pos­ses­si­on of hu­man bo­di­es. Fal­len an­gels ro­am the Earth lo­oking for hu­man bo­di­es to ha­rass and cont­rol. They tempt hu­mans to do evil by com­mu­ni­ca­ting tho­ughts and ima­ges di­rectly to the­ir minds, if a fal­len an­gel suc­ce­eds in tur­ning a hu­man to­ward evil, it can en­ter the hu­man's body and inf­lu­en­ce his or her per­so­na­lity and ac­ti­ons.
  Ho­we­ver, the pos­ses­si­on of a hu­man body by a fal­len an­gel can ta­ke pla­ce only du­ring the Heb­rew month of Chesh­van. Chesh­van, known as "the bit­ter month," is the only month wit­ho­ut any Jewish ho­li­days or fasts, ma­king it an un­holy month. Bet­we­en new and full mo­ons du­ring Chesh­van, fal­len an­gels in­va­de hu­man bo­di­es in dro­ves.
  My sta­re lin­ge­red on the com­pu­ter mo­ni­tor a few mi­nu­tes af­ter I fi­nis­hed re­ading. I had no tho­ughts. No­ne. Just a comp­le­xity of emo­ti­ons tang­ling in­si­de me. Cold, pa­nicky ama­ze­ment and fo­re­bo­ding among them.
  An in­vo­lun­tary shud­der ro­used me to my sen­ses. I re­mem­be­red the few ti­mes I was cer­ta­in Patch had bre­ac­hed nor­mal com­mu­ni­ca­ti­on met­hods and whis­pe­red di­rectly to my mind, just li­ke the ar­tic­le cla­imed fal­len an­gels co­uld. Com­pa­ring this in­for­ma­ti­on with Patch's scars, was it pos­sib­le… co­uld Patch be a fal­len an­gel? Did he want to pos­sess my body?
  I brow­sed qu­ickly thro­ugh the rest of the ar­tic­le, slo­wing when I re­ad so­met­hing even mo­re bi­zar­re.
  Fal­len an­gels who ha­ve a se­xu­al re­la­ti­ons­hip with a hu­man pro­du­ce su­per­hu­man of­fsp­ring cal­led nep­hi­lim. The nep­hi­lim ra­ce is an evil and un­na­tu­ral ra­ce and was ne­ver me­ant to in­ha­bit Earth. Alt­ho­ugh many be­li­eve the gre­at Flo­od at the ti­me of No­ah was in­ten­ded to cle­an­se the Earth of nep­hi­lim, we ha­ve no way of kno­wing if this hybrid ra­ce di­ed out and whet­her or not fal­len an­gels ha­ve con­ti­nu­ed to rep­ro­du­ce with hu­mans sin­ce that ti­me, it se­ems lo­gi­cal that they wo­uld, which me­ans the nep­hi­lim ra­ce is li­kely on the Earth to­day.
  I pus­hed back from the desk. I cram­med everyt­hing I'd re­ad in­to a men­tal fol­der and fi­led it away. And stam­ped SCARY on the out­si­de of the fol­der. I didn't want to think abo­ut it right now. I'd sort thro­ugh it la­ter. May­be.
  My cell pho­ne buz­zed in my poc­ket and I jum­ped.
  "Did we de­ci­de avo­ca­dos are gre­en or yel­low?" Vee as­ked. "I've al­re­ady fil­led all my gre­en fru­it slots to­day, but if you tell me avo­ca­dos are yel­low, I'm in bu­si­ness."
  "Do you be­li­eve in su­per­he­ro­es?"
  "After se­e­ing To­bey Ma­gu­ire in Spi­der-Man, yes. And then the­re's Chris­ti­an Ba­le. Ol­der, but kil­ler hot. I'd let him res­cue me from sword-wi­el­ding ni­nj­as."
  "I'm be­ing se­ri­o­us."
  "So am I."
  "When was the last ti­me you went to church?" I as­ked.
  I he­ard her pop a gum bub­ble. "Sun­day."
  "Do you think the Bib­le is ac­cu­ra­te? I me­an, do you think it's re­al?" '
  "I think Pas­tor Cal­vin is hot. In a forty so­met­hing way. That pretty much sums up my re­li­gi­o­us con­vic­ti­on."
  After I hung up, I went to my ro­om and slid un­der the co­vers. I threw on an ext­ra blan­ket to ward off the sud­den chill. Whet­her the ro­om was cold, or the icy fe­eling ori­gi­na­ted in­si­de me, I wasn't su­re. Ha­un­ting words li­ke "fal­len an­gel," "hu­man pos­ses­si­on," and "Nep­hi­lim" dan­ced me off to sle­ep.

CHAPTER 20

  I TOS­SED ALL NIGHT. THE WIND GUS­TED THRO­UGH THE OPEN fi­elds rim­ming the farm­ho­use, spra­ying deb­ris aga­inst the win­dows. I wo­ke se­ve­ral ti­mes, he­aring shing­les be­ing pul­led from the ro­of and tumb­ling over the ed­ge. Every small no­ise from the rat­tle of the win­dow­pa­nes to my own cre­aking bedsp­rings had me jum­ping out of sle­ep.
  Aro­und six I ga­ve up, drag­ged myself out of bed, and pad­ded down the hall for a hot sho­wer. Next I cle­aned my ro­om-my clo­set was lo­oking slim, and su­re eno­ugh, I fil­led the ham­per with three lo­ads of la­undry. I was clim­bing the sta­irs with a fresh lo­ad when a knock so­un­ded at the front do­or. I ope­ned it to find El­li­ot stan­ding on the do­ors­tep.
  He wo­re je­ans, a vin­ta­ge pla­id shirt rol­led to the el­bows, sung­las­ses, and a Red Sox cap. On the out­si­de, he lo­oked all-Ame­ri­can. But I knew bet­ter, and a jolt of ner­vo­us ad­re­na­li­ne con­fir­med it.
  "No­ra Grey," El­li­ot sa­id in a pat­ro­ni­zing vo­ice. He le­aned in and grin­ned, and I ca­ught the so­ur tang of al­co­hol on his bre­ath. "You've be­en ca­using me a lot of tro­ub­le la­tely."
  "What are you do­ing he­re?"
  He pe­ered be­hind me in­to the ho­use. "What's it lo­ok li­ke I'm do­ing? I want to talk. Don't I get to co­me in?"
  "My mom's as­le­ep. I don't want to wa­ke her."
  "I've ne­ver met yo­ur mom." So­met­hing abo­ut the way he sa­id it ma­de the ha­irs on the back of my neck stand tall.
  "I'm sorry, do you ne­ed so­met­hing?"
  His smi­le was half sloppy, half sne­ering. "You don't li­ke me, do you, No­ra Grey?"
  By way of ans­wer, I fol­ded my arms ac­ross my chest.
  He stag­ge­red back a step with his hand pres­sed to his he­art. "Ouch. I'm he­re, No­ra, as a last-ditch ef­fort to con­vin­ce you that I'm an ave­ra­ge guy and you can trust me. Don't let me down."
  "Lis­ten, El­li­ot, I ha­ve a few things I ne­ed to-"
  He dril­led his fist in­to the ho­use, smac­king his knuck­les aga­inst the si­ding hard eno­ugh to sha­ke lo­ose chip­ped pa­int. "I'm not fi­nis­hed!" he slur­red in a he­ated vo­ice. Sud­denly he tip­ped his he­ad back and la­ug­hed qu­i­etly. He bent over and pla­ced his ble­eding hand bet­we­en his kne­es and gro­aned. "Ten dol­lars says I'm go­ing to reg­ret that la­ter."
  Elli­ot's pre­sen­ce ma­de my skin crawl. I re­mem­be­red back se­ve­ral days, when I ac­tu­al­ly tho­ught he was go­od-lo­oking and char­ming. I won­de­red why I'd be­en such an idi­ot.
  I was con­temp­la­ting clo­sing the do­or and loc­king it, when El­li­ot pul­led off his sung­las­ses, re­ve­aling blo­ods­hot eyes. He cle­ared his thro­at, his vo­ice co­ming out stra­ight­for­ward. "I ca­me he­re be­ca­use I wan­ted to tell you Jules is un­der a lot of stress at scho­ol. Exams, stu­dent go­vern­ment, scho­lars­hip ap­pli­ca­ti­ons, yad­da, yad­da, yad­da. He's not ac­ting li­ke him­self. He ne­eds to get away from it all for a few days. The fo­ur of us-Jules, me, you, Vee-sho­uld go cam­ping for spring bre­ak. Le­ave to­mor­row for Pow­der Horn and co­me back Tu­es­day af­ter­no­on. It'll gi­ve Jules a chan­ce to de­comp­ress." Every word that ca­me out of his mo­uth so­un­ded eerily and ca­re­ful­ly re­he­ar­sed.
  "Sorry, I al­re­ady ha­ve plans."
  "Let me chan­ge yo­ur mind. I'll plan the who­le trip. I'll get the tents, the fo­od. I'll show you what a gre­at guy I am. I'll show you a go­od ti­me."
  "I think you sho­uld le­ave."
  Elli­ot le­aned his hand on the do­orj­amb, ben­ding to­ward me. "Wrong ans­wer." For a fle­eting mo­ment, the glassy stu­por in his eyes di­sap­pe­ared, so­met­hing twis­ted and si­nis­ter ec­lip­sing it. I in­vo­lun­ta­rily step­ped back. I was al­most po­si­ti­ve El­li­ot had it in him to kill. I was al­most po­si­ti­ve Kj­irs­ten's de­ath was on his hands.
  "Le­ave, or I'm cal­ling a cab," I sa­id.
  Elli­ot flung the scre­en do­or open so hard it smac­ked back aga­inst the ho­use. He grab­bed the front of my bath­ro­be and yan­ked me out­si­de. Then he sho­ved me back aga­inst the si­ding and pin­ned me the­re with his body. "You're co­ming cam­ping whet­her you want to or not."
  "Get off me!" I sa­id, twis­ting away from him.
  "Or what? What are you go­ing to do?" He had me by the sho­ul­ders now, and he knoc­ked me back aga­inst the ho­use aga­in, rat­tling my te­eth.
  "I'll call the po­li­ce." I had no idea how I sa­id it so bra­vely. My bre­at­hing was ra­pid and shal­low, my hands clammy.
  "Are you go­ing to sho­ut for them? They can't he­ar you. The only way I'm let­ting you go is if you swe­ar to go cam­ping."
  "No­ra?"
  Elli­ot and I both tur­ned to­ward the front do­or, whe­re my mom's vo­ice car­ri­ed out. El­li­ot kept his hands on me a mo­ment lon­ger, then ma­de a dis­gus­ted no­ise and sho­ved me away. Half­way down the porch steps, he lo­oked over his sho­ul­der. "This isn't over."
  I hur­ri­ed in­si­de and loc­ked the do­or. My eyes star­ted to burn. I drag­ged my back down the length of the do­or and sat on the entry rug, figh­ting the ur­ge to sob.
  My mom ap­pe­ared at the top of the sta­irs, cinc­hing her ro­be at the wa­ist. "No­ra? What's wrong? Who was at the do­or?"
  I blin­ked my eyes dry in a hurry. "A guy from scho­ol." I co­uldn't ke­ep the wa­ver out of my vo­ice. "He-he-" I was al­re­ady in eno­ugh tro­ub­le over my da­te with Patch. I knew my mom was plan­ning to at­tend a wed­ding and re­cep­ti­on to­night for the da­ugh­ter of a fri­end from work, but if I told her El­li­ot had ro­ug­hed me up, the­re was no way she'd go. And that was the last thing I wan­ted, be­ca­use I ne­eded to dri­ve to Port­land and in­ves­ti­ga­te El­li­ot. Even a sli­ver of inc­ri­mi­na­ting evi­den­ce might be eno­ugh to put him be­hind bars, and un­til that hap­pe­ned, I wo­uldn't fe­el sa­fe. I sen­sed a cer­ta­in vi­olen­ce es­ca­la­ting in­si­de him, and I didn't want to see what wo­uld hap­pen if it blew out of cont­rol. "He wan­ted my Ham­let no­tes," I sa­id flatly. "Last we­ek he che­ated off my qu­iz, and ap­pa­rently he's trying to ma­ke a ha­bit of it."
  "Oh, ho­ney." She ca­me down be­si­de me, stro­king my damp ha­ir, which had chil­led sin­ce my sho­wer. "I can un­ders­tand why you're up­set. I can call his pa­rents if you'd li­ke."
  I sho­ok my he­ad.
  "Then I'll ma­ke bre­ak­fast," Mom sa­id. "Go fi­nish dres­sing. I'll ha­ve everyt­hing re­ady by the ti­me you co­me down."
  I was stan­ding in front of my clo­set when my cell pho­ne rang.
  "Did you he­ar? The fo­ur of us are go­ing c-a-m-p-i-n-g for spring bre­ak!" sa­id Vee, so­un­ding bi­zar­rely che­er­ful.
  "Vee," I sa­id, my vo­ice tremb­ling, "Elli­ot's plan­ning so­met­hing. So­met­hing scary. The only re­ason he wants to go cam­ping is so he can get us alo­ne. We're not go­ing."
  "What do you me­an we're not go­ing? This is a joke, right? I me­an, we fi­nal­ly get to do so­met­hing ex­ci­ting over spring bre­ak, and you're sa­ying no"? You know my mom will ne­ver let me go alo­ne. I'll do anyt­hing. Se­ri­o­usly. I'll do yo­ur ho­me­work for a we­ek. Co­me on, No­ra. One lit­tle word. Say it. It starts with the let­ter Y…"
  The hand hol­ding my cell qu­ive­red, and I bro­ught up my ot­her hand to ste­ady it. "Elli­ot sho­wed up at my ho­use fif­te­en mi­nu­tes ago, drunk. He-he physi­cal­ly thre­ate­ned me."
  She was qu­i­et a mo­ment. "What do you me­an by 'physi­cal­ly thre­ate­ned'?"
  "He drag­ged me out the front do­or and sho­ved me aga­inst the ho­use."
  "But he was drunk, right?"
  "Do­es it mat­ter?" I snap­ped.
  "Well, he has a lot go­ing on. I me­an, he was wrongly ac­cu­sed of be­ing mes­sed up in so­me girl's su­ici­de, and he was for­ced to switch scho­ols. If he hurt you-and I'm not jus­tif­ying what he did, by the way-may­be he just ne­eds… co­un­se­ling, you know?"
  "If he hurt me?"
  "He was was­ted. May­be-may­be he didn't know what he was do­ing. To­mor­row he's go­ing to fe­el hor­rib­le."
  I ope­ned my mo­uth, shut it. I co­uldn't be­li­eve Vee was si­ding with El­li­ot. "I ha­ve to go," I sa­id curtly. "I'll talk to you la­ter."
  "Can I be comp­le­tely ho­nest, ba­be? I know you're wor­ri­ed abo­ut this guy in the ski mask. Don't ha­te me, but I think the only re­ason you're trying so hard to pin it on El­li­ot is be­ca­use you don't want it to be Patch. You're ra­ti­ona­li­zing everyt­hing, and it's fre­aking me out."
  I was spe­ech­less. "Ra­ti­ona­li­zing? Patch didn't show up at my do­or this mor­ning and slam me aga­inst my ho­use."
  "You know what? I sho­uldn't ha­ve bro­ught it up. Let's just drop it, okay?"
  "Fi­ne," I sa­id stiffly.
  "So… what are you do­ing to­day?"
  I po­ked my he­ad out the do­or, lis­te­ning for my mom. The so­und of a whisk scra­ping the si­de of a bowl car­ri­ed up from the kitc­hen. Part of me didn't see the po­int in sha­ring anyt­hing el­se with Vee, but anot­her part of me felt re­sent­ful and conf­ron­ta­ti­onal. She wan­ted to know my plans? Fi­ne by me. It wasn't my prob­lem if she didn't li­ke them. "I'm dri­ving to Port­land as so­on as my mom le­aves for a wed­ding at Old Orc­hard Be­ach." The wed­ding star­ted at 4 p.m., and with the re­cep­ti­on fol­lo­wing, my mom wo­uldn't get ho­me un­til 9 p.m. at the ear­li­est. Which ga­ve me eno­ugh ti­me to spend the eve­ning in Port­land, and be­at her ho­me. "Actu­al­ly, I was won­de­ring if may­be I co­uld bor­row the Ne­on. I don't want my mom to see the mi­les I put on my car."
  "Oh, boy. You're go­ing to spy on El­li­ot, aren't you? You're go­ing to sno­op aro­und King­horn."
  "I'm go­ing to do a lit­tle shop­ping and grab din­ner," I sa­id, sli­ding han­gers down the rack in my clo­set. I pul­led out a long-sle­eved tis­sue tee, je­ans, and a pink-and-whi­te-stri­ped be­anie I re­ser­ved for bad-ha­ir days and we­ekends.
  "And wo­uld grab­bing din­ner inc­lu­de stop­ping by a cer­ta­in di­ner lo­ca­ted a few blocks from King­horn Prep? A di­ner whe­re Kj­irs­ten what's-her-na­me used to work?"
  "That's not a bad idea," I sa­id. "May­be I will."
  "And are you go­ing to ac­tu­al­ly eat, or just in­ter­ro­ga­te the wor­kers?"
  "I might ask a few qu­es­ti­ons. Do I get the Ne­on or not?"
  "Of co­ur­se you do," she sa­id. "What are best fri­ends for? I'll even co­me with you on this do­omed lit­tle tromp. But first you ha­ve to pro­mi­se you'll go cam­ping."
  "Ne­ver mind. I'll ta­ke the bus."
  "We'll talk abo­ut spring bre­ak la­ter!" Vee cal­led in­to the pho­ne be­fo­re I was ab­le to dis­con­nect.
  I'd be­en to Port­land on se­ve­ral oc­ca­si­ons, but I didn't know the city well. I step­ped off the bus ar­med with my cell, a map, and my own in­ner com­pass. The bu­il­dings we­re redb­rick, tall and slen­der, bloc­king the set­ting sun, which bla­zed out from be­low a thick stretch of storm clo­uds, set­tling the stre­ets un­der a ca­nopy of sha­dow. The sto­ref­ronts all had ve­ran­das and qu­a­int signs ex­ten­ding over the do­ors. The stre­ets we­re lit by black witch-hat lamps. Af­ter se­ve­ral blocks, the con­ges­ted stre­ets ope­ned up to a wo­oded area, and I saw a sign for King­horn Prep. A cat­hed­ral, ste­ep­le, and clock to­wer pe­ered abo­ve the tre­etops.
  I sta­yed on the si­de­walk and ro­un­ded the cor­ner on­to 32nd Stre­et. The har­bor was only a few blocks away, and I ca­ught glimp­ses of bo­ats pas­sing be­hind the shops as they ca­me in to dock. Half­way down 32nd Stre­et, I saw a sign for Blind Joe's di­ner. I pul­led my in­ter­vi­ew qu­es­ti­ons out and re­ad them over one last ti­me. The plan wasn't to lo­ok li­ke I was hol­ding an of­fi­ci­al in­ter­vi­ew. I ho­ped that if I ca­su­al­ly bro­ac­hed the su­bj­ect of Kj­irs­ten with the emp­lo­ye­es, I co­uld te­ase out so­met­hing the hand­ful of re­por­ters be­fo­re me had so­me­how mis­sed. Ho­ping the qu­es­ti­ons we­re sto­red to me­mory, I un­der­han­ded the list in­to the ne­arest trash can.
  The do­or chi­med when I en­te­red.
  The flo­or was yel­low and whi­te ti­le, and the bo­oths we­re up­hols­te­red in na­uti­cal blue. Pic­tu­res of the har­bor hung on the walls. I sat in a bo­oth clo­se to the do­or and shrug­ged out of my co­at.
  A wa­it­ress in a sta­ined whi­te ap­ron ap­pe­ared be­si­de me. "Na­me's Whit­ney," she told me in a so­ur vo­ice. "Wel­co­me to Blind Joe's. Spe­ci­al to­day is the tu­na fish sand­wich. So­up of the day's lobs­ter chow­der." Her pen was po­ised to ta­ke my or­der.
  "Blind Joe's?" I frow­ned and tap­ped my chin. "Why do­es that na­me so­und so fa­mi­li­ar?"
  "Don't you re­ad the pa­per? We we­re in the news for a we­ek stra­ight last month. Fif­te­en mi­nu­tes and all that."
  "Oh!" I sa­id with sud­den cla­rity. "Now I re­mem­ber. The­re was a mur­der, right? Didn't the girl work he­re?"
  "That wo­uld be Kj­irs­ten Hal­ver­son." She clic­ked her pen im­pa­ti­ently. "Want me to bring out a bowl of that chow­der to start?"
  I didn't want lobs­ter chow­der. In fact, I wasn't re­mo­tely hungry. "That must ha­ve be­en hard. We­re the two of you fri­ends?"
  "Hell, no. You go­ing to or­der or what? I'll let you in on a lit­tle sec­ret. I don't work, I don't get pa­id. I don't get pa­id, I don't ma­ke rent."
  Sud­denly I wis­hed the wa­iter ac­ross the ro­om we­re ta­king my or­der. He was short, bald back to his ears, and his body type mi­mic­ked the to­oth­picks in the dis­pen­ser at the end of the tab­le. His eyes ne­ver re­ac­hed hig­her than three fe­et off the gro­und. As pat­he­tic as I wo­uld ha­ve felt af­ter the fact, one fri­endly smi­le from me might ha­ve be­en eno­ugh to ha­ve him spil­ling Kj­irs­ten's en­ti­re li­fe story. "Sorry," I told Whit­ney. "I just can't stop thin­king abo­ut the mur­der. Of co­ur­se, it's pro­bably old news to you. You must ha­ve had re­por­ters in he­re all the ti­me as­king qu­es­ti­ons."
  She ga­ve me a po­in­ted lo­ok. "Ne­ed a few mo­re mi­nu­tes to lo­ok over the me­nu?"
  "Per­so­nal­ly, I find re­por­ters ir­ri­ta­ting."
  She le­aned in, bra­cing a hand on the tab­le­top. "I find cus­to­mers who ta­ke the­ir own swe­et ti­me ir­ri­ta­ting."
  I blew out a si­lent sigh and flip­ped open the me­nu. "What do you re­com­mend?"
  "It's all go­od. Ask my boyf­ri­end." She ga­ve a tight smi­le. "He's the co­ok."
  "Spe­aking of boyf­ri­ends… did Kj­irs­ten ha­ve one?" Ni­ce se­gae, I told myself.
  "Spill," Whit­ney de­man­ded. "You a cop? A law­yer? A re­por­ter?"
  "Just a con­cer­ned ci­ti­zen." It so­un­ded li­ke a qu­es­ti­on.
  "Ye­ah, right. Tell you what. Or­der a milks­ha­ke, fri­es, the An­gus bur­ger, a bowl of chow­der, and gi­ve me a twenty-fi­ve-per­cent tip, and I'll tell you what I told every­body el­se."
  I we­ig­hed my op­ti­ons: my al­lo­wan­ce or ans­wers. "Do­ne."
  "Kj­irs­ten ho­oked up with that kid, El­li­ot Sa­un­ders. The one in the pa­pers. He was in he­re all the ti­me. Wal­ked her back to her apart­ment at the end of her shift."
  "Did you ever talk to El­li­ot?"
  "Not me."
  "Do you think Kj­irs­ten com­mit­ted su­ici­de?"
  "How sho­uld I know?"
  "I re­ad in the news­pa­per that a su­ici­de no­te was fo­und in Kj­irs­ten's apart­ment, but that the­re was al­so evi­den­ce of a bre­ak-in."
  "And?"
  "You don't find that a lit­tle… odd?"
  "If you're as­king if I think El­li­ot co­uld ha­ve put the no­te in her apart­ment, su­re I do. Rich kid li­ke that co­uld get away with anyt­hing. Pro­bably hi­red so­me­body to plant the no­te. That's how it works when you got mo­ney."
  "I don't think El­li­ot has a lot of mo­ney." My imp­res­si­on had al­ways be­en that Jules was the we­althy one. Vee ne­ver stop­ped ra­ving abo­ut his ho­use. "I think he went to King­horn Prep on scho­lars­hip."
  "Scho­lars­hip?" she re­pe­ated on a snort. "What's in the wa­ter you be­en drin­king? If El­li­ot don't got big-ti­me mo­ney, how'd he buy Kj­irs­ten her apart­ment? Tell me that."
  I strug­gled to hold my surp­ri­se in check. "He bo­ught her an apart­ment?"
  "Kj­irs­ten ne­ver shut up abo­ut it. Abo­ut dro­ve me in­sa­ne."
  "Why wo­uld he buy her an apart­ment?"
  Whit­ney sta­red down at me, hands on hips. "Tell me you ain't re­al­ly that dumb."
  Oh. Pri­vacy. In­ti­macy. Got it.
  I sa­id, "Do you know why El­li­ot trans­fer­red out of King­horn?"
  "Didn't know he did."
  I jug­gled her ans­wers with the qu­es­ti­ons I still wan­ted to ask, trying to sum­mon them up from me­mory. "Did he ever me­et fri­ends he­re? An­yo­ne ot­her than Kj­irs­ten?"
  "How'm I sup­po­sed to re­mem­ber that?" She ga­ve a hard eye roll. "I lo­ok li­ke I got one of them pho­tog­rap­hic me­mo­ri­es?"
  "How abo­ut a re­al­ly tall guy? Re­al­ly tall. Long blond ha­ir, go­od-lo­oking, ta­ilo­red clot­hes."
  She rip­ped a rag­ged fin­ger­na­il off with her front te­eth and drop­ped it in­si­de the poc­ket of her ap­ron. "Ye­ah, I re­mem­ber that guy. Hard not to. All mo­ody and qu­i­et. He ca­me in on­ce or twi­ce. Wasn't that long ago. May­be aro­und the ti­me Kj­irs­ten di­ed. I re­mem­ber 'ca­use we we­re ser­ving cor­ned be­ef sand­wic­hes for St. Pat­rick's Day and I co­uldn't get him to or­der one. Just gla­red at me li­ke he wo­uld ha­ve re­ac­hed ac­ross the tab­le and slit my thro­at if I'd stuck aro­und re­ading the da­ily spe­ci­als any lon­ger. But I think I re­mem­ber so­met­hing. It's not li­ke I'm nosy, but I do got ears. So­me­ti­mes I can't help he­aring things. Last ti­me the tall guy and El­li­ot ca­me in, they we­re hunc­hed over a tab­le, tal­king abo­ut a test."
  "A test at scho­ol?"
  "How sho­uld I know? From the so­und of it, the tall guy fa­iled a test, and El­li­ot was no­ne too happy abo­ut it. He sho­ved his cha­ir back and stor­med out. Didn't even eat all his sand­wich."
  "Did they men­ti­on Kj­irs­ten?"
  "The tall guy ca­me in first, as­ked if Kj­irs­ten was wor­king. I told him no, she wasn't, and he got on his cell pho­ne. Ten mi­nu­tes la­ter, El­li­ot strolls in. Kj­irs­ten al­ways hand­led El­li­ot's tab­le, but li­ke I sa­id, she wasn't wor­king, so I got it. If they tal­ked abo­ut Kj­irs­ten, I didn't he­ar. But it lo­oked to me li­ke the tall guy didn't want Kj­irs­ten aro­und."
  "Do you re­mem­ber anyt­hing el­se?"
  "De­pends. You go­ing to or­der des­sert?"
  "I gu­ess I'll ha­ve a sli­ce of pie."
  "Pie? I gi­ve you fi­ve mi­nu­tes of my va­lu­ab­le ti­me, and all you or­der is pie? I lo­ok li­ke I got not­hing bet­ter to do than chitc­hat with you?"
  I glan­ced aro­und the di­ner. It was de­ad. Ot­her than a man hunc­hed over a pa­per at the co­un­ter, I was the only cus­to­mer.
  "Okay…" I scan­ned the me­nu.
  "You're go­ing to want a rasp­ber­ry le­mo­na­de to wash that pie down." She scrib­bled it on her pad. "And af­ter-din­ner cof­fee." Mo­re scrib­bling. "I'll be lo­oking for­ward to an ad­di­ti­onal twenty-per­cent tip with that." She pin­ned me with a smug smi­le, then tuc­ked her pad in­to her ap­ron and sas­ha­yed back to the kitc­hen.

CHAPTER 21

  OUT­SI­DE, THE WE­AT­HER HAD SHIF­TED TO COLD AND driz­zling. The lamp­posts bur­ned an eerie, sal­low co­lor that did lit­tle aga­inst the thick fog bre­wing along the stre­ets. I hur­ri­ed out of Blind Joe's, gra­te­ful I'd lo­oked at the we­at­her fo­re­cast ear­li­er and bro­ught my umb­rel­la. As I pas­sed sto­ref­ront win­dows, I saw crowds gat­he­ring in the bars.
  I was a few blocks from the bus stop when the now fa­mi­li­ar icy fe­eling kis­sed the back of my neck. I'd felt it the night I was su­re so­me­one lo­oked in my bed­ro­om win­dow, at Delp­hic, and aga­in right be­fo­re Vee wal­ked out of Vic­to­ria's Sec­ret we­aring my jac­ket. I bent down, pre­ten­ded to tie my sho­ela­ce, and cast a sur­rep­ti­ti­o­us glan­ce aro­und. The si­de­walks on both si­des of the stre­et we­re empty.
  The cros­swalk light chan­ged, and I step­ped off the curb. Mo­ving fas­ter, I tuc­ked my hand­bag un­der my arm and ho­ped the bus was on ti­me. I cut thro­ugh an al­ley be­hind a bar, slip­ped past a hud­dle of smo­kers, and ca­me out on the next stre­et over. Jog­ging up a block, I ve­ered down anot­her al­ley and circ­led back aro­und the block. Every few se­conds I chec­ked be­hind me.
  I he­ard the rumb­le of the bus, and a mo­ment la­ter it ro­un­ded the cor­ner, ma­te­ri­ali­zing out of the fog. It slo­wed aga­inst the curb and I clim­bed abo­ard, he­ading ho­me. I was the only pas­sen­ger.
  Ta­king a se­at se­ve­ral rows be­hind the dri­ver, I slo­uc­hed to ke­ep out of sight. He jer­ked the le­ver to clo­se the do­ors, and the bus ro­ared down the stre­et. I was on the ver­ge of of­fe­ring a sigh of re­li­ef when I re­ce­ived a text mes­sa­ge from Vee.

  WHE­RE U AT? 
  PORT­LAND, I TEX­TED BACK. YOU? 
  ME 2. AT A PARTY WITH JULES AND EL­LI­OT. LET'S ME­ET UP. 
  WHY ARE YOU IN PORT­LAND?!

  I didn't wa­it for her ans­wer; I di­aled her di­rectly. Tal­king was fas­ter. And this was ur­gent.
  "Well? What say you?" Vee as­ked. "Are you in the part­ying mo­od?"
  "Do­es yo­ur mom know you're at a party in Port­land with two guys?"
  "You're star­ting to so­und ne­uro­tic, ba­be."
  "I can't be­li­eve you ca­me to Port­land with El­li­ot!" I had a sin­king tho­ught. "Do­es he know you're on the pho­ne with me?"
  "So he can co­me kill you? No, sorry. He and Jules ran to King­horn to pick up so­met­hing, and I'm chil­ling so­lo. I co­uld use a wing wo­man. Hey!" Vee sho­uted in­to the backg­ro­und. "Hands off, okay? O-F-F. No­ra? I'm not exactly in the gre­atest area. Ti­me is of the es­sen­ce."
  "Whe­re are you?"
  "Hang on… okay, the bu­il­ding ac­ross the stre­et says one-se­ven-two-se­ven. The stre­et is Highs­mith, I'm pretty su­re."
  "I'll be the­re as so­on as I can. But I'm not sta­ying. I'm go­ing ho­me, and you're co­ming with me. Stop the bus!" I cal­led to the dri­ver.
  He ap­pli­ed the bra­kes, and I was thrown aga­inst the se­at in front of me.
  "Can you tell me which way to Highs­mith?" I as­ked him on­ce I'd ma­de it to the top of the ais­le.
  He po­in­ted out the win­dows pa­ne­ling the right si­de of the bus. "West of he­re. You plan­ning to go on fo­ot?" He sur­ve­yed me up and down. "'Ca­use I sho­uld warn you, it's a ro­ugh ne­igh­bor­ho­od."
  Gre­at.
  I had to walk only a few blocks be­fo­re I knew the bus dri­ver had be­en right to warn me. The sce­nery chan­ged dras­ti­cal­ly. The qu­a­int sto­ref­ronts we­re rep­la­ced by bu­il­dings spray-pa­in­ted with gang graf­fi­ti. The win­dows we­re dark, bar­red up with iron. The si­de­walks we­re de­so­la­te paths stretc­hing in­to the fog.
  A slow, rat­tling no­ise drif­ted thro­ugh the fog, and a wo­man pus­hing a cart of gar­ba­ge bags whe­eled in­to vi­ew. Her eyes we­re ra­isins, be­ady and dark, and they twitc­hed the­ir way over me in al­most pre­da­tory eva­lu­ati­on.
  "What we got he­re?" she sa­id thro­ugh a ga­pe of mis­sing te­eth.
  I drew a disc­re­et step back and clutc­hed my hand­bag aga­inst me.
  "Lo­oks li­ke a co­at, mit­tens, and a pretty wo­ol hat," she sa­id. "Always wan­ted me a pretty wo­ol hat." She pro­no­un­ced the word prit-ee.
  "Hel­lo," I sa­id, cle­aring my thro­at and trying to so­und fri­endly. "Can you ple­ase tell me how much fart­her to Highs­mith Stre­et?"
  She cack­led.
  "A bus dri­ver po­in­ted me in this di­rec­ti­on," I sa­id with less con­fi­den­ce.
  "He told you Highs­mith is this way?" she sa­id, so­un­ding ir­ri­ta­ted. "I know the way to Highs­mith, and this ain't it."
  I wa­ited, but she didn't ela­bo­ra­te. "Do you think you co­uld gi­ve me di­rec­ti­ons?" I as­ked.
  "I got di­rec­ti­ons." She tap­ped her he­ad with a fin­ger that strongly re­semb­led a twis­ted, knot­ted twig. "Ke­ep everyt­hing up he­re, I do."
  "Which way is Highs­mith?" I en­co­ura­ged.
  "But I can't tell you for free," she sa­id in a chi­ding to­ne. "That's gon­na cost you. A girl has to ma­ke a li­ving. No­body ever tell you ain't not­hing in li­fe free?"
  "I don't ha­ve any mo­ney." Not much, any­way. Only eno­ugh for a bus fa­re ho­me.
  "You got a ni­ce warm co­at."
  I lo­oked down at my qu­il­ted co­at. A chilly wind ruf­fled my ha­ir, and the tho­ught of pe­eling my co­at off sent a flush of go­ose bumps down my arms. "I just got this co­at for Christ­mas."
  "I'm fre­ezing my der­ri­ere off out he­re," she snap­ped. "You want di­rec­ti­ons or not?"
  I co­uldn't be­li­eve I was stan­ding he­re. I co­uldn't be­li­eve I was bar­te­ring my co­at with a ho­me­less wo­man. Vee was so far in debt to me she might ne­ver get out.
  I shuc­ked off my co­at and watc­hed her zip in­to it.
  My bre­ath ca­me out li­ke smo­ke. I hug­ged myself and stam­ped my fe­et, con­ser­ving body he­at. "Can you ple­ase tell me the way to Highs­mith now?"
  "You want the long way, or the short way?"
  "Sh-short," I chat­te­red.
  "That's gon­na cost you too. Short way's got an ad­di­ti­onal fee at­tac­hed. Li­ke I sa­id, al­ways wan­ted me a pretty wo­ol hat."
  I tug­ged the pink and whi­te be­anie off my he­ad. "Highs­mith?" I as­ked, trying to hold on to the fri­endly to­ne as I pas­sed it over.
  "See that al­ley?" she sa­id, po­in­ting be­hind me. I tur­ned. The al­ley was a half block back. "You ta­ke it, you co­me out on Highs­mith on the ot­her si­de."
  "That's it?" I sa­id inc­re­du­lo­usly. "One block over?"
  "Go­od news is, you got a short walk. Bad news is, ain't no walk fe­el short in this we­at­her. 'Co­ur­se, I'm ni­ce and warm now I got me a co­at and a pretty hat. Gi­ve me tho­se mit­tens, and I'll walk you the­re myself."
  I lo­oked down at the mit­tens. At le­ast my hands we­re warm. "I'll ma­na­ge."
  She shrug­ged and whe­eled her cart to the next cor­ner, whe­re she to­ok up a post aga­inst the bricks.
  The al­ley was dark and clut­te­red with trash bins, wa­ter-sta­ined card­bo­ard bo­xes, and an un­re­cog­ni­zab­le hump that may ha­ve be­en a dis­car­ded wa­ter he­ater. Then aga­in, it just as easily co­uld ha­ve be­en a rug with a body rol­led in­si­de. A high cha­in-link fen­ce span­ned the al­ley half­way down. I co­uld hardly climb a fo­ur-fo­ot fen­ce on a go­od day, let alo­ne a ten-fo­ot one. Brick bu­il­dings flan­ked me on both si­des. All the win­dows we­re gre­ased over and bar­red.
  Step­ping over cra­tes and sacks of trash, I pic­ked my way down the al­ley. Bro­ken glass crunc­hed be­ne­ath my sho­es. A flash of whi­te dar­ted bet­we­en my legs, ste­aling my bre­ath. A cat. Just a cat, va­nis­hing in­to the dark­ness ahe­ad.
  I re­ac­hed for my poc­ket to text Vee, in­ten­ding to tell her I was clo­se and to watch for me, when I re­mem­be­red I'd left my cell pho­ne in my co­at poc­ket. Ni­ce go­ing, I tho­ught. What are the chan­ces the bag lady will gi­ve you back yo­ur pho­ne? Pre­ci­sely- slim to no­ne.
  I de­ci­ded it was worth a try, and as I tur­ned aro­und, a sle­ek black se­dan sped past the ope­ning to the al­ley. With a sud­den glow of red, the bra­ke lights lit up.
  For re­asons I co­uldn't exp­la­in be­yond in­tu­iti­on, I drew in­to the sha­dows.
  A car do­or ope­ned and the crack­le of gun­fi­re bro­ke out. Two shots. The car do­or slam­med and the black se­dan scre­ec­hed away. I co­uld he­ar my he­art ham­me­ring in my chest, and it blen­ded with the so­und of run­ning fe­et. I re­ali­zed a mo­ment la­ter that they we­re my fe­et, and I was run­ning to the mo­uth of the al­ley. I ro­un­ded the cor­ner and ca­me up short.
  The bag lady's body was in a he­ap on the si­de­walk.
  I rus­hed over and fell on my kne­es be­si­de her. "Are you okay?" I sa­id fran­ti­cal­ly, rol­ling her over. Her mo­uth was aga­pe, her ra­isin eyes hol­low. Dark li­qu­id flo­we­red thro­ugh the qu­il­ted co­at I'd be­en we­aring three mi­nu­tes ago.
  I felt the ur­ge to jump back but for­ced myself to re­ach in­si­de the co­at poc­kets. I ne­eded to call for help, but my cell pho­ne wasn't the­re.
  The­re was a pho­ne bo­oth on the cor­ner ac­ross the stre­et. I ran to it and di­aled 911. Whi­le I wa­ited for the ope­ra­tor to pick up, I glan­ced back at the bag lady's body, and that's when I felt cold ad­re­na­li­ne sho­ot thro­ugh me. The body was go­ne.
  With a shaky hand, I hung up. The so­und of ap­pro­ac­hing fo­ots­teps tap­ped in my ears, but whet­her they we­re ne­ar or far, I co­uldn't tell.
  Clip, clip, clip.
  He's he­re, I tho­ught. The man in the ski mask.
  I sho­ved a few co­ins in­to the pho­ne and grip­ped the re­ce­iver with both hands. I tri­ed to re­mem­ber Patch's cell pho­ne num­ber. Squ­e­ezing my eyes shut, I vi­su­ali­zed the se­ven num­bers he'd writ­ten in red ink on my hand the first day we met. Be­fo­re I co­uld se­cond-gu­ess my me­mory, 1 di­aled the num­bers.
  "What's up?" Patch sa­id.
  I al­most sob­bed at the so­und of his vo­ice. I co­uld he­ar the crack of bil­li­ard balls col­li­ding on a po­ol tab­le in the backg­ro­und, and knew he was at Bo's Ar­ca­de. He co­uld be he­re in fif­te­en, may­be twenty mi­nu­tes.
  "It's me." I didn't da­re push my vo­ice abo­ve a whis­per.
  "No­ra?"
  "I'm in P-Port­land. On the cor­ner of Hemps­hi­re and Nan­tuc­ket. Can you pick me up? It's ur­gent."
  I was hud­dled in the bot­tom of the pho­ne bo­oth, co­un­ting si­lently to one hund­red, trying to re­ma­in calm, when a black Je­ep Com­man­der gli­ded to the curb. Patch slid the do­or to the pho­ne bo­oth open and cro­uc­hed in the ent­ran­ce.
  He pe­eled off his top la­yer-a long-sle­eved black T-shirt- le­aving him in a black un­ders­hirt. He fit the neck­ho­le of the T-shirt over my he­ad and a mo­ment la­ter had my arms pus­hed thro­ugh the sle­eves. The shirt dwar­fed me, the sle­eves han­ging down well past my fin­ger­tips. It ming­led the smells of smo­ke, salt­wa­ter, and mint so­ap. So­met­hing abo­ut it fil­led the hol­low pla­ces in­si­de me with re­as­su­ran­ce.
  "Let's get you in the car," Patch sa­id. He pul­led me up, and I wrap­ped my arms aro­und his neck and bu­ri­ed my fa­ce in­to him.
  "I think I'm go­ing to be sick," I sa­id. The world til­ted, inc­lu­ding Patch. "I ne­ed my iron pills."
  "Shh," he sa­id, hol­ding me aga­inst him. "It's go­ing to be all right. I'm he­re now."
  I ma­na­ged a lit­tle nod.
  "Let's get out of he­re."
  Anot­her nod. "We ne­ed to get Vee," I sa­id. "She's at a party one block over."
  Whi­le Patch dro­ve the Je­ep aro­und the cor­ner, I lis­te­ned to my chat­te­ring te­eth ec­ho aro­und in­si­de my he­ad. I'd ne­ver be­en this frigh­te­ned in my li­fe. Se­e­ing the de­ad ho­me­less wo­man co­nj­ured up tho­ughts of my dad. My vi­si­on was tin­ged with red, and hard as I tri­ed, I co­uldn't flush out the ima­ge of blo­od.
  "We­re you in the mid­dle of a po­ol ga­me?" I as­ked, re­mem­be­ring the so­und of bil­li­ard balls col­li­ding in the backg­ro­und du­ring our bri­ef pho­ne con­ver­sa­ti­on.
  "I was win­ning a con­do."
  "A con­do?"
  "One of tho­se swank ones on the la­ke. I wo­uld ha­ve ha­ted the pla­ce. This is Highs­mith. Do you ha­ve an ad­dress?"
  "I can't re­mem­ber it," I sa­id, sit­ting up tal­ler to get a bet­ter lo­ok out the win­dows. All of the bu­il­dings lo­oked aban­do­ned. The­re was no tra­ce of a party. The­re was no tra­ce of li­fe, pe­ri­od.
  "Do you ha­ve yo­ur cell?" I as­ked Patch.
  He slid a Black­ber­ry out of his poc­ket. "Bat­tery's low. I don't know if it will ma­ke a call."
  I tex­ted Vee. WHE­RE ARE YOU?!
  CHAN­GE OF PLANS, she tex­ted back. GU­ESS J AND E CO­ULDN'T FIND WHAT THEY WE­RE LO­OKING 4. WE'RE GO­ING HO­ME.
  The scre­en dra­ined to black.
  "It di­ed," I told Patch. "Do you ha­ve the char­ger?"
  "Not on me."
  "Vee's go­ing back to Cold­wa­ter. Do you think you co­uld drop me off at her ho­use?"
  Mi­nu­tes la­ter we we­re on the co­as­tal high­way, dri­ving right along a cliff just abo­ve the oce­an. I'd be­en this way be­fo­re, and when the sun was out, the wa­ter was sla­te blue with patc­hes of dark gre­en whe­re the wa­ter ref­lec­ted the everg­re­ens. It was night, and the oce­an was smo­oth black po­ison.
  "Are you go­ing to tell me what hap­pe­ned?" Patch as­ked.
  The jury was still out on whet­her or not I sho­uld tell Patch anyt­hing. I co­uld tell him how af­ter the bag lady tric­ked me out of my co­at, she was shot. I co­uld tell him I tho­ught the bul­let was me­ant for me. Then I co­uld try exp­la­ining how the bag lady's body had ma­gi­cal­ly va­nis­hed in­to thin air.
  I re­mem­be­red the cra­zed lo­ok De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so had di­rec­ted at me when I told him so­me­one had bro­ken in­to my bed­ro­om. I wasn't in the mo­od to get eye­bal­led and la­ug­hed at aga­in. Not by Patch. Not right now.
  "I got lost, and a bag lady cor­ne­red me," I sa­id. "She tal­ked me out of my co­at…" I wi­ped my no­se with the back of my hand and snif­fled. "She got my be­anie, too."
  "What we­re you do­ing all the way out he­re?" as­ked Patch.
  "Me­eting Vee at a party."
  We we­re half­way bet­we­en Port­land and Cold­wa­ter, on a stretch of lush and un­po­pu­la­ted high­way, when ste­am spe­wed sud­denly from the ho­od of the Je­ep. Patch bra­ked, easing the Je­ep to the ro­ad­si­de.
  "Hang on," he sa­id, swin­ging out. Lif­ting the ho­od of the Je­ep, he di­sap­pe­ared out of sight.
  A mi­nu­te la­ter he drop­ped the ho­od back in pla­ce. Brus­hing his hands on his pants, he ca­me aro­und to my win­dow, ges­tu­ring for me to lo­wer it.
  "Bad news," he sa­id. "It's the en­gi­ne."
  I tri­ed to lo­ok in­for­med and in­tel­li­gent, but I had a fe­eling my exp­res­si­on just lo­oked blank.
  Patch ra­ised an eyeb­row and sa­id, "May it rest in pe­ace."
  "It won't mo­ve?"
  "Not un­less we push it."
  Of all the cars, he had to win the le­mon.
  "Whe­re's yo­ur cell?" Patch as­ked.
  "I lost it."
  He grin­ned. "Let me gu­ess. In yo­ur co­at poc­ket. The bag lady re­al­ly cas­hed in, didn't she?"
  He sco­uted the ho­ri­zon. "Two cho­ices. We can flag down a ri­de, or we can walk to the next exit and find a pho­ne."
  I step­ped out, shut­ting the do­or with for­ce be­hind me. I kic­ked the Je­ep's right front ti­re. I knew I was using an­ger to mask my fe­ar of what I'd be­en thro­ugh to­day. As so­on as I was all alo­ne, I'd bre­ak down crying.
  "I think the­re's a mo­tel at the next exit. I'll go c-c-call a cab," I sa­id, my te­eth chat­te­ring har­der. "Y-y-you wa­it he­re with the Je­ep."
  He crac­ked a slight smi­le, but it didn't lo­ok amu­sed. "I'm not let­ting you out of my sight. You're lo­oking a lit­tle de­ran­ged, An­gel. We'll go to­get­her."
  Cros­sing my arms, I sto­od up to him. In ten­nis sho­es, my eyes ca­me le­vel with his sho­ul­ders. I was for­ced to tilt my neck back to me­et his eyes. "I'm not go­ing anyw­he­re ne­ar a mo­tel with you." Best to so­und firm so I was less li­kely to chan­ge my mind.
  "You think the two of us and a slummy mo­tel ma­ke for a dan­ge­ro­us com­bi­na­ti­on?"
  Yes, ac­tu­al­ly.
  Patch le­aned back aga­inst the Je­ep. "We can sit he­re and ar­gue this." He squ­in­ted up at the ri­oto­us sky. "But this storm is abo­ut to catch its se­cond wind."
  As if Mot­her Na­tu­re wan­ted her say in the ver­dict, the sky ope­ned and a thick con­coc­ti­on of ra­in and sle­et ha­iled down.
  I sent Patch my col­dest lo­ok, then blew out an angry sigh.
  As usu­al, he had a po­int.

CHAPTER 22

  TWENTY MI­NU­TES LA­TER PATCH AND I WAS­HED UP AT the ent­ran­ce to a low-bud­get mo­tel. I had not spo­ken one word to him as we'd jog­ged thro­ugh the sle­eting ra­in, and now I was not only so­aked, but tho­ro­ughly… un­ner­ved. The ra­in cas­ca­ded down, and I didn't think we wo­uld be re­tur­ning to the Je­ep any­ti­me so­on. Which left me, Patch, and a mo­tel in the sa­me equ­ati­on for an un­de­ter­mi­ned amo­unt of ti­me.
  The do­or chi­med on our way in, and the desk clerk sto­od ab­ruptly, dus­ting Che­etos crumbs off his lap. "What'll it be?" he sa­id, suc­king his fin­gers cle­an of oran­ge sli­me. "Just the two of you to­night?"
  "We n-n-ne­ed to bor­row yo­ur pho­ne," I chat­te­red, ho­ping he co­uld ma­ke sen­se of my re­qu­est.
  "No can do. Li­nes are down. Bla­me the storm."
  "What do y-you me­an the Mi­nes are d-down? Do you ha­ve a cell?"
  The clerk lo­oked to Patch.
  "She wants a nons­mo­king ro­om," Patch sa­id.
  I swi­ve­led to fa­ce Patch. Are you in­sa­ne? I mo­ut­hed.
  The clerk tap­ped a few keys at his com­pu­ter. "Lo­oks li­ke we've got… hang on… Bin­go! A nons­mo­king king."
  "We'll ta­ke it," sa­id Patch. He lo­oked si­de­ways at me, and the ed­ges of his mo­uth tip­ped up. I nar­ro­wed my eyes.
  Just then the lights over­he­ad blin­ked out, plun­ging the lobby in­to dark­ness. We all sto­od si­lent for a mo­ment be­fo­re the clerk fumb­led aro­und and clic­ked on an in­dust­ri­al-si­ze flash­light.
  "I was a Boy Sco­ut," he sa­id. "Back in the day. 'Be pre­pa­red.'"
  "Then you m-m-must ha­ve a cell pho­ne?" I sa­id.
  "I did. Un­til I co­uldn't pay the bill any­mo­re." He drew his sho­ul­ders up. "What can I say, my mom's che­ap."
  His mom? He had to be forty. Not that it was any of my bu­si­ness. I was far mo­re con­cer­ned what my mom wo­uld do when she ar­ri­ved ho­me from the re­cep­ti­on and fo­und me go­ne.
  "How do you want to pay?" the desk clerk as­ked.
  "Cash," Patch sa­id.
  The desk clerk chuck­led, bob­bing his he­ad up and down. "It's a po­pu­lar form of pay­ment he­re." He le­aned clo­se and spo­ke in con­fi­den­ti­al to­nes. "We get a lot of folks who don't want the­ir ext­ra­cur­ri­cu­lar ac­ti­vi­ti­es tra­ced, if you know what I me­an."
  The lo­gi­cal half of my bra­in was tel­ling me I co­uldn't ac­tu­al­ly be con­si­de­ring spen­ding the night at a mo­tel with Patch.
  "This is crazy," I told Patch in an un­der­to­ne.
  "I'm crazy." He was on the brink of smi­ling aga­in. "Abo­ut you. How much for the flash­light?" he as­ked the clerk.
  The clerk re­ac­hed be­low the desk. "I've got so­met­hing even bet­ter: sur­vi­val-si­ze cand­les," he sa­id, pla­cing two in front of us. Stri­king a match, he lit one. "They're on the ho­use, no ext­ra char­ge. Put one in the bath­ro­om and one in the sle­eping area and you'll ne­ver know the dif­fe­ren­ce. I'll even throw in the match­bo­ok. If not­hing el­se, it'll ma­ke a go­od ke­ep­sa­ke."
  "Thanks," Patch sa­id, ta­king my el­bow and wal­king me down the hall.
  At ro­om 106, Patch bol­ted the do­or be­hind us. He set the cand­le on the nights­tand, then used it to light the spa­re. Lif­ting his ba­se­ball cap, he sho­ok the ends of his ha­ir li­ke a wet dog.
  "You ne­ed a hot sho­wer," he sa­id. Ta­king a few steps back­ward, he duc­ked his he­ad in­si­de the bath­ro­om. "Lo­oks li­ke bar so­ap and two to­wels."
  I til­ted my chin up a frac­ti­on. "You can't f-for­ce me to stay he­re." I'd only ag­re­ed to co­me this far be­ca­use I didn't want to stand out in the down­po­ur, for one, and I had high ho­pes of fin­ding a pho­ne, for two.
  "That so­un­ded mo­re li­ke a qu­es­ti­on than a sta­te­ment," sa­id Patch.
  "Then ans-s-swer it."
  His ro­gue smi­le crept out. "It's hard to con­cent­ra­te on ans­wers with you lo­oking li­ke that."
  I glan­ced down at Patch's black shirt, wet and clin­ging to my body. I brus­hed past him and shut the bath­ro­om do­or bet­we­en us.
  Cran­king the wa­ter to full hot, I pe­eled out of Patch's shirt and my clot­hes. One long black ha­ir was plas­te­red to the sho­wer wall, and I trap­ped it in a squ­are of to­ilet pa­per be­fo­re flus­hing it. Then I step­ped be­hind the sho­wer cur­ta­in, watc­hing my skin glow with he­at.
  Mas­sa­ging so­ap in­to the musc­les along my neck and down thro­ugh my sho­ul­ders, I told myself I co­uld hand­le sle­eping in the sa­me ro­om as Patch. It wasn't the smar­test or sa­fest ar­ran­ge­ment, but I'd per­so­nal­ly see to it that not­hing hap­pe­ned. Be­si­des, what cho­ice did I ha­ve… right?
  The spon­ta­ne­o­us reck­less half of my bra­in la­ug­hed at me. I knew what it was thin­king. Early on I'd felt drawn to Patch by a myste­ri­o­us for­ce fi­eld. Now I felt drawn to him by so­met­hing en­ti­rely dif­fe­rent. So­met­hing with a lot of he­at in­vol­ved. A con­nec­ti­on to­night was ine­vi­tab­le. On a sca­le of one to ten, that ter­ri­fi­ed me abo­ut an eight. And ex­ci­ted me abo­ut a ni­ne.
  I shut off the wa­ter, step­ped out, and pat­ted my skin dry. One glan­ce at my so­aked clot­hes was all I ne­eded to know I had no de­si­re to put them back on. May­be the­re was a co­in-ope­ra­ted dryer ne­arby… one that didn't re­qu­ire elect­ri­city.1 sig­hed and pul­led on my ca­mi­so­le and pan­ti­es, which had sur­vi­ved the worst of the ra­in.
  "Patch?" I whis­pe­red thro­ugh the do­or.
  "Do­ne?"
  "Blow out the cand­le."
  "Do­ne," he whis­pe­red back thro­ugh the do­or. His la­ugh­ter, too, so­un­ded so soft it co­uld ha­ve be­en whis­pe­red.
  Snuf­fing out the bath­ro­om cand­le, I step­ped out, me­eting to­tal black­ness. I co­uld he­ar Patch bre­at­hing di­rectly in front of me. I didn't want to think abo­ut what he was-or wasn't- we­aring, and I sho­ok my he­ad to frag­ment the pic­tu­re for­ming in my mind. "My clot­hes are so­aked. I don't ha­ve anyt­hing to we­ar."
  I he­ard the so­und of wet fab­ric sli­ding li­ke a squ­e­egee over his skin. "Lucky me." His shirt lan­ded in a wet he­ap at our fe­et.
  "This is re­al­ly awk­ward," I told him.
  I co­uld fe­el him smi­ling. He sto­od way, way too clo­se.
  "You sho­uld sho­wer," I sa­id. "Right now."
  "I smell that bad?"
  Actu­al­ly, he smel­led that go­od. The smo­ke was go­ne, the mint stron­ger.
  Patch di­sap­pe­ared in­si­de the bath­ro­om. He re­lit the cand­le and left the do­or aj­ar, a sli­ver of light stretc­hing ac­ross the flo­or and up one wall.
  I slid my back down the wall un­til I was se­ated on the flo­or, then tip­ped my he­ad aga­inst the wall. In all ho­nesty, I co­uldn't stay he­re to­night. I had to get ho­me. It was wrong to stay he­re alo­ne with Patch, vow of pru­den­ce or not. I had to re­port the bag lady's body. Or did I? How was I sup­po­sed to re­port a va­nis­hed body? Talk abo­ut in­sa­ne-which was the ter­rif­ying di­rec­ti­on my tho­ughts we­re star­ting to go any­way.
  Not wan­ting to dwell on the in­sa­nity idea, I con­cent­ra­ted on my ori­gi­nal ar­gu­ment. I co­uldn't stay he­re kno­wing Vee was with El­li­ot, in dan­ger, when I was sa­fe.
  After a mo­ment's con­si­de­ra­ti­on I de­ci­ded I ne­eded to reph­ra­se that tho­ught. Sa­fe was a re­la­ti­ve term. As long as Patch was aro­und, I wasn't in harm's way, but that didn't me­an I tho­ught he was go­ing to act li­ke my gu­ar­di­an an­gel, eit­her.
  Right away, I wis­hed I co­uld ta­ke back the gu­ar­di­an an­gel tho­ught. Sum­mo­ning up my po­wers of per­su­asi­on, I ba­nis­hed all tho­ughts of an­gels-gu­ar­di­an, fal­len, or ot­her­wi­se-from my he­ad. I told myself I pro­bably was go­ing in­sa­ne. For all I knew, I'd hal­lu­ci­na­ted se­e­ing the bag lady die. And I'd hal­lu­ci­na­ted se­e­ing Patch's scars.
  The wa­ter stop­ped, and a mo­ment la­ter Patch strol­led out we­aring only his wet je­ans han­ging low on his wa­ist. He left the bath­ro­om cand­le lit and the do­or wi­de. Soft co­lor glo­wed thro­ugh the ro­om.
  One qu­ick lo­ok and I co­uld tell Patch cloc­ked se­ve­ral ho­urs a we­ek run­ning and lif­ting we­ights. A body that de­fi­ned didn't co­me wit­ho­ut swe­at and work. Sud­denly I felt a lit­tle self-cons­ci­o­us. Not to men­ti­on soft.
  "Which si­de of the bed do you want?" he as­ked.
  "Uh…"
  A fox smi­le. "Ner­vo­us?"
  "No," I sa­id as con­fi­dently as pos­sib­le un­der the cir­cums­tan­ces. And the cir­cums­tan­ces we­re that I was lying thro­ugh my te­eth.
  "You're a bad li­ar," he sa­id, still smi­ling. "The worst I've se­en."
  I put my hands on my hips and com­mu­ni­ca­ted a si­lent Ex­cu­se me?
  "Co­me he­re," he sa­id, pul­ling me to my fe­et. I felt my ear­li­er pro­mi­se of re­sis­tan­ce mel­ting away. Anot­her ten se­conds of stan­ding this clo­se to Patch and my de­fen­se wo­uld be blown to smit­he­re­ens.
  A mir­ror hung on the wall be­hind him, and over his sho­ul­der I saw the up­si­de-down V scars gle­aming black on his skin.
  My who­le body went ri­gid. I tri­ed to blink the scars away, but they we­re the­re for go­od.
  Wit­ho­ut thin­king, I slid my hands up his chest and aro­und to his back. A fin­ger­tip brus­hed his right scar.
  Patch ten­sed un­der my to­uch. I fro­ze, the tip of my fin­ger qu­ive­ring on his scar. It to­ok me a mo­ment to re­ali­ze it wasn't ac­tu­al­ly my fin­ger mo­ving, but me. All of me.
  I was suc­ked in­to a soft, dark chu­te and everyt­hing went black.

CHAPTER 23

  I WAS STAN­DING IN THE LO­WER LE­VEL OF BO'S AR­CA­DE WITH my back to the wall, fa­cing se­ve­ral ga­mes of po­ol. The win­dows we­re bo­ar­ded, and I co­uldn't tell if it was day or night. Ste­vie Nicks was co­ming thro­ugh the spe­akers; the song abo­ut the whi­te-win­ged do­ve and be­ing on the ed­ge of se­ven­te­en. No­body se­emed surp­ri­sed by my sud­den ap­pe­aran­ce out of thin air.
  And then I re­mem­be­red I was we­aring not­hing but a ca­mi and pan­ti­es. I'm not all that va­in, but stan­ding in a crowd com­po­sed en­ti­rely of the op­po­si­te sex, my es­sen­ti­als ba­rely co­ve­red, and no­body even lo­oked at me? So­met­hing was… off.
  I pinc­hed myself. Per­fectly ali­ve, as far as I co­uld tell.
  Wa­ving a hand to cle­ar away the hazy clo­ud of ci­gar smo­ke, I spot­ted Patch ac­ross the ro­om. He was sit­ting at a po­ker tab­le, kic­ked back, hol­ding a hand of cards clo­se to his chest.
  I pad­ded ba­re­fo­ot ac­ross the ro­om, cros­sing my arms over my chest, ma­king su­re to ke­ep myself co­ve­red. "Can we talk?" I his­sed in his ear. The­re was an un­ner­ved qu­ality to my vo­ice. Un­ders­tan­dab­le, sin­ce I had no idea how I'd co­me to find myself at Bo's. One mo­ment I was at the mo­tel, and the next I was he­re.
  Patch pus­hed a short stack of po­ker chips in­to the pi­le at the cen­ter of the tab­le.
  "Li­ke may­be wow?" I sa­id. "It's kind of ur­gent…" I tra­iled off when the ca­len­dar on the wall ca­ught my eye. It was eight months be­hind, sho­wing August of last ye­ar. Right be­fo­re I star­ted sop­ho­mo­re ye­ar. Months be­fo­re I met Patch. I told myself it was a mis­ta­ke, that who­ever was in char­ge of rip­ping off the old months had fal­len be­hind, but at the sa­me ti­me I bri­efly and un­wil­lingly con­si­de­red the pos­si­bi­lity that the ca­len­dar was right whe­re it was sup­po­sed to be. And I was not.
  I drag­ged a cha­ir over from the next tab­le and pul­led up be­si­de Patch. "He's hol­ding a fi­ve of spa­des, a ni­ne of spa­des, the ace of he­arts…" I stop­ped when I re­ali­zed that no one was pa­ying at­ten­ti­on. No, it wasn't that. No one co­uld see me.
  Fo­ots­teps lum­be­red down the sta­irs ac­ross the ro­om, and the sa­me cas­hi­er who'd thre­ate­ned to throw me out the first ti­me I'd co­me to the ar­ca­de ap­pe­ared at the bot­tom of the sta­ir­well.
  "So­me­one ups­ta­irs wants a word with you," he told Patch.
  Patch ra­ised his eyeb­rows, trans­mit­ting a si­lent qu­es­ti­on.
  "She wo­uldn't gi­ve her na­me," the cas­hi­er sa­id apo­lo­ge­ti­cal­ly. "I as­ked a co­up­le of ti­mes. I told her you we­re in a pri­va­te ga­me, but she wo­uldn't le­ave. I can throw her out if you want."
  "No. Send her down."
  Patch pla­yed out his hand, gat­he­red his chips, and pus­hed out of his cha­ir. "I'm out." He wal­ked to the po­ol tab­le clo­sest to the sta­irs, res­ted aga­inst it, and slid his hands in­si­de his poc­kets.
  I fol­lo­wed him ac­ross the ro­om. I snap­ped my fin­gers in front of his fa­ce. I kic­ked his bo­ots. I flat-out smac­ked his chest. He didn't flinch, didn't mo­ve.
  Light fo­ots­teps so­un­ded on the sta­irs, gro­wing clo­ser, and when Miss Gre­ene step­ped out of the dar­ke­ned sta­ir­well, I ex­pe­ri­en­ced a mo­ment of con­fu­si­on. Her blond ha­ir was down to her wa­ist and to­oth­pick stra­ight. She was we­aring pa­in­ted-on je­ans and a pink tank top, and she was ba­re­fo­ot. Dres­sed this way, she lo­oked even clo­ser to my age. She was suc­king on a lol­li­pop.
  Patch's fa­ce is al­ways a mask, and at any gi­ven mo­ment I ha­ve no idea what he's thin­king. But as so­on as he loc­ked eyes on Miss Gre­ene, I knew he was surp­ri­sed. He re­co­ve­red qu­ickly, all emo­ti­on tun­ne­ling away as his eyes tur­ned gu­ar­ded and wary. "Dab­ria?"
  My he­art hit a fas­ter ca­den­ce. I tri­ed to wrest­le my tho­ughts to­get­her, but all I co­uld think was, if I was re­al­ly eight months in the past, how did Miss Gre­ene and Patch know each ot­her? She didn't ha­ve a job at scho­ol yet. And why was he cal­ling her by her first na­me?
  "How ha­ve you be­en?" Miss Gre­ene-Dab­ria-asked with a coy smi­le, tos­sing the lol­li­pop in the trash.
  "What are you do­ing he­re?" Patch's eyes tur­ned even mo­re watch­ful, as if he didn't think "what you see is what you get" ap­pli­ed to Dab­ria.
  "I sne­aked out." Her smi­le twis­ted up on one si­de. "I had to see you aga­in. I've be­en trying for a long ti­me, but se­cu­rity-well, you know. It's not exactly lax. Yo­ur kind and my kind-we aren't sup­po­sed to mix. But you know that."
  "Co­ming he­re was a bad idea."
  "I know it's be­en a whi­le, but I was ho­ping for a slightly mo­re fri­endly re­ac­ti­on," she sa­id, pus­hing her lips out in a po­ut.
  Patch didn't ans­wer.
  "I ha­ven't stop­ped thin­king abo­ut you." Dab­ria dim­med her vo­ice to a low, sexy pitch and to­ok a step clo­ser to Patch. "It wasn't easy get­ting down he­re. Lu­ci­an­na is ma­king ex­cu­ses for why I'm ab­sent. I'm ris­king her fu­tu­re as well as my own. Don't you want to at le­ast he­ar what I ha­ve to say?"
  "Talk." Patch's words didn't hold a shred of trust.
  "I ha­ven't gi­ven up on you. This who­le ti­me-" She bro­ke off and blin­ked back a sud­den disp­lay of te­ars. When she spo­ke aga­in, her vo­ice was mo­re com­po­sed but still held a wa­ve­ring no­te. "I know how you can get yo­ur wings back."
  She smi­led at Patch, but he didn't re­turn the smi­le.
  "As so­on as you get yo­ur wings back, you can co­me ho­me," she sa­id, spe­aking mo­re con­fi­dently. "Everyt­hing will be li­ke it was be­fo­re. Not­hing has chan­ged. Not re­al­ly"
  "What's the catch?"
  "The­re is no catch. You ha­ve to sa­ve a hu­man li­fe. Very judi­ci­o­us, con­si­de­ring the cri­me that ba­nis­hed you he­re in the first pla­ce."
  "What rank will I be?"
  All con­fi­den­ce scat­te­red from Dab­ria's eyes, and I got the fe­eling he'd as­ked the one qu­es­ti­on she'd ho­ped to avo­id. "I just told you how to get yo­ur wings back," she sa­id, so­un­ding a to­uch con­des­cen­ding. "I think I de­ser­ve a thank-you-"
  "Answer the qu­es­ti­on." But his grim smi­le told me he al­re­ady knew. Or had a very go­od gu­ess. Wha­te­ver Dab­ria's ans­wer was, he wasn't go­ing to li­ke it.
  "Fi­ne. You'll be a gu­ar­di­an, all right?"
  Patch tip­ped his he­ad back and la­ug­hed softly.
  "What's wrong with be­ing a gu­ar­di­an?" Dab­ria de­man­ded. "Why isn't it go­od eno­ugh?"
  "I ha­ve so­met­hing bet­ter in the works."
  "Lis­ten to me, Patch. The­re's not­hing bet­ter. You're kid­ding yo­ur­self. Any ot­her fal­len an­gel wo­uld jump at the chan­ce to get the­ir wings back and be­co­me a gu­ar­di­an. Why can't you?" Her vo­ice was cho­ked with be­wil­der­ment, ir­ri­ta­ti­on, re­j­ec­ti­on.
  Patch pus­hed up from the po­ol tab­le. "It was go­od se­e­ing you aga­in, Dab­ria. Ha­ve a ni­ce trip back."
  Wit­ho­ut war­ning, she cur­led her fists in­to his shirt, yan­ked him clo­se, and crus­hed a kiss to his mo­uth. Very slowly Patch's body tur­ned to­ward her, his stan­ce sof­te­ning. His hands ca­me up and skim­med her arms.
  I swal­lo­wed hard, trying to ig­no­re the stab of je­alo­usy and con­fu­si­on in my he­art. Part of me wan­ted to turn away and cry, part of me wan­ted to march over and start sho­uting. Not that it wo­uld do any go­od. I was in­vi­sib­le. Ob­vi­o­usly Miss Gre­ene… Dab­ria… who­ever she was… and Patch had a ro­man­tic past to­get­her. We­re they still to­get­her now-in the fu­tu­re? Had she ap­pli­ed for a job at Cold­wa­ter High to be clo­ser to Patch? Is that why she was so de­ter­mi­ned to sca­re me away from him?
  "I sho­uld go," sa­id Dab­ria, pul­ling free. "I've al­re­ady sta­yed too long. I pro­mi­sed Lu­ci­an­na I'd hurry." She lo­we­red her he­ad aga­inst his chest. "I miss you," she whis­pe­red. "Sa­ve one hu­man li­fe, and you'll ha­ve yo­ur wings aga­in. Co­me back to me," she beg­ged. "Co­me ho­me." She bro­ke away sud­denly. "I ha­ve to go. No­ne of the ot­hers can find out I've be­en down he­re. I lo­ve you."
  As Dab­ria tur­ned away, the an­xi­ety va­nis­hed from her fa­ce. An exp­res­si­on of sly con­fi­den­ce rep­la­ced it. It was the fa­ce of so­me­one who'd bluf­fed the­ir way thro­ugh a ro­ugh hand of cards.
  Wit­ho­ut war­ning, Patch ca­ught her by the wrist.
  "Now tell me why you're re­al­ly he­re," he sa­id.
  I shi­ve­red at the dark un­der­cur­rent in Patch's to­ne. To an out­si­der, he lo­oked per­fectly calm. But to an­yo­ne who'd known him any length of ti­me, it was ob­vi­o­us. He was gi­ving Dab­ria a lo­ok that sa­id she'd cros­sed a li­ne and it was in her best in­te­rest to hop back ac­ross it-now.
  Patch ste­ered her to­ward the bar. He plan­ted her on a bar sto­ol and slid on­to the one be­si­de it. I to­ok the one next to Patch, le­aning in to he­ar him abo­ve the mu­sic.
  "What do you me­an, what am I he­re for?" Dab­ria stam­me­red. "I told you-"
  "You're lying."
  Her mo­uth drop­ped. "I can't be­li­eve-you think-"
  "Tell me the truth, right now," sa­id Patch.
  Dab­ria he­si­ta­ted be­fo­re ans­we­ring. She ga­ve him a fi­er­ce gla­re, then sa­id, "Fi­ne. I know what you're plan­ning to do."
  Patch la­ug­hed. It was a la­ugh that sa­id, I ha­ve a lot of plans. Which one are you re­fer­ring to?
  "I know you've he­ard ru­mors abo­ut The Bo­ok of Enoch. I al­so know you think you can do the sa­me thing, but you can't."
  Patch fol­ded his arms on the bar. "They sent you he­re to per­su­ade me to cho­ose a dif­fe­rent co­ur­se, didn't they?" A smi­le sho­wed in his eyes. "If I'm a thre­at, the ru­mors must be true."
  "No, they're not. They're ru­mors"
  "If it hap­pe­ned on­ce, it can hap­pen aga­in."
  "It ne­ver hap­pe­ned. Did you even bot­her to re­ad The Bo­ok of Enoch be­fo­re you fell?" she chal­len­ged. "Do you know exactly what it says, word for holy word?"
  "May­be you co­uld lo­an me yo­ur copy."
  "That's blasp­he­mo­us! You're for­bid­den to re­ad it," she cri­ed. "You bet­ra­yed ever) an­gel in he­aven when you fell."
  "How many of them know what I'm af­ter?" he as­ked. "How big of a thre­at am I?"
  She tos­sed her he­ad si­de to si­de. "I can't tell you that. I've al­re­ady told you mo­re than I sho­uld ha­ve."
  "Are they go­ing to try to stop me?"
  "The aven­ging an­gels will."
  He lo­oked at her with me­aning. "Unless they think you tal­ked me out of it."
  "Don't lo­ok at me li­ke that." She so­un­ded li­ke she was put­ting all her co­ura­ge in­to so­un­ding firm. "I won't lie to pro­tect you. What you're trying to do is wrong. It's not na­tu­ral."
  "Dab­ria." Patch spo­ke her na­me as a soft thre­at. He might as well ha­ve had her by the arm, twis­ting it be­hind her back.
  "I can't help you," she sa­id with qu­i­et con­vic­ti­on. "Not that way. Put it out of yo­ur mind. Be­co­me a gu­ar­di­an an­gel. Fo­cus on that and for­get The Bo­ok of Enoch"
  Patch plan­ted his el­bows on the bar, ra­di­ating tho­ught. Af­ter a mo­ment he sa­id, "Tell them we tal­ked, and I sho­wed in­te­rest in be­co­ming a gu­ar­di­an."
  "Inte­rest?" she sa­id, a bit inc­re­du­lo­usly.
  "Inte­rest," he re­pe­ated. "Tell them I as­ked for a na­me. If I'm go­ing to sa­ve a li­fe, I ne­ed to know who's at the top of yo­ur de­par­ting list. I know you're privy to that in­for­ma­ti­on as an an­gel of de­ath."
  "That in­for­ma­ti­on is sac­red and pri­va­te, and not pre­dic­tab­le. The events in this world shift from mo­ment to mo­ment de­pen­ding on hu­man cho­ices-"
  "One na­me, Dab­ria."
  "Pro­mi­se me you'll for­get abo­ut The Bo­ok of Enoch first. Gi­ve me yo­ur word."
  "You'd trust my word?"
  "No," she sa­id, "I wo­uldn't."
  Patch la­ug­hed co­ol­ly and, grab­bing a to­oth­pick from the dis­pen­ser, wal­ked to­ward the sta­irs.
  "Patch, wa­it-," she be­gan. She hop­ped off the bar sto­ol. "Patch, ple­ase wa­it!"
  He lo­oked over his sho­ul­der.
  "No­ra Grey," she sa­id, then im­me­di­ately clam­ped her hands over her mo­uth.
  The­re was a fa­int crack in Patch's exp­res­si­on-a frown of dis­be­li­ef mi­xed with an­no­yan­ce. Which ma­de no sen­se sin­ce, if the ca­len­dar on the wall was cor­rect, we hadn't met yet. My na­me sho­uldn't ha­ve spar­ked fa­mi­li­arity. "How is she go­ing to die?" he as­ked.
  "So­me­one wants to kill her."
  "Who?"
  "I don't know," she sa­id, co­ve­ring her ears and sha­king her he­ad. "The­re's so much no­ise and com­mo­ti­on down he­re. All the ima­ges blur to­get­her, they co­me too fast, I can't see cle­arly. I ne­ed to go ho­me. I ne­ed pe­ace and calm."
  Patch tuc­ked a strand of Dab­ria's ha­ir be­hind her ear and lo­oked at her per­su­asi­vely. She ga­ve a warm shud­der at his to­uch, then nod­ded and shut her eyes. "I can't see… I don't see anyt­hing… it's use­less."
  Who wants to kill No­ra Grey?" Patch ur­ged.
  "Wa­it, I see her," sa­id Dab­ria. Her vo­ice tur­ned an­xi­o­us. "The­re's a sha­dow be­hind her. It's him. He's fol­lo­wing her. She do­esn't see him… but he's right the­re. Why do­esn't she see him? Why isn't she run­ning? I can't see his fa­ce, it's in sha­dow…"
  Dab­ria's eyes flew open. She suc­ked in a qu­ick, sharp bre­ath.
  "Who?" Patch sa­id.
  Dab­ria cur­led her hands aga­inst her mo­uth. She was tremb­ling as she ra­ised her eyes to Patch's.
  "You," she whis­pe­red.
  My fin­ger mo­ved off Patch's scar and the con­nec­ti­on bro­ke. It to­ok me a mo­ment to re­ori­ent myself, so I wasn't re­ady for Patch, who wrest­led me in­to the bed in an ins­tant. He pin­ned my wrists abo­ve my he­ad.
  "You we­ren't sup­po­sed to do that." The­re was cont­rol­led an­ger in his fa­ce, dark and sim­me­ring. "What did you see?"
  I got my knee up and clip­ped him in the ribs. "Get-off-me!"
  He slid on­to my hips, strad­dling them, eli­mi­na­ting the use of my legs. With my arms still stretc­hed abo­ve my he­ad, I co­uldn't do mo­re than squ­irm un­der his we­ight.
  "Get-off-me-or-I'll-scre­am!"
  "You're al­re­ady scre­aming. And it isn't go­ing to ca­use a stir in this pla­ce. It's mo­re of a who­re­ho­use than a mo­tel." He ga­ve a hard smi­le that was all let­ha­lity aro­und the ed­ges. "Last chan­ce, No­ra. What did you see?"
  I was figh­ting back te­ars. My who­le body hum­med with an emo­ti­on so fo­re­ign I co­uldn't even na­me it. "You ma­ke me sick!" I sa­id. "Who are you? Who are you re­al­ly?"
  His mo­uth tur­ned even mo­re grim. "We're get­ting clo­ser."
  "You want to kill me!"
  Patch's fa­ce ga­ve away not­hing, but his eyes grew cold.
  "The Je­ep didn't re­al­ly die to­night, did it?" I sa­id. "You li­ed. You bro­ught me he­re so you co­uld kill me. That's what Dab­ria sa­id you want to do. Well, what are you wa­iting for?" I didn't ha­ve a clue whe­re I was go­ing with this, and I didn't ca­re. I was spit­ting words in an at­tempt to ke­ep my hor­ror at bay. "You've be­en trying to kill me all along. Right from the start. Are you go­ing to kill me now?" I sta­red at him, hard and unb­lin­king, trying to ke­ep te­ars from spil­ling as I re­mem­be­red the fa­te­ful day he'd wal­ked in­to my li­fe.
  "It's temp­ting."
  I twis­ted be­ne­ath him. I tri­ed to roll to my right, then to my left. I fi­nal­ly fi­gu­red out I was was­ting a lot of energy and stop­ped. Patch set­tled his eyes on me. They we­re blac­ker than I'd ever se­en them.
  "I bet you li­ke this," I sa­id.
  "That wo­uld be a smart bet."
  I felt my he­art po­un­ding cle­ar down in my to­es. "Just do it," I sa­id in a chal­len­ging vo­ice.
  "Kill you?"
  I nod­ded. "But first I want to know why. Of all the bil­li­ons of pe­op­le out the­re, why me?"
  "Bad ge­nes."
  "That's it? That's the only exp­la­na­ti­on I get?"
  "For now."
  "What's that sup­po­sed to me­an?" My vo­ice ro­se aga­in. "I get the rest of the story when you fi­nal­ly bre­ak down and kill me?"
  "I don't ha­ve to bre­ak down to kill you. If I'd wan­ted you de­ad fi­ve mi­nu­tes ago, you'd ha­ve di­ed fi­ve mi­nu­tes ago."
  I swal­lo­wed at the less-than-che­er­ful tho­ught.
  He brus­hed his thumb over my birth­mark. His to­uch was de­cep­ti­vely soft, which ma­de it all the mo­re pa­in­ful to en­du­re.
  "What abo­ut Dab­ria?" I as­ked, still bre­at­hing hard. "She's the sa­me thing you are, isn't she? You're both-angels." My vo­ice crac­ked on the word.
  Patch ro­ta­ted slightly off my hips, but kept his hands at my wrists. "If I ease up, are you go­ing to he­ar me out?"
  If he eased up, I was go­ing to bolt for the do­or. "What do you ca­re if I run? You'll just drag me back in he­re."
  "Ye­ah, but that wo­uld ca­use a sce­ne."
  "Is Dab­ria yo­ur girlf­ri­end?" I co­uld fe­el each rag­ged ri­se and fall of my chest. I wasn't su­re I wan­ted to he­ar his ans­wer. Not that it mat­te­red. Now that I knew Patch wan­ted to kill me, it was ri­di­cu­lo­us that I even ca­red.
  "Was. It was a long ti­me ago, be­fo­re I fell to the dark si­de." He ga­ve a hard smi­le, at­temp­ting hu­mor. "It was al­so a mis­ta­ke." He roc­ked back on his he­els, slowly re­le­asing me, tes­ting to see if I'd fight back. I lay on the mat­tress, bre­at­hing hard, my el­bows prop­ping me up. Three co­unts went by, and I hur­led myself at him with all the for­ce I had.
  I sho­ved aga­inst his chest, but ot­her than swa­ying back slightly, he didn't mo­ve. I scramb­led out from un­der him and to­ok my fists to him. I ham­me­red his chest un­til the bot­toms of my fists be­gan to throb.
  "Do­ne?" he as­ked.
  "No!" I dro­ve my el­bow down in­to his thigh. "What's the mat­ter with you? Don't you fe­el anyt­hing?"
  I ro­se to my fe­et, fo­und my ba­lan­ce on the mat­tress, and kic­ked him as hard as I co­uld in the sto­mach.
  "You've got one mo­re mi­nu­te," he sa­id. "Get yo­ur an­ger out of yo­ur system. Then I ta­ke over."
  I didn't know what he me­ant by "ta­ke over," and I didn't want to find out. I ma­de a le­aping run off the bed, with the do­or in sight. Patch snag­ged me mi­da­ir and bac­ked me aga­inst the wall. His legs we­re flush with mi­ne, front to front down the length of our thighs.
  "I want the truth," I sa­id, strug­gling not to cry. "Did you co­me to scho­ol to kill me? Was that yo­ur aim right from the start?"
  A musc­le in Patch's jaw jum­ped. "Yes."
  I swi­ped a te­ar that da­red es­ca­pe. "Are you glo­ating in­si­de? That's what this is abo­ut, isn't it? Get­ting me to trust you so you co­uld blow it up in my fa­ce!" I knew I was be­ing ir­ra­ti­onal­ly ira­te. I sho­uld ha­ve be­en ter­ri­fi­ed and fran­tic. I sho­uld ha­ve be­en do­ing everyt­hing in my po­wer to es­ca­pe. The most ir­ra­ti­onal part of all was that I still didn't want to be­li­eve he wo­uld kill me, and no mat­ter how hard I tri­ed, I co­uldn't smot­her that il­lo­gi­cal speck of trust.
  "I get that you're angry-," sa­id Patch.
  "I am rip­ped apart!" I sho­uted.
  His hands slid up my neck, se­aring hot. Pres­sing his thumbs gently in­to my thro­at, he tip­ped my he­ad back. I felt his lips co­me aga­inst mi­ne so hard he stop­ped wha­te­ver na­me I'd be­en abo­ut to call him from co­ming out. His hands drop­ped to my sho­ul­ders, skim­med down my arms, and ca­me to rest at the small of my back. Lit­tle shi­vers of pa­nic and ple­asu­re shot thro­ugh me. He tri­ed to pull me aga­inst him, and I bit him on the lip.
  He lic­ked his lip with the tip of his ton­gue. "Did you just bi­te me?"
  "Is everyt­hing a joke to you?" I as­ked.
  He dab­bed his ton­gue to his lip aga­in. "Not everyt­hing."
  "Li­ke what?"
  'You."
  The who­le night felt un­ba­lan­ced. It was hard to ha­ve a show­down with so­me­one as in­dif­fe­rent as Patch. No, not in­dif­fe­rent. Per­fectly cont­rol­led. Down to the last cell in his body.
  I he­ard a vo­ice in my mind. Re­lax. Trust me.
  "Omi­gosh," I sa­id with a burst of cla­rity. "You're do­ing it aga­in, aren't you? Mes­sing with my mind." I re­mem­be­red the ar­tic­le I'd pul­led up when I Go­og­led fal­len an­gels. "You can put mo­re than words in my he­ad, can't you? You can put ima­ges-very re­al ima­ges-the­re."
  He didn't deny it.
  "The Arc­han­gel," I sa­id, fi­nal­ly un­ders­tan­ding. "You tri­ed to kill me that night, didn't you? But so­met­hing went wrong. Then you ma­de me think my cell pho­ne was de­ad, so I co­uldn't call Vee. Did you plan to kill me on the ri­de ho­me? I want to know how you're ma­king me see what you want!"
  His fa­ce was ca­re­ful­ly exp­res­si­on­less. "I put the words and ima­ges the­re, but it's up to you if you be­li­eve them. It's a rid­dle.
  The ima­ges over­lap re­ality, and you ha­ve to fi­gu­re out which is re­al."
  "Is this a spe­ci­al an­gel po­wer?"
  He sho­ok his he­ad. "Fal­len an­gel po­wer. Any ot­her kind of an­gel wo­uldn't in­va­de yo­ur pri­vacy, even tho­ugh they can."
  Be­ca­use ot­her an­gels we­re go­od. And Patch was not.
  Patch bra­ced his hands aga­inst the wall be­hind me, one on eit­her si­de of my he­ad. "I put a tho­ught in Co­ach's mind to re­do the se­ating chart be­ca­use I ne­eded to get clo­se to you. I ma­de you think you fell off the Arc­han­gel be­ca­use I wan­ted to kill you, but I co­uldn't go thro­ugh with it. I al­most did, but I stop­ped. I set­tled for sca­ring you ins­te­ad. Then I ma­de you think yo­ur cell was de­ad be­ca­use I wan­ted to gi­ve you a ri­de ho­me. When I ca­me in­si­de yo­ur ho­use, I pic­ked up a kni­fe. I was go­ing to kill you then." His vo­ice sof­te­ned. "You chan­ged my mind."
  I suc­ked in a de­ep bre­ath. "I don't un­ders­tand you. When I told you my dad was mur­de­red, you so­un­ded ge­nu­inely sorry. When you met my mom, you we­re ni­ce."
  "Ni­ce," Patch re­pe­ated. "Let's ke­ep that bet­we­en you and me."
  My he­ad spun fas­ter, and I co­uld fe­el my pul­se be­ating in my temp­les. Pd felt this he­art-po­un­ding pa­nic be­fo­re. I ne­eded my iron pills. Eit­her that, or Patch was ma­king me think I did.
  I til­ted my chin up and nar­ro­wed my eyes. "Get out of my mind. Right now!"
  "I'm not in yo­ur mind, No­ra."
  I bent for­ward, bra­cing my hands on my kne­es, suc­king air. "Yes, you are. I fe­el you. So this is how you're go­ing to do it? Suf­fo­ca­te me?"
  Soft pop­ping so­unds ec­ho­ed in my ears, and a blurry black fra­med my vi­si­on. I tri­ed to fill my lungs, but it was li­ke the air had di­sap­pe­ared. The world til­ted, and Patch slip­ped si­de­ways in my vi­si­on. I flat­te­ned my hand to the wall to ste­ady my ba­lan­ce. The de­eper I tri­ed to in­ha­le, the tigh­ter my thro­at const­ric­ted.
  Patch mo­ved to­ward me, but I flung my hand out. "Get away!"
  He le­aned a sho­ul­der on the wall and fa­ced me, his mo­uth set with con­cern.
  "Get-away-from-me," I gas­ped.
  He didn't.
  "I-can't-bre­at­he!" I cho­ked, cla­wing at the wall with one hand, clutc­hing my thro­at with the ot­her.
  Sud­denly Patch sco­oped me up and car­ri­ed me to the cha­ir ac­ross the ro­om. "Put yo­ur he­ad bet­we­en yo­ur kne­es," he sa­id, gu­iding my he­ad down.
  I had my he­ad down, bre­at­hing ra­pidly, trying to for­ce air in­si­de my lungs. Very slowly I felt the oxy­gen cre­ep back in­to my body.
  "Bet­ter?" Patch as­ked af­ter a mi­nu­te.
  I nod­ded, on­ce.
  "Do you ha­ve iron pills with you?"
  I sho­ok my he­ad.
  "Ke­ep yo­ur he­ad down and ta­ke long, de­ep bre­aths."
  I fol­lo­wed his inst­ruc­ti­ons, fe­eling a clamp lo­osen aro­und my chest. "Thank you," I sa­id qu­i­etly.
  "Still don't trust my mo­ti­ves?"
  "If you want me to trust you, let me to­uch yo­ur scars aga­in."
  Patch stu­di­ed me si­lently for a long mo­ment. "That's not a go­od idea."
  "Why not?"
  "I can't cont­rol what you see."
  "That's kind of the po­int."
  He wa­ited a few co­unts be­fo­re ans­we­ring. His vo­ice was low, emo­ti­ons unt­ra­ce­ab­le. "You know I'm hi­ding things." The­re was a qu­es­ti­on at­tac­hed to it.
  I knew Patch li­ved a li­fe of clo­sed do­ors and har­bo­red sec­rets. I wasn't pre­sump­tu­o­us eno­ugh to think even half of them re­vol­ved aro­und me. Patch li­ved a dif­fe­rent li­fe out­si­de the one he sha­red with me. Mo­re than on­ce I'd spe­cu­la­ted what his ot­her li­fe might be li­ke. I al­ways got the fe­eling that the less I knew abo­ut it, the bet­ter.
  My lip wob­bled. "Gi­ve me a re­ason to trust you."
  Patch sat on the cor­ner of the bed, the mat­tress sin­king un­der his we­ight. He bent for­ward, res­ting his fo­re­arms on his kne­es. His scars we­re in full vi­ew, the cand­le­light dan­cing eerie sha­dows ac­ross the­ir sur­fa­ce. The musc­les in his back he­igh­te­ned, then re­la­xed. "Go ahe­ad," he sa­id qu­i­etly. "Ke­ep in mind that pe­op­le chan­ge, but the past do­esn't."
  Sud­denly I wasn't so su­re I wan­ted this. On al­most every le­vel, Patch ter­ri­fi­ed me. But de­ep down, I didn't think he was go­ing to kill me. If that was what he wan­ted, he wo­uld ha­ve do­ne it al­re­ady. I glan­ced at his gru­eso­me scars. Trus­ting Patch felt a lot mo­re com­for­tab­le than slip­ping in­to his past aga­in and ha­ving no idea what I might find.
  But if I bac­ked out now, Patch wo­uld know I was ter­ri­fi­ed of him. He was ope­ning one of the clo­sed do­ors just for me and only be­ca­use I'd as­ked for it. I co­uldn't ma­ke a re­qu­est this he­avy, then chan­ge my mind.
  "I won't get trap­ped in the­re fo­re­ver, will I?" I as­ked.
  Patch ga­ve a short la­ugh. "No."
  Sum­mo­ning my co­ura­ge, I sat on the bed be­si­de him. For the se­cond ti­me to­night, my fin­ger brus­hed the pe­aked rid­ge of his scar. A hazy gray crow­ded my vi­si­on, wor­king from the ed­ges in. The Hants went out.

CHAPTER 24

  I WAS ON MY BACK, MY CA­MI SPON­GING UP MO­IS­TU­RE be­ne­ath me, bla­des of grass po­king the ba­re skin on my arms. The mo­on over­he­ad was not­hing mo­re than a sli­ver, a grin tip­ped on its si­de. Ot­her than the rumb­le of dis­tant thun­der, all was qu­i­et.
  I blin­ked se­ve­ral ti­mes in suc­ces­si­on, hel­ping my eyes hurry and adapt to the scant light. When I rol­led my he­ad si­de­ways, a symmet­ri­cal ar­ran­ge­ment of cur­ved twigs po­king up from the grass so­li­di­fi­ed in my vi­si­on. Very slowly I pul­led myself up. I co­uldn't te­ar my eyes away from the two black orbs sta­ring at me from just abo­ve the cur­ved twigs. My mind wor­ked to pla­ce the fa­mi­li­ar ima­ge. And then, with a hor­ri­fic flash of re­cog­ni­ti­on, I knew. I was lying next to a hu­man ske­le­ton.
  I craw­led back­ward un­til I ca­me up aga­inst an iron fen­ce. I pus­hed thro­ugh the mud­dled mo­ment and re­cap­tu­red my last me­mory. I'd to­uc­hed Patch's scars. Whe­re­ver I was, it was so­mew­he­re in­si­de his me­mory.
  A vo­ice, ma­le and va­gu­ely fa­mi­li­ar, car­ri­ed thro­ugh the dark­ness, sin­ging a low tu­ne. Tur­ning to­ward it, I saw a laby­rinth of he­ads­to­nes stretc­hing li­ke do­mi­no­es in­to the mist. Patch was cro­uc­hed on top of one. He wo­re only Le­vi's and a navy T-shirt, even tho­ugh the night wasn't warm.
  "Mo­on­ligh­ting with the de­ad?" cal­led the fa­mi­li­ar vo­ice. It was ro­ugh, rich, and Irish. Ri­xon. He slo­uc­hed aga­inst a he­ads­to­ne op­po­si­te Patch, watc­hing him. He stro­ked his thumb ac­ross his bot­tom lip. "Let me gu­ess. You've got it in yo­ur mind to pos­sess the de­ad? I don't know," he sa­id, wag­ging his he­ad. "Mag­gots squ­ir­ming in yo­ur eye­ho­les… and yo­ur ot­her ori­fi­ces, might be car­rying things a bit too far."
  "This is why I ke­ep you aro­und, Ri­xon. Al­ways se­e­ing things from the bright si­de."
  "Chesh­van starts to­night," Ri­xon sa­id. "What are you do­ing ar­sing aro­und in a gra­ve­yard?"
  "Thin­king."
  "Thin­king?"
  "A pro­cess by which I use my bra­in to ma­ke a ra­ti­onal de­ci­si­on." The cor­ners of Ri­xon's mo­uth pul­led down. "I'm star­ting to worry abo­ut you. Co­me on. Ti­me to go. Cha­un­cey Lan­ge­a­is and Bar­na­bas awa­it. The mo­on turns at mid­night. I con­fess I've got my eye on a betty in town." He ga­ve a cat­li­ke purr. "I know you li­ke them red, but I li­ke 'em fa­ir, and on­ce I get in­to a body, I in­tend to ta­ke ca­re of un­fi­nis­hed bu­si­ness with a blon­de who was ma­king eyes at me ear­li­er."
  When Patch didn't mo­ve, Ri­xon sa­id, "Are you daft? We've got to go. Cha­un­cey's oath of fe­alty. Not rin­ging a bell? How abo­ut this. You're a fal­len an­gel. You can't fe­el a thing. Un­til to­night, that is. The next two we­eks are Cha­un­cey's gift to you. Gi­ven un­wil­lingly, mind you," he ad­ded on a cons­pi­ra­tor's grin.
  Patch ga­ve Ri­xon a si­de­long glan­ce. "What do you know abo­ut The Bo­ok of Enoch?"
  "Abo­ut as much as any fal­len an­gel: slim to no­ne."
  "I was told the­re's a story in The Bo­ok of Enoch abo­ut a fal­len an­gel who be­co­mes hu­man."
  Ri­xon do­ub­led over with la­ugh­ter. "You lost yo­ur mind, ma­te?" He wel­ded the outer ed­ges of his palms to­get­her, ma­king an open bo­ok with his hands. "The Bo­ok of Enoch is a bed­ti­me story. And a go­od one, by the lo­oks of it. Sent you stra­ight to dre­am­land."
  "I want a hu­man body."
  "You'd best be happy with two we­eks and a Nep­hi's body. Half-hu­man is bet­ter than not­hing. Cha­un­cey can't un­do what's be­en do­ne. He swo­re an oath, and he has to li­ve up to it. Just li­ke last ye­ar. And the ye­ar be­fo­re that-"
  "Two we­eks isn't eno­ugh. I want to be hu­man. Per­ma­nently." Patch's eyes cut in­to Ri­xon's, da­ring him to la­ugh aga­in.
  Ri­xon ra­ked his hands thro­ugh his ha­ir. "The Bo­ok of Enoch is a fa­ir) ta­le. We're fal­len an­gels, not hu­mans. We ne­ver we­re hu­man, and we ne­ver will be. End of story. Now, qu­it ar­sing aro­und and help me fi­gu­re out which is the way to Port­land." He cra­ned his neck back and ob­ser­ved the ink) sky.
  Patch swung down off the he­ads­to­ne. "I'm go­ing to be­co­me hu­man."
  "Su­re, ma­te, su­re you can."
  "The Bo­ok of Enoch says I ha­ve to kill my Nep­hil vas­sal. I ha­ve to kill Cha­un­cey."
  "No, you don't," Ri­xon sa­id with a no­te of im­pa­ti­en­ce. "You've got to pos­sess him. A pro­cess by which you ta­ke his body and use it as yo­ur own. Not to put a dam­per on things, but you can't kill Cha­un­cey. Nep­hi­lim can't die. And ha­ve you tho­ught of this? If you co­uld kill him, you co­uldn't pos­sess him."
  "If I kill him, I'll be­co­me hu­man and I won't ne­ed to pos­sess him."
  Ri­xon squ­e­ezed the in­ner cor­ners of his eyes as if he knew his ar­gu­ment was fal­ling on de­af ears and it was gi­ving him a he­adac­he. "If we co­uld kill Nep­hi­lim, we wo­uld ha­ve fo­und a way by now. I'm sorry to tell you, lad, but if I don't get in­to the arms of that blond betty so­on, my bra­ins will ba­ke. And a few ot­her parts of my-"
  'Two cho­ices," sa­id Patch.
  "Eh?"
  "Sa­ve a hu­man li­fe and be­co­me a gu­ar­di­an an­gel, or kill yo­ur Nep­hil vas­sal and be­co­me hu­man. Ta­ke yo­ur pick."
  "Is this mo­re Bo­ok of Enoch rub­bish?"
  "Dab­ria pa­id me a vi­sit."
  Ri­xon's eyes wi­de­ned, and he snor­ted a la­ugh. "Yo­ur psycho­tic ex? What's she do­ing down he­re? Did she fall? Lost her wings, did she?"
  "She ca­me down to tell me I can get my wings back if I sa­ve a hu­man li­fe."
  Ri­xon's eyes got wi­der. "If you trust her, I say go for it. Not­hing wrong with be­ing a gu­ar­di­an. Spen­ding yo­ur days ke­eping mor­tals out of dan­ger… co­uld be fun, de­pen­ding on the mor­tal you're as­sig­ned."
  "But if you had a cho­ice?" Patch as­ked.
  "Aye, well, my ans­wer de­pends on one very im­por­tant dis­tinc­ti­on. Am I ro­aring drunk… or ha­ve I comp­le­tely lost my mind?" When Patch didn't la­ugh, Ri­xon sa­id so­berly, "The­re's no cho­ice. And he­re's why. I don't be­li­eve in The Bo­ok of Enoch. If I we­re you, I'd aim for gu­ar­di­ans­hip. I'm half con­si­de­ring the de­al myself. Too bad I don't know any hu­mans on the brink of de­ath."
  The­re was a mo­ment's si­len­ce, then Patch se­emed to sha­ke off his tho­ughts. He sa­id, "How much mo­ney can we ma­ke be­fo­re mid­night?"
  "Pla­ying cards or bo­xing?"
  "Cards."
  Ri­xon's eyes spark­led. "What do we ha­ve he­re? A pretty boy? Co­me he­re and let me gi­ve you a pro­per clat­ter." He ho­oked Patch aro­und the neck, pin­ning him in the cro­ok of his el­bow, but Patch got him aro­und the wa­ist and drag­ged Ri­xon to the grass, whe­re they to­ok turns thro­wing clob­be­ring punc­hes.
  "All right, all right!" Ri­xon bel­lo­wed, thro­wing his hands up in sur­ren­der. "Just 'ca­use I can't fe­el a blo­ody lip do­esn't me­an I want to spend the rest of the night wal­king aro­und with one." He win­ked. "Won't inc­re­ase my chan­ces with the la­di­es."
  "And a black eye will?"
  Ri­xon lif­ted his fin­gers to his eyes, pro­bing. "You didn't!" he sa­id, swin­ging a fist at Patch.
  I pul­led my fin­ger away from Patch's scars. The skin on the back of my neck prick­led, and my he­art pum­ped much too fast. Patch lo­oked at me, a sha­dow of un­cer­ta­inty in his eyes.
  I was for­ced to ac­cept that may­be now wasn't the ti­me to rely on the lo­gi­cal half of my bra­in. May­be this was one of tho­se ti­mes when I ne­eded to step out of bo­unds. Stop pla­ying by the ru­les. Ac­cept the im­pos­sib­le.
  "Then you're de­fi­ni­tely not hu­man," I sa­id. "You re­al­ly are a fal­len an­gel. A bad guy."
  That squ­e­ezed a smi­le out of Patch. "You think I'm a bad guy?"
  "You pos­sess ot­her pe­op­le's… bo­di­es."
  He ac­cep­ted the sta­te­ment with a nod.
  "Do you want to pos­sess my body?"
  "I want to do a lot of things to yo­ur body, but that's not one of them."
  "What's wrong with the body you ha­ve?"
  "My body is a lot li­ke glass. Re­al, but out­ward, ref­lec­ting the world aro­und me. You see and he­ar me, and I see and he­ar you. When you to­uch me, you fe­el it. I don't ex­pe­ri­en­ce you in the sa­me way. I can't fe­el you. I ex­pe­ri­en­ce everyt­hing thro­ugh a she­et of glass, and the only way I can cut thro­ugh that she­et is by pos­ses­sing a hu­man body."
  "Or part-hu­man."
  Patch's mo­uth tigh­te­ned at the cor­ners. "When you to­uc­hed my scars, you saw Cha­un­cey?" he gu­es­sed.
  "I he­ard you tal­king to Ri­xon. He sa­id you pos­sess Cha­un­cey's body for two we­eks every ye­ar du­ring Chesh­van. He sa­id Cha­un­cey isn't hu­man eit­her. He's Nep­hi­lim." The word rol­led off my ton­gue in a whis­per.
  "Cha­un­cey is a cross bet­we­en a fal­len an­gel and a hu­man. He's im­mor­tal li­ke an an­gel but has all the mor­tal sen­ses. A fal­len an­gel who wants to fe­el hu­man sen­sa­ti­ons can do it in a Nep­hil's body."
  "If you can't fe­el, why did you kiss me?"
  Patch tra­ced a fin­ger along my col­lar­bo­ne, then he­aded so­uth, stop­ping at my he­art. I felt it po­un­ding thro­ugh my skin. "Be­ca­use I fe­el it he­re, in my he­art," he sa­id qu­i­etly. "I ha­ven't lost the abi­lity to fe­el emo­ti­on." He watc­hed me clo­sely. "Let me put it this way. Our emo­ti­onal con­nec­ti­on isn't lac­king."
  Don't pa­nic, I tho­ught. But al­re­ady my bre­at­hing was fas­ter, shal­lo­wer. "You me­an you can fe­el happy or sad or-"
  "De­si­re." A ba­rely-the­re smi­le.
  Ke­ep mo­ving for­ward, I told myself. Don't gi­ve yo­ur own emo­ti­ons ti­me to catch up. De­al with them la­ter, af­ter you ha­ve ans­wers. "Why did you fall?"
  Patch's eyes held mi­ne for a co­up­le of co­unts. "Lust."
  I swal­lo­wed. "Mo­ney lust?"
  Patch stro­ked his jaw. He only did that when he wan­ted to con­ce­al what he was thin­king, the gi­ve­away to his tho­ughts be­ing his mo­uth. He was figh­ting a smi­le. "And ot­her kinds. I tho­ught if I fell, I'd be­co­me hu­man. The an­gels who'd temp­ted Eve had be­en ba­nis­hed to Earth, and the­re we­re ru­mors that they'd lost the­ir wings and be­co­me hu­man. When they left he­aven, it wasn't this big ce­re­mony we we­re all in­vi­ted to. It was pri­va­te. I didn't know the­ir wings we­re rip­ped out, or that they we­re cur­sed to ro­am Earth with a hun­ger to pos­sess hu­man bo­di­es. Back then, no­body had even he­ard of fal­len an­gels. So it ma­de sen­se in my mind, that if I fell, I'd lo­se my wings and be­co­me hu­man. At the ti­me, I was crazy abo­ut a hu­man girl, and it se­emed worth the risk."
  "Dab­ria sa­id you can get yo­ur wings back by sa­ving a hu­man li­fe. She sa­id you'll be a gu­ar­di­an an­gel. You don't want that?" I was con­fu­sed why he was so set aga­inst it.
  "It's not for me. I want to be hu­man. I want it mo­re than I've ever wan­ted anyt­hing."
  "What abo­ut Dab­ria? If the two of you aren't to­get­her any­mo­re, why is she still he­re? I tho­ught she was a re­gu­lar an­gel. Do­es she want to be hu­man too?"
  Patch went de­athly still, all the musc­les up his arm go­ing ri­gid. "Dab­ria's still on Earth?"
  "She got a job at scho­ol. She's the new scho­ol psycho­lo­gist, Miss Gre­ene. I've met with her a co­up­le ti­mes." My sto­mach ga­ve a hard twist. "After what I saw in yo­ur me­mory,1 tho­ught she to­ok the job to be clo­ser to you."
  "What exactly did she tell you when you met with her?"
  "To stay away from you. She hin­ted at yo­ur dark and dan­ge­ro­us past." I pa­used. "So­met­hing abo­ut this is off, isn't it?" I as­ked, fe­eling an omi­no­us prick­le ma­ke its way down my spi­ne.
  "I ne­ed to ta­ke you ho­me. Then I'm go­ing to the high scho­ol to lo­ok thro­ugh her fi­les and see if I can find so­met­hing use­ful. I'll fe­el bet­ter when I know what she's plan­ning." Patch strip­ped the bed ba­re. "Wrap yo­ur­self in the­se," he sa­id, han­ding me the bund­le of dry she­ets.
  My mind was wor­king hard to ma­ke sen­se of the frag­ments of in­for­ma­ti­on. Sud­denly my mo­uth went a lit­tle dry and stick). "She still has fe­elings for you. May­be she wants me out of the pic­tu­re."
  Our eyes loc­ked. "It cros­sed my mind," Patch sa­id.
  An icy, dis­tur­bing tho­ught had be­en ban­ging aro­und in­si­de my he­ad the past few mi­nu­tes, trying to get my at­ten­ti­on. It prac­ti­cal­ly sho­uted at me now, tel­ling me Dab­ria co­uld be the guy in the ski mask. All along I tho­ught the per­son I hit with the Ne­on was ma­le, just li­ke Vee tho­ught her at­tac­ker was ma­le. At this po­int, I wo­uldn't put it past Dab­ria to de­ce­ive us both.
  After a qu­ick trip to the bath­ro­om, Patch emer­ged we­aring his wet tee. "I'll go get the Je­ep," he sa­id. "I'll pull aro­und to the back exit in twenty. Stay in the mo­tel un­til then."

CHAPTER 25

  AFTER PATCH LEFT, I PUT THE CHA­IN ON THE DO­OR. I drag­ged the cha­ir ac­ross the ro­om and ram­med it un­der the do­or hand­le. I chec­ked to ma­ke su­re the win­dow locks we­re in pla­ce. I didn't know if locks wo­uld work aga­inst Dab­ria-I didn't even know if she was af­ter me-but I fi­gu­red it was bet­ter to play it sa­fe. Af­ter pa­cing aro­und the ro­om for a few mi­nu­tes, I tri­ed the pho­ne on the nights­tand. Still no di­al to­ne.
  My mom was go­ing to kill me.
  I'd sne­aked be­hind her back and go­ne to Port­land. And how was I sup­po­sed to exp­la­in the who­le "I chec­ked in­to a mo­tel with Patch" si­tu­ati­on? I'd be luck) if she didn't gro­und me thro­ugh the end of the ye­ar. No. I'd be luck) if she didn't qu­it her job and apply to subs­ti­tu­te te­ach un­til she fo­und a full-ti­me job lo­cal­ly. We'd ha­ve to sell the farm­ho­use, and I'd lo­se the only con­nec­ti­on to my dad I had left.
  Appro­xi­ma­tely fif­te­en mi­nu­tes la­ter I pe­ered thro­ugh the pe­ep­ho­le. Not­hing but black­ness. I un­bar­red the do­or, and just as I was abo­ut to tug it open, lights flic­ke­red on be­hind me. I whir­led aro­und, half ex­pec­ting to see Dab­ria. The ro­om was still and empty, but the elect­ri­city was back.
  The do­or ope­ned with a lo­ud click and I step­ped in­to the hall. The car­pet was blo­od­red, worn bald down the cen­ter of the hal­lway, and sta­ined with uni­den­ti­fi­ab­le dark marks. The walls we­re pa­in­ted ne­ut­ral, but the pa­int job was sloppy and chip­ping.
  Abo­ve me, a ne­on gre­en sign spel­led the way to the exit. I fol­lo­wed the ar­row down the hall and aro­und the cor­ner. The Je­ep rol­led to a stop on the ot­her si­de of the back do­or, and I das­hed out and hop­ped in on the pas­sen­ger si­de.
  No lights we­re on when Patch pul­led up to the farm­ho­use. I ex­pe­ri­en­ced a gu­ilty squ­e­eze in my sto­mach and won­de­red if my mom was dri­ving aro­und, lo­oking for me. The ra­in had di­ed, and fog pres­sed aga­inst the si­ding and hung on the shrubs li­ke Christ­mas tin­sel. The tre­es dot­ting the dri­ve­way we­re per­ma­nently twis­ted and mis­sha­pen from cons­tant nort­hern winds. All ho­uses lo­ok unin­vi­ting with the lights off af­ter dark, but the farm­ho­use with its small slits for win­dows, bo­wed ro­of, ca­ved-in porch, and wild bramb­les lo­oked ha­un­ted.
  "I'm go­ing to walk thro­ugh," Patch sa­id, swin­ging out.
  "Do you think Dab­ria's in­si­de?"
  He sho­ok his he­ad. "But it do­esn't hurt to check."
  I wa­ited in the Je­ep, and a few mi­nu­tes la­ter Patch wal­ked out the front do­or. "All cle­ar," he told me. "I'll dri­ve to the high scho­ol and co­me back he­re as so­on as I swe­ep her of­fi­ce. May­be she left so­met­hing use­ful be­hind." He didn't so­und li­ke he was co­un­ting on it.
  I un­buck­led my se­at belt and or­de­red my legs to carry me qu­ickly up the walk. As I tur­ned the do­ork­nob, I he­ard Patch back down the dri­ve­way. The porch bo­ards cre­aked un­der my fe­et and I sud­denly felt very alo­ne.
  Ke­eping the lights off, I crept thro­ugh the ho­use ro­om by ro­om, star­ting with the first flo­or, then wor­king my way ups­ta­irs. Patch had al­re­ady cle­ared the ho­use, but I didn't think an ext­ra pa­ir of eyes wo­uld hurt. Af­ter I was su­re no one was hi­ding un­der the fur­ni­tu­re, be­hind the sho­wer cur­ta­ins, or in the clo­sets, I tug­ged on Le­vi's and a black V-neck swe­ater. I fo­und the emer­gency cell pho­ne my mom kept in a first-aid kit un­der the bath­ro­om sink and di­aled her cell.
  She pic­ked up on the first ring. "Hel­lo? No­ra? Is that you? Whe­re are you? I've be­en wor­ri­ed sick!"
  I drew a de­ep bre­ath, pra­ying the right words wo­uld co­me to me and help me talk my way out of this.
  "He­re's the de­al-," I be­gan in my most sin­ce­re and apo­lo­ge­tic vo­ice. "Cas­ca­de Ro­ad flo­oded and they clo­sed it. I had to turn back and get a ro­om in Mil­li­ken Mil­ls-that's whe­re I am now. I tri­ed cal­ling ho­me, but ap­pa­rently the li­nes are down. I tri­ed yo­ur cell, but you didn't pick up."
  "Wa­it. You've be­en in Mil­li­ken Mills this who­le ti­me?"
  "Whe­re did you think I was?"
  I ga­ve an ina­udib­le sigh of re­li­ef and lo­we­red myself on­to the ed­ge of the bath­tub. "I didn't know," I sa­id. "I co­uldn't get ahold of you, eit­her."
  "What num­ber are you cal­ling from?" Mom as­ked. "I don't re­cog­ni­ze this num­ber."
  "The emer­gency cell."
  "Whe­re's yo­ur pho­ne?"
  "I lost it."
  "What! Whe­re?"
  I ca­me to the rocky conc­lu­si­on that a lie of omis­si­on was the only way to go. I didn't want to alarm her. I al­so didn't want to be gro­un­ded for an in­ter­mi­nab­le length of ti­me. "It's mo­re li­ke I misp­la­ced it. I'm su­re it will pop up so­mew­he­re." On a de­ad wo­man's body.
  "I'll call you as so­on as they open the ro­ads," she sa­id.
  Next I cal­led Vee's cell. Af­ter fi­ve rings I was sent to vo­ice ma­il.
  "Whe­re are you?" I sa­id. "Call me back at this num­ber ASAP." I snap­ped the pho­ne shut and tuc­ked it in­to my poc­ket, trying to con­vin­ce myself Vee was fi­ne. But I knew it was a lie. The in­vi­sib­le thre­ad tying us to­get­her had be­en war­ning me for ho­urs now that she was in dan­ger. If anyt­hing, the fe­eling was he­igh­te­ning with each pas­sing mi­nu­te.
  In the kitc­hen I saw my bot­tle of iron pills on the co­un­ter, and I im­me­di­ately went for them, pop­ping the cap and swal­lo­wing two with a glass of cho­co­la­te milk. I sto­od in pla­ce a mo­ment, let­ting the iron work in­to my system, fe­eling my bre­at­hing de­epen and slow. I was wal­king the milk car­ton back to the frid­ge when I saw her stan­ding in the do­or­way bet­we­en the kitc­hen and la­undry ro­om.
  A cold, wet subs­tan­ce po­oled at my fe­et, and I re­ali­zed I'd drop­ped the milk. "Dab­ria?" I sa­id.
  She til­ted her he­ad to one si­de, sho­wing mild surp­ri­se. "You know my na­me?" She pa­used. "Ah, Patch."
  I bac­ked up to the sink, put­ting mo­re dis­tan­ce bet­we­en us. Dab­ria didn't lo­ok anyt­hing li­ke she did at scho­ol as Miss Gre­ene. To­night her ha­ir was tang­led, not smo­oth, and her lips we­re brigh­ter, a cer­ta­in hun­ger ref­lec­ted the­re. Her eyes we­re shar­per, a smud­ge of black rin­ging them.
  "What do you want?" I as­ked.
  She la­ug­hed, and it so­un­ded li­ke ice cu­bes tink­ling in a glass. "I want Patch."
  "Patch isn't he­re."
  She nod­ded. "I know. I wa­ited down the stre­et for him to le­ave be­fo­re I ca­me in. But that's not what I me­ant when I sa­id I want Patch."
  The blo­od po­un­ding thro­ugh my legs circ­led back to my he­art with a diz­zying ef­fect. I put one hand on the co­un­ter to ste­ady myself. "I know you we­re spying on me du­ring the co­un­se­ling ses­si­ons."
  "Is that all you know abo­ut me?" she as­ked, her eyes se­arc­hing mi­ne.
  I re­mem­be­red the night I was su­re so­me­one had lo­oked in my bed­ro­om win­dow. "You've be­en spying on me he­re, too," I sa­id.
  "This is the first ti­me I've be­en to yo­ur ho­use." She drag­ged her fin­ger along the ed­ge of the kitc­hen is­land and perc­hed her­self on a sto­ol. "Ni­ce pla­ce."
  "Let me ref­resh yo­ur me­mory," I sa­id, ho­ping I so­un­ded bra­ve. "You lo­oked in my bed­ro­om win­dow whi­le I was sle­eping."
  Her smi­le cur­ved high. "No, but I did fol­low you shop­ping. I at­tac­ked yo­ur fri­end and plan­ted lit­tle hints in her mind, ma­king her think Patch hurt her. It wasn't a far stretch. He's not exactly harm­less to be­gin with. It was in my best in­te­rest to ma­ke you as frigh­te­ned of him as pos­sib­le."
  "So I'd stay away from him."
  "But you didn't. You're still stan­ding in our way."
  "In yo­ur way of what?"
  "Co­me on, No­ra. If you know who I am, then you know how this works. I want him to get his wings back. He do­esn't be­long on Earth. He be­longs with me. He ma­de a mis­ta­ke, and I'm go­ing to cor­rect it." The­re was ab­so­lu­tely no comp­ro­mi­se in her vo­ice. She got off the sto­ol and wal­ked aro­und the is­land to­ward me.
  I bac­ked along the ed­ge of the outer co­un­ter, ke­eping spa­ce bet­we­en us. Rac­king my bra­in, I tri­ed to think of a way to dist­ract her. Or es­ca­pe. I'd li­ved in the ho­use six­te­en ye­ars. I knew the flo­or plan. I knew every sec­ret cre­vi­ce and the best hi­ding pla­ces. I com­man­ded my bra­in to co­me up with a plan: so­met­hing spur-of-the-mo­ment and bril­li­ant. My back met with the si­de­bo­ard.
  "As long as you're aro­und, Patch won't re­turn with me," Dab­ria sa­id.
  "I think you're ove­res­ti­ma­ting his fe­elings for me." It se­emed li­ke a go­od idea to downp­lay our re­la­ti­ons­hip. Dab­ria's pos­ses­si­ve­ness ap­pe­ared to be the ma­in for­ce dri­ving her to act.
  An inc­re­du­lo­us smi­le daw­ned on her fa­ce. "You think he has tho­se fe­elings for you? All this ti­me you tho­ught-" She bro­ke off, la­ug­hing. "He's not sta­ying be­ca­use he lo­ves you. He wants to kill you."
  I sho­ok my he­ad. "He's not go­ing to kill me."
  Dab­ria's smi­le har­de­ned at the ed­ges. "If that's what you be­li­eve, you're just anot­her girl he's se­du­ced to get what he wants. He has a ta­lent for it," she ad­ded shrewdly. "He se­du­ced yo­ur na­me right out of me, af­ter all. One soft to­uch from Patch was all it to­ok. I fell un­der his spell and told him de­ath was co­ming for you."
  I knew what she was tal­king abo­ut. I'd wit­nes­sed the exact mo­ment she was re­fer­ring to in­si­de Patch's me­mory.
  "And now he's do­ing the sa­me thing to you," she sa­id. "Bet­ra­yal hurts, do­esn't it?"
  I sho­ok my he­ad slowly. "No-"
  "He's plan­ning to use you as a sac­ri­fi­ce!" she erup­ted. "See that mark?" She thrust her fin­ger at my wrist. "It me­ans you're a fe­ma­le des­cen­dant of a Nep­hil. And not just any Nep­hil, but Cha­un­cey Lan­ge­a­is, Patch's vas­sal."
  I glan­ced at my scar, and for one he­art-stop­ping mo­ment, I ac­tu­al­ly be­li­eved her. But I knew bet­ter than to trust her.
  "The­re's a sac­red bo­ok, The Bo­ok of Enoch" she sa­id. "In it, a fal­len an­gel kills his Nep­hil vas­sal by sac­ri­fi­cing one of the Nep­hil's fe­ma­le des­cen­dants. You don't think Patch wants to kill you? What's the one thing he wants most? On­ce he sac­ri­fi­ces you, he'll be hu­man. He'll ha­ve everyt­hing he wants. And he won't co­me ho­me with me."
  She uns­he­at­hed a lar­ge kni­fe from the wo­od block on the co­un­ter. "And that's why I ha­ve to get rid of you. It ap­pe­ars that one way or anot­her, my pre­mo­ni­ti­ons we­re right. De­ath is co­ming for you."
  "Patch is co­ming back," I sa­id, my in­si­des sic­ke­ning. "Don't you want to talk this over with him?"
  "I'll ma­ke it qu­ick," she con­ti­nu­ed. "I'm an an­gel of de­ath. I carry so­uls to the af­ter­li­fe. As so­on as I fi­nish, I'll carry yo­ur so­ul thro­ugh the ve­il. You ha­ve not­hing to be af­ra­id of."
  I wan­ted to scre­am out, but my vo­ice was trap­ped at the back of my thro­at. I ed­ged aro­und the si­de­bo­ard, put­ting the kitc­hen tab­le bet­we­en us. "If you're an an­gel, whe­re are yo­ur wings?"
  "No mo­re qu­es­ti­ons." Her vo­ice had grown im­pa­ti­ent, and she be­gan clo­sing the dis­tan­ce bet­we­en us in ear­nest.
  "How long has it be­en sin­ce you left he­aven?" I as­ked, stal­ling. "You've be­en down he­re for se­ve­ral months, right? Don't you think the ot­her an­gels ha­ve no­ti­ced you're mis­sing?"
  "Not anot­her step," she snap­ped, ra­ising the kni­fe, scat­te­ring light off the bla­de.
  "You're go­ing to a lot of tro­ub­le for Patch," I sa­id, my vo­ice not ne­arly as de­vo­id of pa­nic as I wan­ted. "I'm surp­ri­sed you don't re­sent him for using you when it su­its his pur­po­se. I'm surp­ri­sed you want him to get his wings back at all. Af­ter what he did to you, aren't you happy he's ba­nis­hed he­re?"
  "He left me for a worth­less hu­man girl!" she spat, her eyes a fi­ery blue.
  "He didn't le­ave you. Not re­al­ly. He fell-"
  "He fell be­ca­use he wan­ted to be hu­man, li­ke her! He had me- he had we!" She ga­ve a scof­fing la­ugh, but it didn't mask the an­ger or sor­row. "At first I was hurt and angry, and I did everyt­hing in my po­wer to for­get abo­ut him. Then, when the arc­han­gels fi­gu­red out he was se­ri­o­usly at­temp­ting to be­co­me hu­man, they sent me down he­re to chan­ge his mind. I told myself I wasn't go­ing to fall for him all over aga­in, but what go­od did it do?"
  "Dab­ria…," I be­gan softly.
  "He didn't even ca­re that the girl was ma­de from the dust of the earth! You-all of you-are sel­fish and slo­venly! Yo­ur bo­di­es are wild and un­dis­cip­li­ned. One mo­ment you're at the pe­ak of joy, the next you're on the brink of des­pa­ir. It's dep­lo­rab­le! No an­gel will as­pi­re to it!" She flung her arm in a wild arc ac­ross her fa­ce, wi­ping away te­ars. "Lo­ok at me! I can ba­rely cont­rol myself! I've be­en down he­re too long, sub­mer­ged in hu­man filth!"
  I tur­ned and ran from the kitc­hen, knoc­king over a cha­ir and le­aving it be­hind me in Dab­ria's path. I ra­ced down the hall, kno­wing I was trap­ping myself. The ho­use had two exits: the front do­or, which Dab­ria co­uld re­ach be­fo­re me by cut­ting thro­ugh the li­ving ro­om, and the back do­or off the di­ning ro­om, which she bloc­ked.
  I was sho­ved hard from be­hind, and I pitc­hed for­ward. I skid­ded down the hall, co­ming to a stop on my sto­mach. I rol­led over. Dab­ria ho­ve­red a few fe­et abo­ve me-in the air-her skin and ha­ir ab­la­ze in blin­ding whi­te, the kni­fe po­in­ted down at me.
  I didn't think. I kic­ked my leg up with all my strength. I arc­hed in­to the kick, bra­cing with my non­kic­king leg, and aimed for her lo­wer arm. The kni­fe was knoc­ked out of her hand. As I got my fe­et un­der me, Dab­ria po­in­ted at the lamp on a small entry­way tab­le, and with a sharp fling of her fin­ger, sent it flying at me. I rol­led away, fe­eling shards of glass sli­de un­der me as the lamp shat­te­red on the flo­or.
  "Mo­ve!" Dab­ria com­man­ded, and the entry bench slid to bar­ri­ca­de the front do­or, bloc­king my exit.
  Scramb­ling for­ward, I to­ok the sta­irs two at a ti­me, using the ba­nis­ter to pro­pel me fas­ter. I he­ard Dab­ria la­ugh be­hind me, and the next ins­tant the ba­nis­ter bro­ke free, cras­hing to the hall be­low. I threw my we­ight back to ke­ep from fal­ling over the un­gu­ar­ded ed­ge. Catc­hing my ba­lan­ce, I ra­ced up the fi­nal sta­irs. At the top I flung myself in­to my mom's bed­ro­om and slam­med the French do­ors shut.
  Ra­cing to one of the win­dows flan­king the fi­rep­la­ce, I lo­oked down two sto­ri­es to the gro­und. The­re we­re three bus­hes in a rock bed di­rectly be­low, all the­ir fo­li­age go­ne sin­ce autumn. I didn't know if I'd sur­vi­ve a jump.
  "Open!" Dab­ria com­man­ded from the ot­her si­de of the French do­ors. A crack split up the wo­od as the do­or stra­ined aga­inst the lock. I was out of ti­me.
  I ran to the fi­rep­la­ce and duc­ked un­der the man­tel. I had just pul­led my fe­et up, bra­cing them aga­inst the in­si­de of the flue, when the do­ors swung open, slam­ming back aga­inst the wall. I he­ard Dab­ria stri­de to the win­dow.
  "No­ra!" she cal­led in her de­li­ca­te, chil­ling vo­ice. "I know you're clo­se! I sen­se you. You can't run and you can't hi­de-I'll burn this ho­use down ro­om by ro­om if that's what it ta­kes to find you! And then I'll burn my way thro­ugh the fi­elds be­hind. I'm not le­aving you ali­ve!"
  A glow of bright gold light siz­zled to li­fe out­si­de the fi­rep­la­ce, along with the ro­aring who­osh of fi­re ig­ni­ting. The fla­mes sent sha­dows dan­cing in the pit be­low. I he­ard the snap and crack­le of fi­re eating up fu­el-most li­kely the fur­ni­tu­re or wo­od flo­ors.
  I sta­yed cram­ped in the flue. My he­art throb­bed, swe­at le­aking from my skin. I drew se­ve­ral bre­aths, ex­ha­ling slowly to ma­na­ge the burn in my tightly cont­rac­ted leg musc­les. Patch had sa­id he was go­ing to the scho­ol. How long un­til he ca­me back?
  Not kno­wing if Dab­ria was still in the ro­om, but fe­aring that if I didn't le­ave now, the fi­re wo­uld trap me in, I lo­we­red one leg in­to the pit, then the ot­her. I ca­me out from un­der the man­tel. Dab­ria was now­he­re in sight, but the fla­mes we­re lic­king up the walls, smo­ke cho­king all air from the ro­om.
  I hur­ri­ed down the hall, not da­ring to go downs­ta­irs, thin­king Dab­ria wo­uld ex­pect me to try to es­ca­pe thro­ugh one of the do­ors.
  In my bed­ro­om I ope­ned the win­dow. The tree out­si­de was clo­se eno­ugh and sturdy eno­ugh to climb. May­be I co­uld lo­se Dab­ria in the fog be­hind the ho­use. The ne­arest ne­igh­bors we­re just un­der a mi­le away, and run­ning hard, I co­uld be the­re in se­ven mi­nu­tes. I was abo­ut to swing my leg out the win­dow when a cre­ak so­un­ded down the hall.
  Qu­i­etly clo­sing myself in­si­de the clo­set, I di­aled 911.
  "The­re's so­me­one in my ho­use trying to kill me," I whis­pe­red to the ope­ra­tor. I had just gi­ven my ad­dress when the do­or to my ro­om eased open. I held per­fectly still.
  Thro­ugh the slats in the clo­set do­or, I watc­hed a sha­dowy fi­gu­re en­ter the ro­om. The ligh­ting was low, my ang­le was off, and I co­uldn't see a sing­le dis­tin­gu­is­hing de­ta­il. The fi­gu­re par­ted the win­dow blinds, pe­ering out. It fin­ge­red the socks and un­der­we­ar in my open dra­wer. It pic­ked up the sil­ver comb on my bu­re­au, stu­di­ed it, then re­tur­ned it. When the fi­gu­re tur­ned in the di­rec­ti­on of the clo­set, I knew I was in tro­ub­le.
  Sli­ding my hand over the flo­or, I felt for anyt­hing I co­uld use in my de­fen­se. My el­bow bum­ped a stack of shoe bo­xes, top­pling them. I mo­ut­hed a cur­se. The fo­ots­teps trod clo­ser.
  The clo­set do­ors ope­ned, and I hur­led a shoe out. I grab­bed anot­her and threw it.
  Patch swo­re in an un­der­to­ne, yan­ked a third shoe out of my hands, and hur­led it be­hind him. Wrest­ling me out of the clo­set, he got me on my fe­et. Be­fo­re I co­uld re­gis­ter re­li­ef at dis­co­ve­ring him and not Dab­ria in front of me, he pul­led me aga­inst him and wrap­ped his arms aro­und me.
  "Are you okay?" he mur­mu­red in my ear.
  "Dab­ria's he­re," I sa­id, my eyes brim­ming with te­ars. My kne­es tremb­led, and Patch's hold was the only thing ke­eping me up. "She's bur­ning down the ho­use."
  Patch han­ded me a set of keys and cur­led my fin­gers aro­und them. "My Je­ep's par­ked on the stre­et. Get in, lock the do­ors, dri­ve to Delp­hic, and wa­it for me." He tip­ped my chin up to fa­ce him. He brus­hed a kiss ac­ross my lips and sent a flash of he­at thro­ugh me.
  "What are you go­ing to do?" I as­ked.
  "Ta­ke ca­re of Dab­ria."
  "How?"
  He slid me a lo­ok that sa­id, Do you re­al­ly want de­ta­ils?
  The so­und of si­rens wa­iled in the dis­tan­ce.
  Patch lo­oked to the win­dow. "You cal­led the po­li­ce?"
  "I tho­ught you we­re Dab­ria."
  He was al­re­ady on his way out the do­or. "I'll go af­ter Dab­ria. Dri­ve the Je­ep to Delp­hic and wa­it for me."
  "What abo­ut the fi­re?"
  "The po­li­ce will hand­le it."
  I tigh­te­ned my grip on the keys. The de­ci­si­on-ma­king part of my bra­in was split, run­ning in op­po­si­te di­rec­ti­ons. I wan­ted to get out of the ho­use and away from Dab­ria, and me­et up with Patch la­ter, but the­re was one nag­ging tho­ught I co­uldn't sha­ke free. Dab­ria had sa­id Patch ne­eded to sac­ri­fi­ce me to be­co­me hu­man.
  She hadn't sa­id it lightly, or to get un­der my skin. Or even to har­den me aga­inst him. Her words had co­me out cold and se­ri­o­us. Se­ri­o­us eno­ugh that she tri­ed to kill me to stop Patch from get­ting to me first.
  I fo­und the Je­ep par­ked on the stre­et, just li­ke Patch had sa­id. I put the keys in the ig­ni­ti­on and flo­ored the Je­ep down Hawt­hor­ne. Fi­gu­ring it was po­int­less to try Vee's cell aga­in, I di­aled her ho­me pho­ne ins­te­ad.
  "Hi, Mrs. Sky," I sa­id, trying to so­und li­ke not­hing was out of the or­di­nary. "Is Vee the­re?"
  "Hi, No­ra! She left a few ho­urs ago. So­met­hing abo­ut a party in Port­land. I tho­ught she was with you."
  "Um, we got se­pa­ra­ted," I li­ed. "Did she say whe­re she was go­ing af­ter the party?"
  "She was thin­king abo­ut se­e­ing a mo­vie. And she isn't ans­we­ring her cell, so I as­su­me she has it tur­ned off for a show. Is everyt­hing okay?"
  I didn't want to frigh­ten her, but at the sa­me ti­me, I wasn't abo­ut to say everyt­hing was okay. Not one bit of it felt okay to me. The last ti­me I'd he­ard from Vee, she was with El­li­ot. And now she wasn't ans­we­ring her cell.
  "I don't think so," I sa­id. "I'm go­ing to dri­ve aro­und and lo­ok for her. I'll start at the mo­vie the­ater. Will you se­arch the pro­me­na­de?"

CHAPTER 26

  IT WAS THE SUN­DAY NIGHT BE­FO­RE THE START OF SPRING bre­ak, and the mo­vie the­ater was pac­ked. I got in the tic­ket li­ne, con­ti­nu­al­ly lo­oking aro­und for signs that I'd be­en fol­lo­wed. Not­hing alar­ming so far, and the press of bo­di­es of­fe­red go­od co­ver. I told myself Patch wo­uld ta­ke ca­re of Dab­ria and that I had not­hing to worry abo­ut, but it didn't hurt to be vi­gi­lant.
  Of co­ur­se, de­ep in­si­de, I knew Dab­ria wasn't my big­gest worry. So­oner or la­ter Patch was go­ing to fi­gu­re out I wasn't at Delp­hic. Ba­sed on past ex­pe­ri­en­ce, I didn't ha­ve any il­lu­si­ons abo­ut be­ing ab­le to hi­de long-term from him. He wo­uld find me. And then I'd be for­ced to conf­ront him with the qu­es­ti­on I was dre­ading. Mo­re spe­ci­fi­cal­ly, I dre­aded his ans­wer. Be­ca­use the­re was a sha­dow of do­ubt at the back of my mind, whis­pe­ring that Dab­ria had be­en tel­ling the truth abo­ut what it wo­uld ta­ke for Patch to get a hu­man body.
  I step­ped up to the tic­ket win­dow. The ni­ne-thirty mo­vi­es we­re just star­ting.
  "One for The Sac­ri­fi­ce" I sa­id wit­ho­ut thin­king. Im­me­di­ately I fo­und the tit­le eerily iro­nic. Not wan­ting to ref­lect furt­her on it, I fis­hed in my poc­kets and pus­hed a wad of small bills and co­ins un­der the win­dow, pra­ying it was eno­ugh.
  "Je­ez" the tel­ler sa­id, sta­ring at the co­ins spil­ling un­der the win­dow. I re­cog­ni­zed her from scho­ol. She was a se­ni­or, and I was pretty su­re her na­me was Kay­lie or Kylie. "Thanks a lot," she sa­id. "It's not li­ke the­re's a li­ne or anyt­hing."
  Ever­yo­ne be­hind me mut­te­red a col­lec­ti­ve exp­le­ti­ve.
  "I cle­aned out my piggy bank," I sa­id, at­temp­ting sar­casm.
  "No kid­ding. Is it all he­re?" she as­ked, ex­pel­ling a drawn-out sigh as she pus­hed the co­ins in­to gro­ups of qu­ar­ters, di­mes, nic­kels, and pen­ni­es.
  "Su­re."
  "Wha­te­ver. I don't get pa­id eno­ugh for this." She swept the mo­ney in­to the cash dra­wer and slid my tic­ket un­der the win­dow. "The­re are the­se things cal­led cre­dit cards…"
  I grab­bed the tic­ket. "Did you hap­pen to see Vee Sky co­me in to­night?"
  "Bee who?"
  "Vee Sky. She's a sop­ho­mo­re. She was with El­li­ot Sa­un­ders."
  Kay­lie or Kylie's eyes bug­ged out. "Do­es it lo­ok li­ke a slow night? Do­es it lo­ok li­ke I've just be­en sit­ting he­re, me­mo­ri­zing every fa­ce that walks past?"
  "Ne­ver mind," I bre­at­hed, he­ading for the do­ors le­ading in­si­de.
  Cold­wa­ter's mo­vie the­ater has two scre­ens, be­hind do­ors on eit­her si­de of a con­ces­si­on co­un­ter. As so­on as the tic­ket guy rip­ped my tic­ket in half, I tug­ged on the do­or to the­ater num­ber two and duc­ked in­si­de to dark­ness. The mo­vie had star­ted.
  The the­ater was al­most full, ex­cept for a few iso­la­ted se­ats. I wal­ked down the ais­le, lo­oking for Vee. At the bot­tom of the ais­le I tur­ned and wal­ked ac­ross the front of the the­ater. It was hard to dis­tin­gu­ish fa­ces in the dark­ness, but I was pretty su­re Vee wasn't he­re.
  I exi­ted the the­ater and wal­ked over to the show next do­or. It wasn't as crow­ded. I did anot­her walk-thro­ugh, but aga­in, I didn't see Vee. Ta­king a se­at ne­ar the back, I tri­ed to set­tle my mind.
  This who­le night felt li­ke a dark fa­ir) ta­le I'd stra­yed in­to and co­uldn't find my way back out of. A fa­iry ta­le with fal­len an­gels, hu­man hybrids, and sac­ri­fi­ci­al kil­lings. I rub­bed my thumb over my birth­mark. I es­pe­ci­al­ly didn't want to think abo­ut the pos­si­bi­lity that I was des­cen­ded from one of the Nep­hi­lim.
  I pul­led out the emer­gency cell pho­ne and chec­ked for mis­sed calls. No­ne.
  I was tuc­king the pho­ne in my poc­ket when a car­ton of pop­corn ma­te­ri­ali­zed be­si­de me.
  "Hungry?" as­ked a vo­ice from just over my sho­ul­der. The vo­ice was qu­i­et and not es­pe­ci­al­ly happy. I tri­ed to ke­ep my bre­at­hing calm. "Stand up and walk out of the the­ater," Patch sa­id. "I'll be right be­hind you."
  I didn't mo­ve.
  "Walk out," he re­pe­ated. "We ne­ed to talk."
  "Abo­ut how you ne­ed to sac­ri­fi­ce me to get a hu­man body?" I as­ked, my to­ne light, my in­si­des fe­eling le­aden.
  "That might be cu­te if you tho­ught it was true."
  "I do think it's true!" Sort of. But the sa­me tho­ught kept re­tur­ning-if Patch wan­ted to kill me, why hadn't he al­re­ady?
  "Shh!" sa­id the guy next to me.
  Patch sa­id, "Walk out, or I'll carry you out."
  I flip­ped aro­und. "Excu­se me?"
  "Shh!" the guy be­si­de me his­sed aga­in.
  "Bla­me him," I told the guy, po­in­ting at Patch.
  The guy cra­ned his neck back. "Lis­ten," he sa­id, fa­cing me aga­in. "If you don't qu­i­et down, I'll get se­cu­rity."
  "Fi­ne, go get se­cu­rity. Tell them to ta­ke him away," I sa­id, aga­in sig­na­ling Patch. "Tell them he wants to kill me."
  "/want to kill you," his­sed the guy's girlf­ri­end, le­aning aro­und him to ad­dress me.
  "Who wants to kill you?" the guy as­ked. He was still lo­oking over his sho­ul­der, but his exp­res­si­on was puz­zled.
  "The­re's no­body the­re" the girlf­ri­end told me.
  "You're ma­king them think they can't see you, aren't you?" I sa­id to Patch, awed by his po­wer even as I des­pi­sed his use of it.
  Patch smi­led, but it was pinc­hed at the cor­ners.
  "Oh, je­ez!" sa­id the girlf­ri­end, thro­wing her hands in the air. She rol­led her eyes fu­ri­o­usly at her boyf­ri­end and sa­id, "Do so­met­hing!"
  "I ne­ed you to stop tal­king," the guy told me. He ges­tu­red at the scre­en. "Watch the show. He­re-ha­ve my so­da."
  I swung in­to the ais­le. I felt Patch mo­ve be­hind me, un­set­tlingly clo­se, not qu­ite to­uc­hing. He sta­yed that way un­til we we­re out of the the­ater.
  On the ot­her si­de of the do­or, Patch ho­oked my arm and gu­ided me ac­ross the fo­yer to the la­di­es' ro­om.
  "What is it with you and girls' bath­ro­oms?" I sa­id.
  He ste­ered me thro­ugh the do­or, loc­ked it, and le­aned back aga­inst it. His eyes we­re all over me. And they sho­wed ever) sign of wan­ting to rat­tle me to de­ath.
  I was bac­ked up aga­inst the co­un­ter, my palms dig­ging in­to the ed­ge. "You're mad be­ca­use I didn't go to Delp­hic." I ra­ised one shaky sho­ul­der. "Why Delp­hic, Patch? It's Sun­day night. Delp­hic will be clo­sing so­on. Any spe­ci­al re­ason you wan­ted me to dri­ve to a dark, so­on-to-be de­ser­ted amu­se­ment park?"
  He wal­ked to­ward me un­til he was stan­ding clo­se eno­ugh that I co­uld see his black eyes be­ne­ath his ball cap.
  "Dab­ria told me you ha­ve to sac­ri­fi­ce me to get a hu­man body," I sa­id.
  Patch was qu­i­et a mo­ment. "And you think I'd go thro­ugh with it?"
  I swal­lo­wed. "Then it's true?"
  Our eyes loc­ked. "It has to be an in­ten­ti­onal sac­ri­fi­ce. Simply kil­ling you won't do it."
  "Are you the only per­son who can do this to me?"
  "No, but I'm pro­bably the only per­son who knows the end re­sult, and the only per­son who wo­uld at­tempt it. It's the re­ason I ca­me to scho­ol. I had to get clo­se to you. I ne­eded you. It's the re­ason I wal­ked in­to yo­ur li­fe."
  "Dab­ria told me you fell for a girl." I ha­ted myself for ex­pe­ri­en­cing ir­ra­ti­onal pangs of je­alo­usy. This wasn't sup­po­sed to be abo­ut me. This was sup­po­sed to be an in­ter­ro­ga­ti­on. "What hap­pe­ned?"
  I des­pe­ra­tely wan­ted Patch to gi­ve away so­me clue to his tho­ughts, but his eyes we­re a co­ol black, emo­ti­ons tuc­ked out of sight. "She grew old and di­ed."
  "That must ha­ve be­en hard for you," I snap­ped.
  He wa­ited a few co­unts be­fo­re ans­we­ring. His to­ne was so low, I shi­ve­red. "You want me to co­me cle­an, I will. I'll tell you everyt­hing. Who I am and what I've do­ne. Every last de­ta­il. I'll dig it all up, but you ha­ve to ask. You ha­ve to want it. You can see who I was, or you can see who I am now. I'm not go­od," he sa­id, pi­er­cing me with eyes that ab­sor­bed all light but ref­lec­ted no­ne, "but I was wor­se."
  I ig­no­red the roll in my sto­mach and sa­id, "Tell me."
  "The first ti­me I saw her, I was still an an­gel. It was an ins­tant, pos­ses­si­ve lust. It dro­ve me crazy. I didn't know anyt­hing abo­ut her, ex­cept that I wo­uld do wha­te­ver it to­ok to get clo­se to her. I watc­hed her for a whi­le, and then I got it in my he­ad that if I went down to Earth and pos­ses­sed a hu­man body, I wo­uld be cast out of he­aven and be­co­me hu­man. The thing is, I didn't know abo­ut Chesh­van. I ca­me down on a night in August, but I co­uldn't pos­sess the body. On my way back to he­aven, a host of aven­ging an­gels stop­ped me and rip­ped out my wings. They tos­sed me out of the sky. Right away I knew so­met­hing was wrong. When I lo­oked at hu­mans, all I co­uld fe­el was an in­sa­ti­ab­le cra­ving to be in­si­de the­ir bo­di­es. All my po­wers we­re strip­ped, and I was this we­ak, pat­he­tic thing. I wasn't hu­man. I was fal­len. I'd re­ali­zed I'd gi­ven it all up, just li­ke that. All this ti­me I've ha­ted myself for it. I tho­ught I'd gi­ven it up for not­hing." His eyes fo­cu­sed sin­gu­larly on me, le­aving me fe­eling trans­pa­rent. "But if I hadn't fal­len, I wo­uldn't ha­ve met you."
  My conf­lic­ting emo­ti­ons we­ig­hed so he­avily in­si­de my chest, I tho­ught they might suf­fo­ca­te me. Bi­ting back te­ars, I for­ged ahe­ad. "Dab­ria sa­id my birth­mark me­ans I'm re­la­ted to Cha­un­cey. Is that true?"
  "Do you want me to ans­wer that?"
  I didn't know what I wan­ted. My who­le world felt li­ke a joke, and I was the last one to get the punch li­ne. I wasn't No­ra Grey, ave­ra­ge girl. I was the des­cen­dant of so­me­one who wasn't even hu­man. And my he­art was smas­hing it­self to pi­eces over anot­her non­hu­man. A dark an­gel. "Which si­de of my fa­mily?" I sa­id at last.
  "Yo­ur dad's."
  "Whe­re's Cha­un­cey now?" Even tho­ugh we we­re re­la­ted, I li­ked the idea of him be­ing far away. Very far away. Far eno­ugh that the link bet­we­en us might not fe­el as re­al.
  His bo­ots we­re flush with the to­es of my ten­nis sho­es. "I'm not go­ing to kill you, No­ra. I don't kill pe­op­le who are im­por­tant to me. And you top the list."
  My he­art did a ner­vo­us flip. My hands we­re pres­sed aga­inst his sto­mach, which was so hard even his skin didn't gi­ve. I was ke­eping a po­int­less sa­fe­gu­ard bet­we­en us, sin­ce not even a to­we­ring elect­ri­cal fen­ce wo­uld ma­ke me fe­el se­cu­re from him.
  "You're im­pin­ging on my pri­va­te spa­ce," I sa­id, inc­hing back­ward.
  Patch ga­ve a ba­rely-the­re smi­le. "Impin­ging? This isn't the SAT, No­ra."
  I tuc­ked a few stray ha­irs be­hind my ears and to­ok one si­zab­le step si­de­ways, skir­ting the sink. "You're crow­ding me. I ne­ed- ro­om." What I ne­eded we­re bo­un­da­ri­es. I ne­eded wil­lpo­wer. I ne­eded to be ca­ged up, sin­ce yet aga­in I was pro­ving I co­uldn't be trus­ted in Patch's pre­sen­ce. I sho­uld ha­ve be­en bol­ting for the do­or, and yet… I wasn't. I tri­ed con­vin­cing myself I was sta­ying be­ca­use I ne­eded ans­wers, but that was only part of it. It was the ot­her part I didn't want to think abo­ut. The emo­ti­onal part. The part that was po­int­less figh­ting.
  "Are you ke­eping anyt­hing el­se from me?" I wan­ted to know.
  "I'm ke­eping a lot of things from you."
  My in­si­des to­ok a ste­ep di­ve. "Li­ke?"
  "Li­ke the way I fe­el abo­ut be­ing loc­ked up in he­re with you." Patch bra­ced one hand aga­inst the mir­ror be­hind me, his we­ight tip­ping to­ward me. "You ha­ve no idea what you do to me."
  I sho­ok my he­ad. "I don't think so. This isn't a go­od idea. This isn't right."
  "The­re's all kinds of right," he mur­mu­red. "On the spect­rum, we're still in the sa­fe zo­ne."
  I was pretty su­re the self-pre­ser­ving half of my bra­in was scre­aming, Run for yo­ur li­fe! Un­for­tu­na­tely, blo­od ro­ared in my ears, and I wasn't he­aring stra­ight. Ob­vi­o­usly I wasn't thin­king stra­ight eit­her.
  "De­fi­ni­tely right. Usu­al­ly right," Patch con­ti­nu­ed. "Mostly right. May­be right."
  "May­be not right now." I suc­ked in so­me air. Out of the cor­ner of my eye I no­ti­ced a fi­re alarm dril­led in­to the wall. It was ten, may­be fif­te­en fe­et away. If I was fast, I co­uld cross the ro­om and pull it be­fo­re Patch stop­ped me. Se­cu­rity wo­uld co­me run­ning. I'd be sa­fe. And that's what I wan­ted… wasn't it?
  "Not a go­od idea," Patch sa­id with a soft sha­ke of his he­ad.
  I bol­ted for the fi­re alarm any­way. My fin­gers clo­sed on the le­ver and I pul­led down to so­und the alarm. Only, the le­ver didn't bud­ge. As hard as I tri­ed, I co­uldn't get it to mo­ve. And then I re­cog­ni­zed Patch's fa­mi­li­ar pre­sen­ce in my he­ad, and I knew it was a mind ga­me.
  I swi­ve­led aro­und to fa­ce him. "Get out of my he­ad." I stor­med back and sho­ved hard aga­inst his chest. Patch to­ok a step back, ste­ad­ying him­self.
  "What was that for?" he as­ked.
  "For this who­le night." For ma­king me crazy abo­ut him when I knew it was wrong. He was the worst kind of wrong. He was so wrong it felt right, and that ma­de me fe­el comp­le­tely out of cont­rol.
  I might ha­ve be­en temp­ted to hit him squ­are in the jaw had he not ta­ken me by the sho­ul­ders and pin­ned me aga­inst the wall. The­re was hardly any spa­ce left bet­we­en us, just a thin bo­un­dary of air, but Patch ma­na­ged to eli­mi­na­te it.
  "Let's be ho­nest, No­ra. You've got it bad for me." His eyes held a lot of depth. "And I've got it bad for you." He le­aned in­to me and put his mo­uth on mi­ne. A lot of him was on me, ac­tu­al­ly. We to­uc­hed ba­se at se­ve­ral stra­te­gic lo­ca­ti­ons down our bo­di­es, and it to­ok all my wil­lpo­wer to bre­ak away.
  I pul­led back. "I'm not fi­nis­hed. What hap­pe­ned to Dab­ria?"
  "All ta­ken ca­re of."
  "What exactly do­es that me­an?"
  "She wasn't go­ing to ke­ep her wings af­ter plot­ting to kill you. The mo­ment she tri­ed to get back in­to he­aven, the aven­ging an­gels wo­uld ha­ve strip­ped them. She had it co­ming so­oner or la­ter. I just sped things up."
  "So you just-to­re them off?"
  "They we­re de­te­ri­ora­ting; the fe­at­hers we­re bro­ken and thin. If she sta­yed on Earth much lon­ger, it was a sig­nal to every ot­her fal­len an­gel who saw her that she'd fal­len. If I didn't do it, one of them wo­uld ha­ve."
  'Is she go­ing to ma­ke-I dod­ged anot­her one of his ad­van­ces-anot­her un­wan­ted ap­pe­aran­ce in my li­fe?"
  "Hard to say."
  Light­ning qu­ick, Patch ca­ught hold of the hem of my swe­ater. He re­eled me in­to him. His knuck­les brus­hed the skin of my na­vel. He­at and ice shot thro­ugh me si­mul­ta­ne­o­usly. "You co­uld ta­ke her, An­gel," he sa­id. "I've se­en both of you in ac­ti­on, and my bet's on you. You don't ne­ed me for that."
  "What do I ne­ed you for?"
  He la­ug­hed. Not ab­ruptly, but with a cer­ta­in low de­si­re. His eyes had lost the­ir ed­ge and we­re fo­cu­sed wholly on me. His smi­le was all fox… but sof­ter. So­met­hing just be­hind my na­vel dan­ced, then co­iled lo­wer.
  "Do­or's loc­ked," he sa­id. "And we ha­ve un­fi­nis­hed bu­si­ness."
  My body se­emed to ha­ve swept asi­de the lo­gi­cal part of my bra­in. Smot­he­red it, in fact. I slid my hands up his chest and lo­oped my arms aro­und his neck. Patch lif­ted me at the hips, and I wrap­ped my legs aro­und his wa­ist. My pul­se po­un­ded, but I didn't mind one lit­tle bit. I crus­hed my mo­uth to his, so­aking up the ecs­tasy of his mo­uth on mi­ne, his hands on me, fe­eling on the ver­ge of burs­ting out of my skin-
  The cell pho­ne in my poc­ket rang to li­fe. I pul­led away from Patch, bre­at­hing he­avily, and the pho­ne rang a se­cond ti­me.
  "Vo­ice ma­il," Patch sa­id.
  De­ep in the re­ces­ses of my cons­ci­o­us­ness, I knew ans­we­ring my pho­ne was im­por­tant. I co­uldn't re­mem­ber why; kis­sing Patch had ma­de every last har­bo­red worry eva­po­ra­te. I un­tang­led myself from him, tur­ning away so he wo­uldn't see how wor­ked up ten se­conds of kis­sing him had ma­de me. In­ter­nal­ly I was scre­aming with joy.
  "Hel­lo?" I ans­we­red, re­sis­ting the ur­ge to wi­pe my mo­uth for sme­ared lip gloss.
  "Ba­be!" Vee sa­id. We had a bad con­nec­ti­on, the crack­le of sta­tic cut­ting ac­ross her vo­ice. "Whe­re are you?"
  "Whe­re are you? Are you still with El­li­ot and Jules?" I flat­te­ned a hand aga­inst my free ear to he­ar bet­ter.
  "I'm at scho­ol. We bro­ke in," she sa­id in a vo­ice that was na­ughty to per­fec­ti­on. "We want to play hi­de-and-se­ek but don't ha­ve eno­ugh pe­op­le for two te­ams. So… do you know of a fo­urth per­son who co­uld co­me play with us?"
  An in­co­he­rent vo­ice mumb­led in the backg­ro­und.
  "Elli­ot wants me to tell you that if you don't co­me be his part­ner-hang on-what?" Vee sa­id in­to the backg­ro­und.
  Elli­ot's vo­ice ca­me on. "No­ra? Co­me play with us. Ot­her­wi­se, the­re's a tree in the com­mon area with Vee's na­me on it."
  Pu­re ice flo­wed thro­ugh me.
  "Hel­lo?" I sa­id ho­ar­sely. "Elli­ot? Vee? Are you the­re?"
  But the con­nec­ti­on was de­ad.

CHAPTER 27

WHO WAS THAT?" PATCH ASKED.

  My who­le body was rin­ging. It to­ok me a mo­ment to ans­wer. "Vee bro­ke in­to the high scho­ol with El­li­ot and Jules. They want me to me­et them. I think El­li­ot's go­ing to hurt Vee if I don't go." I lo­oked up at Patch. "I think he's go­ing to hurt her if I do."
  He fol­ded his arms, frow­ning. "Elli­ot?"
  "Last we­ek at the lib­rary I fo­und an ar­tic­le that sa­id he was qu­es­ti­oned in a mur­der in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on at his old scho­ol, King­horn Prep. He wal­ked in­to the com­pu­ter lab and saw me re­ading it. Ever sin­ce that night, I've got­ten a bad vi­be from him. A re­al­ly bad vi­be. I think he even bro­ke in­to my bed­ro­om to ste­al the ar­tic­le back."
  "Anything el­se I sho­uld know?"
  "The girl who was mur­de­red was El­li­ot's girlf­ri­end. She was han­ged from a tree. Just now on the pho­ne he sa­id, 'If you don't co­me, the­re's a tree in the com­mon area with Vee's na­me on it.'"
  "I've se­en El­li­ot. He se­ems cock) and a lit­tle ag­gres­si­ve, but he do­esn't stri­ke me as a kil­ler." He dip­ped in­to my front poc­ket and ext­rac­ted the Je­ep's keys. "I'll dri­ve over and check things out. I won't be long."
  "I think we sho­uld call the po­li­ce."
  He sho­ok his he­ad. "You'll send Vee to juvie for dest­ruc­ti­on of pro­perty and B and E. One mo­re thing. Jules. Who is this guy?"
  "Elli­ot's fri­end. He was at the ar­ca­de the night we saw you."
  His frown de­epe­ned. "If the­re was anot­her guy, I wo­uld re­mem­ber."
  He ope­ned the do­or and I fol­lo­wed him out. A jani­tor we­aring black slacks and a work-issue ma­ro­on shirt was swe­eping bits of pop­corn in the lobby. He did a do­ub­le ta­ke at the sight of Patch exi­ting the la­di­es' ro­om. I re­cog­ni­zed him from scho­ol. Brandt Chris­ten­sen. We had Eng­lish to­get­her. Last se­mes­ter I'd hel­ped him wri­te a pa­per.
  "Elli­ot is ex­pec­ting me, not you," I told Patch. "If I don't show up, who knows what will hap­pen to Vee? That's a risk I'm not go­ing to ta­ke."
  "If I let you co­me, you'll lis­ten to my inst­ruc­ti­ons and fol­low them ca­re­ful­ly?"
  "Yes."
  "If I tell you to jump?"
  "I'll jump."
  "If I tell you to stay in the car?"
  "I'll stay in the car." It was mostly true.
  Out in the par­king lot of the the­ater, Patch aimed his key fob at the Je­ep, and the he­ad­lights blin­ked. Sud­denly he ca­me to a halt and swo­re un­der his bre­ath.
  "What's wrong?" I sa­id.
  "Ti­res."
  I drop­ped my ga­ze and su­re eno­ugh, both ti­res on the dri­ver's si­de we­re flat. "I can't be­li­eve it!" I sa­id. "I dro­ve over two na­ils?"
  Patch cro­uc­hed by the front ti­re, run­ning his hand aro­und the cir­cum­fe­ren­ce. "Screwd­ri­ver. This was an in­ten­ti­onal at­tack."
  For a mo­ment I tho­ught may­be this was anot­her mind trick. May­be Patch had his re­asons for not wan­ting me to go to the high scho­ol. His fe­elings abo­ut Vee we­re no sec­ret, af­ter all. But so­met­hing was mis­sing. I co­uldn't fe­el Patch anyw­he­re in­si­de my he­ad. If he was al­te­ring my tho­ughts, he'd fo­und a new way to ac­comp­lish it, be­ca­use as far as I co­uld tell, what I was se­e­ing was re­al.
  "Who wo­uld do that?"
  He ro­se to his full he­ight. "The list is long."
  "Are you trying to tell me you ha­ve a lot of ene­mi­es?"
  "I've up­set a few pe­op­le. A lot of folks pla­ce bets they can't win. Then they bla­me me for wal­king off with the­ir car, or mo­re."
  Patch wal­ked one spa­ce over to a co­upe, ope­ned the dri­ver's si­de do­or, and to­ok a se­at be­hind the ste­ering whe­el. Re­ac­hing un­der it, his hand di­sap­pe­ared.
  "What are you do­ing?" I as­ked, stan­ding in the open do­or­way. It was a was­te of bre­ath sin­ce I was well awa­re of what he was do­ing.
  "Lo­oking for the spa­re key." Patch's hand re­ap­pe­ared, hol­ding two blue wi­res. With so­me skill, he re­mo­ved the ends of the wi­res and tap­ped them to­get­her. The en­gi­ne tur­ned over, and Patch lo­oked out at me. "Se­at belt."
  "I'm not ste­aling a car."
  He shrug­ged. "We ne­ed it now. They don't."
  "It's ste­aling. It's wrong."
  Patch didn't lo­ok the le­ast bit tro­ub­led. In fact, he lo­oked a lit­tle too re­la­xed in the dri­ver's se­at. This isn't the first ti­me he's do­ne this, I tho­ught.
  "First ru­le of auto theft," he sa­id on a smi­le. "Try not to hang aro­und the cri­me sce­ne lon­ger than ne­ces­sary."
  "Hang on one mi­nu­te," I sa­id, hol­ding up a fin­ger.
  I jog­ged back to the the­ater. On my way in­si­de, the glass do­ors ref­lec­ted the par­king lot be­hind me, and I saw Patch swing out of the co­upe.
  "Hi, Brandt," I sa­id to the boy still flic­king pop­corn in­to a long-hand­led dust­pan.
  Brandt lo­oked up at me, but his at­ten­ti­on was qu­ickly drawn over my sho­ul­der. I he­ard the the­ater do­ors open and sen­sed Patch mo­ve be­hind me. His ap­pro­ach wasn't all that dif­fe­rent from a clo­ud ec­lip­sing the sun, subtly dar­ke­ning the lands­ca­pe, hin­ting of a storm.
  "How's it go­ing?" Brandt sa­id un­cer­ta­inly.
  "I'm ha­ving car tro­ub­le," I sa­id, bi­ting my lip and trying on a sympat­he­tic fa­ce. "I know I'm put­ting you in an awk­ward po­si­ti­on, but sin­ce I hel­ped you with that Sha­kes­pe­are pa­per last se­mes­ter…"
  'You want to bor­row my car."
  "Actu­al­ly…yes."
  "It's a pi­ece of junk. It's no Je­ep Com­man­der." He lo­oked right at Patch li­ke he was apo­lo­gi­zing.
  "Do­es it run?" I as­ked.
  "If by run you me­an do the whe­els roll, ye­ah, it runs. But it's not for lo­an."
  Patch ope­ned his wal­let and han­ded over what lo­oked li­ke three crisp hund­red-dol­lar bills. Re­ining in my surp­ri­se, I de­ci­ded the best thing to do was play along.
  "I chan­ged my mind," Brandt sa­id, eyes wi­de, poc­ke­ting the mo­ney. He fis­hed in his poc­kets and un­der­han­ded Patch a pa­ir of keys.
  "What's the ma­ke and co­lor?" Patch as­ked, catc­hing the keys.
  "Hard to tell. Part Volks­wa­gen, part Che­vet­te. It used to be blue. That was be­fo­re it cor­ro­ded to oran­ge. You'll fill the tank up be­fo­re you re­turn it?" Brandt sa­id, so­un­ding li­ke he had his fin­gers cros­sed be­hind his back, pres­sing his luck.
  Patch pe­eled out anot­her twenty. "Just in ca­se we for­get," he sa­id, stuf­fing it in­to the front poc­ket of Brandt's uni­form.
  Out­si­de, I told Patch, "I co­uld ha­ve tal­ked him in­to gi­ving me his keys. I just ne­eded a lit­tle mo­re ti­me. And by the way, why do you bus tab­les at the Bor­der­li­ne if you're lo­aded?"
  "I'm not. I won the mo­ney off a po­ol ga­me a co­up­le nights back." He pus­hed Brandt's key in the lock and ope­ned the pas­sen­ger-si­de do­or for me. "The bank is of­fi­ci­al­ly clo­sed."
  Patch dro­ve ac­ross town on dark, qu­i­et stre­ets. It didn't ta­ke long to ar­ri­ve at the high scho­ol. He rol­led Brandt's car to a stop on the east si­de of the bu­il­ding and kil­led the en­gi­ne. The cam­pus was wo­oded, the branc­hes twis­ted and ble­ak and hol­ding up not­hing but a damp fog. Be­hind them lo­omed Cold­wa­ter High.
  The ori­gi­nal part of the bu­il­ding had be­en const­ruc­ted in the la­te ni­ne­te­enth cen­tury, and af­ter sun­set it lo­oked very much li­ke a cat­hed­ral. Gray and fo­re­bo­ding. Very dark. Very aban­do­ned.
  "I just got a re­al­ly bad fe­eling," I sa­id, eye­ing the scho­ol's black vo­ids for win­dows.
  "Stay in the car and ke­ep out of sight," Patch told me, pas­sing over the keys. "If any­body co­mes out of the bu­il­ding, ta­ke off." He got out. He was we­aring a fit­ted black crew­neck tee, dark Le­vi's, and bo­ots. With his black ha­ir and dusky skin, it was hard to dis­tin­gu­ish him from the backg­ro­und. He cros­sed the stre­et and, in a mat­ter of mo­ments, blen­ded comp­le­tely in­to the night.

CHAPTER 28

  FI­VE MI­NU­TES CA­ME AND WENT. TEN MI­NU­TES stretc­hed to twenty. I strug­gled to ig­no­re the ha­ir-ra­ising fe­eling that I was un­der sur­ve­il­lan­ce. I pe­ered in­to the sha­dows rin­ging the scho­ol.
  What was ta­king Patch so long? I shuf­fled thro­ugh a few the­ori­es, fe­eling mo­re une­asy by the mo­ment. What if Patch co­uldn't find Vee? What wo­uld hap­pen when Patch fo­und El­li­ot? I didn't think El­li­ot co­uld over­po­wer Patch, but the­re was al­ways a chan­ce-if El­li­ot had the ele­ment of surp­ri­se.
  The pho­ne in my poc­ket rang, and I jum­ped out of my skin.
  'I see you," El­li­ot sa­id when I ans­we­red. "Sit­ting out the­re in the car.
  'Whe­re are you?"
  "Watc­hing you from a se­cond-story win­dow. We're pla­ying in­si­de."
  "I don't want to play."
  He en­ded the call.
  With my he­art in my thro­at, I got out of the car. I lo­oked up at the dark win­dows of the scho­ol. I didn't think El­li­ot knew Patch was in­si­de. His vo­ice ca­me ac­ross im­pa­ti­ent, not angry or ir­ri­ta­ted. My only ho­pe was that Patch had a plan and wo­uld ma­ke su­re not­hing hap­pe­ned to me or Vee. The mo­on was clo­uded over, and un­der a sha­dow of fe­ar I wal­ked up to the east do­or.
  I step­ped in­to se­mi­dark­ness. My eyes to­ok se­ve­ral se­conds to ma­ke so­met­hing of the shaft of stre­et­light fal­ling thro­ugh the win­dow en­ca­sed in the top half of the do­or. The flo­or ti­les ref­lec­ted a waxy gle­am. Loc­kers we­re li­ned up on eit­her si­de of the hal­lway li­ke sle­eping ro­bo­tic sol­di­ers. Ins­te­ad of a pe­ace­ful, qu­i­et fe­eling, the halls ra­di­ated hid­den me­na­ce.
  The out­si­de lights il­lu­mi­na­ted the first se­ve­ral fe­et in­to the hal­lway, but af­ter that, I co­uld see not­hing. Just in­si­de the do­or was a pa­nel of light switc­hes, and I flip­ped them on. Not­hing hap­pe­ned.
  Sin­ce the po­wer was wor­king out­si­de, I knew the elect­ri­city in­si­de had be­en shut off by hand. I won­de­red if this was part of El­li­ot's plan. I co­uldn't see him, and I co­uldn't see Vee. I al­so co­uldn't see Patch. I was go­ing to ha­ve to fe­el my way thro­ugh each ro­om in the scho­ol, pla­ying a slow ga­me of eli­mi­na­ti­on un­til I fo­und him. To­get­her we wo­uld find Vee.
  Using the wall as my gu­ide, I crept for­ward. On any gi­ven we­ek­day, I pas­sed down this stretch of hall se­ve­ral ti­mes, but in the dark­ness it sud­denly se­emed fo­re­ign. And lon­ger. Much lon­ger.
  At the first in­ter­sec­ti­on I men­tal­ly as­ses­sed my sur­ro­un­dings. Tur­ning left wo­uld le­ad to the band and orc­hest­ra ro­oms and the ca­fe­te­ria. Tur­ning right wo­uld le­ad to ad­mi­nist­ra­ti­ve of­fi­ces, as well as a do­ub­le sta­ir­ca­se. I con­ti­nu­ed stra­ight, he­ading de­eper in­to the scho­ol, to­ward the clas­sro­oms.
  My fo­ot ca­ught on so­met­hing, and be­fo­re I co­uld re­act, I went spraw­ling to the flo­or. Hazy gray light fil­te­red thro­ugh a skylight di­rectly over­he­ad as the mo­on bro­ke bet­we­en clo­uds, il­lu­mi­na­ting the fe­atu­res of the body I'd trip­ped on. Jules was on his back, his exp­res­si­on fi­xed in a blank sta­re. His long blond ha­ir was tang­led over his fa­ce, his hands slack at his si­des.
  I pus­hed back on my kne­es and co­ve­red my mo­uth, pan­ting air. My legs tremb­led with ad­re­na­li­ne. Very slowly, I res­ted my palm on Jules's chest. He wasn't bre­at­hing. He was de­ad.
  I jum­ped to my fe­et and cho­ked on a scre­am. I wan­ted to call out for Patch, but that wo­uld gi­ve my lo­ca­ti­on away to El­li­ot-if he didn't al­re­ady know it. I re­ali­zed with a start that he co­uld be stan­ding fe­et away, watc­hing me as his twis­ted ga­me un­fol­ded.
  The over­he­ad light fa­ded, and I ma­de a fran­tic sur­vey of the hall. Mo­re end­less hal­lway stretc­hed ahe­ad. The lib­rary was up a short flight of sta­irs to my left. Clas­sro­oms star­ted on the right. On a split mo­ment's de­ci­si­on, I cho­se the lib­rary, gro­ping thro­ugh the blac­ke­ning halls to get away from Jules's body. My no­se drip­ped, and I re­ali­zed I was crying so­und­les­sly. Why was Jules de­ad? Who kil­led him? If Jules was de­ad, was Vee al­so?
  The lib­rary do­ors we­re un­loc­ked, and I fumb­led my way in­si­de. Past the bo­oks­hel­ves, at the far end of the lib­rary, we­re three small study ro­oms. They we­re so­undp­ro­of; if El­li­ot wan­ted to iso­la­te Vee, the ro­oms we­re an ide­al pla­ce to put her.
  I was just abo­ut to start to­ward them when a mas­cu­li­ne gro­an car­ri­ed thro­ugh the lib­rary.1 ca­me to a halt.
  The lights out in the hall po­we­red to li­fe, il­lu­mi­na­ting the dark­ness of the lib­rary. El­li­ot's body lay a few fe­et away, his mo­uth par­ted, his skin as­hen. His eyes rol­led my way, and he re­ac­hed an arm out to me.
  A pi­er­cing scre­am es­ca­ped me. Whir­ling aro­und, I ran for the lib­rary do­ors, sho­ving and kic­king cha­irs out of my way. Run! I or­de­red myself. Get to an exit!
  I stag­ge­red out the do­or, and that's when the lights in the hall di­ed, plun­ging everyt­hing on­ce aga­in to black.
  "Patch!" I tri­ed to scre­am. But my vo­ice ca­ught, and I cho­ked on his na­me.
  Jules was de­ad. El­li­ot was al­most de­ad. Who had kil­led them? Who was left? I tri­ed to ma­ke sen­se of what was hap­pe­ning, but all re­ason had left me.
  A sho­ve to my back threw me off ba­lan­ce. Anot­her sho­ve sent me flying si­de­ways. My he­ad smas­hed aga­inst a loc­ker, stun­ning me.
  A nar­row be­am of light swept ac­ross my vi­si­on, and a pa­ir of dark eyes be­hind a ski mask swir­led in­to fo­cus. The light ca­me from a mi­ner's he­ad­lamp se­cu­red over the mask.
  I pus­hed up and tri­ed to run. One of his arms shot out, cut­ting off my es­ca­pe. He bro­ught up his ot­her arm, trap­ping me aga­inst the loc­ker.
  "Did you think I was de­ad?" I co­uld he­ar the glo­ating, icy smi­le in his vo­ice. "I co­uldn't pass up one last chan­ce to play with you. Hu­mor me. Who did you think the bad guy was? El­li­ot? Or did it cross yo­ur mind that yo­ur best fri­end co­uld do this? I'm get­ting warm, aren't I? That's the thing abo­ut fe­ar. It brings out the worst in us."
  "It's you." My vo­ice rat­tled.
  Jules rip­ped off the he­ad­lamp and ski mask. "In the flesh."
  "How did you do it?" I as­ked, my vo­ice still tremb­ling. "I saw you. You we­ren't bre­at­hing. You we­re de­ad."
  "You're gi­ving me too much cre­dit. It was all you, No­ra. If yo­ur mind wasn't so we­ak, I co­uldn't ha­ve do­ne a thing. Am I ma­king you fe­el bad? Is it dis­co­ura­ging to know that out of all the minds I've in­va­ded, yo­urs tops the list as easi­est? And most fun."
  I lic­ked my lips. My mo­uth tas­ted a stran­ge com­bi­na­ti­on of dry and sticky. I co­uld smell the fe­ar on my bre­ath. "Whe­re's Vee?"
  He slap­ped my che­ek. "Don't chan­ge the su­bj­ect. You re­al­ly sho­uld le­arn to cont­rol yo­ur fe­ar. Fe­ar un­der­mi­nes lo­gic and opens up all sorts of op­por­tu­ni­ti­es for pe­op­le li­ke me."
  This was a si­de of Jules I'd ne­ver se­en. He'd al­ways be­en so qu­i­et, so sul­len, ra­di­ating a comp­le­te lack of in­te­rest in ever­yo­ne aro­und him. He sta­yed in the backg­ro­und, dra­wing lit­tle at­ten­ti­on, lit­tle sus­pi­ci­on. Very cle­ver of him, I tho­ught.
  He grab­bed my arm and jer­ked me af­ter him.
  I cla­wed at him and twis­ted away, and he dro­ve his fist in­to my sto­mach. I stumb­led back­ward, gas­ping for air that did not co­me. My sho­ul­der drag­ged down a loc­ker un­til I sat crump­led on the flo­or. A rib­bon of air slip­ped down my thro­at, and I cho­ked on it.
  Jules to­uc­hed the tracks my na­ils had car­ved in his fo­re­arm. "That's go­ing to cost you."
  "Why did you bring me he­re? What do you want?" I co­uldn't ke­ep the hyste­ria from my vo­ice.
  He yan­ked me up by my arm and drag­ged me fart­her down the hall. Kic­king a do­or open, he thrust me in­si­de and I went down, my palms col­li­ding with the hard flo­or. The do­or slam­med be­hind me. The only light ca­me from the he­ad­lamp, which Jules held.
  The air held the fa­mi­li­ar odors of chalk dust and sta­le che­mi­cals. Pos­ters of the hu­man body and cross-sec­ti­ons of hu­man cells de­co­ra­ted the walls. A long black gra­ni­te co­un­ter with a sink sto­od at the front of the ro­om. It fa­ced rows of matc­hing gra­ni­te lab tab­les. We we­re in­si­de Co­ach McCo­na­ughy's bi­ology ro­om.
  A flash of me­tal ca­ught my eye. A scal­pel lay on the flo­or, tuc­ked aga­inst the was­te­bas­ket. It must ha­ve be­en over­lo­oked by both Co­ach and the jani­tor. I slid it in­to the wa­ist­band of my je­ans just as Jules ha­uled me to my fe­et.
  "I had to cut the elect­ri­city," he sa­id, set­ting the he­ad­lamp on the ne­arest tab­le. "You can't play hi­de-and-se­ek in the light."
  Scra­ping two cha­irs ac­ross the flo­or, he po­si­ti­oned them fa­cing each ot­her. "Ha­ve a se­at." It didn't so­und li­ke an in­vi­ta­ti­on.
  My eyes dar­ted to the pa­nel of win­dows span­ning the far wall. I won­de­red if I co­uld crank one open and es­ca­pe be­fo­re Jules ca­ught me. Amid a tho­usand ot­her self-pre­ser­ving tho­ughts, I told myself not to ap­pe­ar frigh­te­ned. So­mew­he­re in the back of my mind I re­mem­be­red that ad­vi­ce from a self-de­fen­se class I'd ta­ken with Mom af­ter my dad di­ed. Ma­ke eye con­tact… lo­ok con­fi­dent… use com­mon sen­se… all easi­er sa­id than do­ne.
  Jules pus­hed down on my sho­ul­ders, for­cing me in­to a cha­ir. The cold me­tal se­eped thro­ugh my je­ans.
  "Gi­ve me yo­ur cell pho­ne," he or­de­red, hand held out for it.
  "I left it in the car."
  He bre­at­hed a la­ugh. "Do you re­al­ly want to play ga­mes with me? I've got yo­ur best fri­end loc­ked so­mew­he­re in the bu­il­ding. If you play ga­mes with me, she's go­ing to fe­el left out. I'll ha­ve to think up an ext­ra-spe­ci­al ga­me to ma­ke it up to her."
  I dug out the pho­ne and pas­sed it over.
  With su­per­hu­man strength, he bent it in half. "Now it's just the two of us." He sank in­to the cha­ir fa­cing mi­ne and stretc­hed his legs out lu­xu­ri­o­usly. One arm dang­led off the se­at back. "Let's talk, No­ra."
  I bol­ted from the cha­ir. Jules ho­oked me aro­und the wa­ist be­fo­re I'd ma­de it fo­ur steps and sho­ved me back in­to the cha­ir.
  "I used to own hor­ses," he sa­id. "A long ti­me ago in Fran­ce, I had a stab­le of be­a­uti­ful hor­ses. The Spa­nish hor­ses we­re my fa­vo­ri­te. They we­re ca­ught wild and bro­ught di­rectly to me. Wit­hin we­eks I had them sub­du­ed. But the­re was al­ways the ra­re hor­se that re­fu­sed to be bro­ken. Do you know what I did with a hor­se that re­fu­sed to be bro­ken?"
  I shud­de­red for an ans­wer.
  "Co­ope­ra­te, and you ha­ve not­hing to fe­ar," he sa­id.
  I didn't for one mo­ment be­li­eve him. The gle­am in his eyes wasn't sin­ce­re.
  "I saw El­li­ot in the lib­rary." I was surp­ri­sed by the wa­ver in my vo­ice. I didn't li­ke or trust El­li­ot, but he didn't de­ser­ve to die slowly and in pa­in. "Did you hurt him?"
  He sco­oted clo­ser, as if to sha­re a sec­ret. "If you're go­ing to com­mit a cri­me, ne­ver le­ave evi­den­ce. El­li­ot's be­en an in­teg­ral part of everyt­hing. He knows too much."
  "Is that why I'm he­re? Be­ca­use of the ar­tic­le I fo­und abo­ut Kj­irs­ten Hal­ver­son?"
  Jules smi­led. "Elli­ot fa­iled to men­ti­on that you know abo­ut Kj­irs­ten."
  "Did El­li­ot kill her… or did you?" I as­ked on a cold snap of ins­pi­ra­ti­on.
  "I had to test El­li­ot's lo­yalty. I to­ok away what was most im­por­tant. El­li­ot was at King­horn on scho­lars­hip, and no­body let him for­get it. Un­til me. I was his be­ne­fac­tor. In the end, it ca­me down to cho­osing me or Kj­irs­ten. Mo­re suc­cinctly, cho­osing mo­ney or lo­ve. Ap­pa­rently the­re's no ple­asu­re in be­ing a pa­uper among prin­ces. I bo­ught him off, and that's when I knew I co­uld rely on him when it ca­me ti­me to de­aling with you."
  "Why me?"
  "You ha­ven't fi­gu­red it out yet?" The light high­ligh­ted the ruth­les­sness in his fa­ce and cre­ated the il­lu­si­on that his eyes had tur­ned the co­lor of mol­ten sil­ver. "I've be­en to­ying with you. Dang­ling you by a string. Using you as a proxy, be­ca­use the per­son I re­al­ly want to harm can't be har­med. Do you know who that per­son is?"
  All the knots in my body se­emed to co­me un­do­ne. My eyes mo­ved out of fo­cus. Jules's fa­ce was li­ke an Imp­res­si­onist pa­in­ting-blur­red aro­und the ed­ges, lac­king de­ta­il. Blo­od dra­ined from my he­ad, and I felt myself start to slip off the cha­ir. I'd felt this way eno­ugh ti­mes be­fo­re to know I ne­eded iron. So­on.
  He slap­ped my che­ek aga­in. "Fo­cus. Who am I tal­king abo­ut?"
  "I don't know." I co­uldn't push my vo­ice abo­ve a whis­per.
  "Do you know why he can't be hurt? Be­ca­use he do­esn't ha­ve a hu­man body. His body lacks physi­cal sen­sa­ti­on. If I loc­ked him up and tor­tu­red him, it wo­uldn't do any go­od. He can't fe­el. Not an oun­ce of pa­in. Su­rely you've got a gu­ess by now? You've be­en spen­ding a lot of ti­me with this per­son. Why so si­lent, No­ra? Can't fi­gu­re it out?"
  A trick­le of swe­at crept down my back.
  "Every ye­ar at the start of the Heb­rew month of Chesh­van, he ta­kes cont­rol of my body. Two who­le we­eks. That's how long I for­fe­it cont­rol. No fre­edom, no cho­ice. I don't get the lu­xury of es­ca­ping du­ring tho­se two we­eks, lo­aning my body out, then co­ming back when it's all over. Then I might be ab­le to con­vin­ce myself it wasn't re­al­ly hap­pe­ning. No. I'm still in the­re, a pri­so­ner in­si­de my own body, li­ving ever) mo­ment of it," he sa­id in a grin­ding to­ne. "Do you know what that fe­els li­ke? Do you?" he sho­uted.
  I kept my mo­uth shut, kno­wing that to talk wo­uld be dan­ge­ro­us. Jules la­ug­hed, a rush of air thro­ugh his te­eth. It so­un­ded mo­re si­nis­ter than anyt­hing I'd ever he­ard.
  He sa­id, "I swo­re an oath al­lo­wing him to ta­ke pos­ses­si­on of my body du­ring Chesh­van. I was six­te­en ye­ars old." He shrug­ged, but it was a ri­gid mo­ve­ment. "He tric­ked me in­to the oath by tor­tu­ring me. Af­ter, he told me I wasn't hu­man. Can you be­li­eve it? Not hu­man. He told me my mot­her, a hu­man, slept with a fal­len an­gel." He grin­ned odi­o­usly, swe­at sprink­ling his fo­re­he­ad. "Did I men­ti­on I in­he­ri­ted a few tra­its from my fat­her? Just li­ke him, I'm a de­ce­iver. I ma­ke you see li­es. I ma­ke you he­ar vo­ices."
  Just li­ke this. Can you he­ar me, No­ra? Are you frigh­te­ned yet?
  He tap­ped my fo­re­he­ad. "What's go­ing on in the­re, No­ra? Aw­ful­ly qu­i­et."
  Jules was Cha­un­cey. He was Nep­hi­lim. I re­mem­be­red my birth­mark, and what Dab­ria had told me. Jules and I sha­red the sa­me blo­od. In my ve­ins was the blo­od of a mons­ter. I shut my eyes, and a te­ar slid out.
  "Re­mem­ber the night we first met? I jum­ped in front of the car you we­re dri­ving. It was dark and the­re was fog. You we­re al­re­ady on ed­ge, which ma­de it that much easi­er to de­ce­ive you. I enj­oyed sca­ring you. That first night ga­ve me a tas­te for it."
  "I wo­uld ha­ve no­ti­ced it was you,' many pe­op­le as tall as you."
  "You're not lis­te­ning. I can ma­ke you see wha­te­ver I want. Do you re­al­ly think I'd over­lo­ok a de­ta­il as con­dem­ning as my he­ight? You saw what I wan­ted you to see. You saw a non­desc­ript man in a black ski mask."
  I sat the­re, fe­eling a tiny crack in my ter­ror. I wasn't crazy. Jules was be­hind all of it. He was the crazy one. He co­uld cre­ate mind ga­mes be­ca­use his fat­her was a fal­len an­gel and he'd in­he­ri­ted the po­wer. "You didn't re­al­ly ran­sack my bed­ro­om," I sa­id. " You just ma­de me think you did. That's why it was still in or­der when the po­li­ce ar­ri­ved."
  He ap­pla­uded slowly and de­li­be­ra­tely. "Do you want to know the best part? You co­uld ha­ve bloc­ked me out. I co­uldn't ha­ve to­uc­hed yo­ur mind wit­ho­ut yo­ur per­mis­si­on. I re­ac­hed in, and you ne­ver re­sis­ted. You we­re we­ak. You we­re easy."
  It all ma­de sen­se, and ins­te­ad of fe­eling a bri­ef mo­ment of re­li­ef, I re­ali­zed how sus­cep­tib­le I was. I was strip­ped wi­de open. The­re was not­hing stop­ping Jules from suc­king me in­to his mind ga­mes, un­less I le­ar­ned to block him out.
  "Ima­gi­ne yo­ur­self in my pla­ce," sa­id Jules. "Yo­ur body vi­ola­ted ye­ar af­ter ye­ar. Ima­gi­ne a hat­red so hard, not­hing but re­ven­ge will cu­re it. Ima­gi­ne ex­pen­ding lar­ge sums of energy and re­so­ur­ces to ke­ep a clo­se eye on the obj­ect of yo­ur re­ven­ge, wa­iting pa­ti­ently for the mo­ment when fa­te pre­sen­ted you an op­por­tu­nity not just to get even, but to tip the sca­les in yo­ur fa­vor." His eyes loc­ked on mi­ne. "You're that op­por­tu­nity. If I hurt you, I hurt Patch."
  "You're ove­res­ti­ma­ting my va­lue to Patch," I sa­id, cold swe­at bre­aking out along my ha­ir­li­ne.
  "I've be­en ke­eping a clo­se eye on Patch for cen­tu­ri­es. Last sum­mer he ma­de his first trip to yo­ur ho­use, tho­ugh you didn't no­ti­ce. He fol­lo­wed you shop­ping a few ti­mes. Ever) now and then, he ma­de a spe­ci­al trip out of his way to find you. Then he en­rol­led at yo­ur scho­ol. I co­uldn't help but ask myself, what was so spe­ci­al abo­ut you? I ma­de an ef­fort to find out. I've be­en watc­hing you for a whi­le now."
  Not­hing short of dre­ad grip­ped me. Right then, I knew it was ne­ver my dad's pre­sen­ce I'd felt, fol­lo­wing me li­ke a phan­tom gu­ar­di­an. It was Jules. I felt the sa­me ice-cold, une­arthly pre­sen­ce now, only amp­li­fi­ed a hund­red ti­mes.
  "I didn't want to draw Patch's sus­pi­ci­on and bac­ked off," he con­ti­nu­ed. "That's when El­li­ot step­ped for­ward, and it didn't ta­ke him long to tell me what I'd al­re­ady gu­es­sed. Patch is in lo­ve with you."
  It all clic­ked in­to pla­ce. Jules hadn't be­en sick the night he di­sap­pe­ared in­to the men's ro­om at Delp­hic. And he hadn't be­en sick the night we went to the Bor­der­li­ne. All along it was the simp­le fact that he had to re­ma­in in­vi­sib­le to Patch. The mo­ment Patch saw him, it wo­uld all be over. Patch wo­uld know Jules- Cha­un­cey-was up to so­met­hing. El­li­ot was Jules's eyes and ears, fe­eding in­for­ma­ti­on back to him.
  "The plan was to kill you on the cam­ping trip, but El­li­ot fa­iled to con­vin­ce you to co­me," Jules sa­id. "Ear­li­er to­day, I fol­lo­wed you out of Blind Joe's and shot you. Ima­gi­ne my surp­ri­se when I fo­und Pd kil­led a bag lady dres­sed in yo­ur co­at. But it all wor­ked out." His to­ne re­la­xed. "He­re we are."
  I shif­ted in my se­at, and the scal­pel slid de­eper in­to my je­ans. If I wasn't ca­re­ful, it wo­uld slip out of re­ach. If Jules for­ced me to stand, it might sli­de all the way down my pant leg. And that wo­uld be the end of that.
  "Let me gu­ess what you're thin­king," sa­id Jules, ri­sing to his fe­et and sa­un­te­ring to the front of the ro­om. "You're star­ting to wish you'd ne­ver met Patch. You wish he'd ne­ver fal­len in lo­ve with you. Go on. La­ugh at the po­si­ti­on he's put you in. La­ugh at yo­ur own bad cho­ice."
  He­aring Jules talk abo­ut Patch's lo­ve fil­led me with ir­ra­ti­onal ho­pe.
  I fumb­led the scal­pel out of my je­ans and jum­ped from my se­at. "Don't co­me ne­ar me! I'll stab you. I swe­ar I will!"
  Jules ma­de a gut­tu­ral so­und and flung his arm ac­ross the co­un­ter at the front of the ro­om. Glass be­akers shat­te­red aga­inst the chalk­bo­ard, pa­pers flut­te­ring down. He stro­de to­ward me. In a pa­nic, I bro­ught the scal­pel up as hard as I co­uld. It met his palm, sli­cing thro­ugh skin.
  Jules his­sed and drew back.
  Not wa­iting, I plun­ged the scal­pel down in­to his thigh.
  Jules ga­ped at the me­tal prot­ru­ding from his leg. He jer­ked it out using both hands, his fa­ce con­tor­ting in pa­in. He ope­ned his hands, and the scal­pel fell with a clat­ter.
  He to­ok a fal­te­ring step to­ward me.
  I shri­eked and dod­ged away, but my hip clip­ped the ed­ge of a tab­le; I lost my fo­oting and tumb­led down. The scal­pel lay se­ve­ral fe­et away.
  Jules flip­ped me on my sto­mach and strad­dled me from be­hind. He pres­sed my fa­ce in­to the flo­or, crus­hing my no­se and muf­fling my scre­ams.
  "Va­li­ant at­tempt," he grun­ted. "But that won't kill me. I'm Nep­hi­lim. I'm im­mor­tal."
  I grab­bed for the scal­pel, dig­ging my to­es in­to the flo­or to stretch tho­se last, vi­tal inc­hes. My fin­gers fumb­led over it. I was so clo­se, and then Jules was drag­ging me back.
  I bro­ught my he­el up hard bet­we­en his legs; he gro­aned and went limp off to one si­de. I scramb­led to my fe­et, but Jules rol­led to the do­or, kne­eling bet­we­en me and it.
  His ha­ir hung in his eyes. Be­ads of swe­at trick­led down his fa­ce. His mo­uth was lop­si­ded, one half cur­led up in pa­in.
  Every musc­le in my body was co­iled, re­ady to spring in­to ac­ti­on.
  "Go­od luck trying to es­ca­pe," he sa­id with a cyni­cal smi­le that se­emed to re­qu­ire a lot of ef­fort. "You'll see what I me­an." Then he sank to the gro­und.

CHAPTER 29

  I HAD NO IDEA WHE­RE VEE WAS. THE OB­VI­O­US THO­UGHT ca­me to me to think li­ke Jules-whe­re wo­uld I hold Vee hos­ta­ge if I we­re him?
  He wants to ma­ke it hard to es­ca­pe and hard to be fo­und, I re­aso­ned.
  I bro­ught up a men­tal blu­ep­rint of the bu­il­ding, nar­ro­wing my at­ten­ti­on to the up­per le­vels. Chan­ces we­re, Vee was on the third flo­or, the hig­hest in the scho­ol-except for a small fo­urth flo­or, which was mo­re of an at­tic than anyt­hing el­se. A nar­row sta­ir­ca­se ac­ces­sib­le only from the third flo­or led up to it. The­re we­re two bun­ga­low-style clas­sro­oms at the top: AP Spa­nish and the eZi­ne lab.
  Vee was in the eZi­ne lab. Just li­ke that, I knew it.
  Mo­ving as qu­ickly as I co­uld thro­ugh the dark­ness, I felt my way up two flights of sta­irs. Af­ter so­me tri­al and er­ror, I fo­und the nar­row sta­ir­ca­se le­ading to the eZi­ne lab. At the top, I pus­hed on the do­or.
  "Vee?" I cal­led softly.
  She let out a small mo­an.
  "It's me," I sa­id, ta­king each step with ca­re as I ma­ne­uve­red up an ais­le of desks, not wan­ting to knock over a cha­ir and alert Jules to my lo­ca­ti­on. "Are you hurt? We ne­ed to get out of he­re." I fo­und her hud­dled at the front of the ro­om, hug­ging her kne­es to her chest.
  "Jules hit me over the he­ad," she sa­id, her vo­ice ri­sing. "I think I pas­sed out. Now I can't see. I can't see anyt­hing!"
  "Lis­ten to me. Jules cut the elect­ri­city and the sha­des are drawn. It's just the dark­ness. Hold my hand. We ha­ve to get downs­ta­irs right now."
  "I think he da­ma­ged so­met­hing. My he­ad is throb­bing. I re­al­ly think I'm blind!"
  "You're not blind," I whis­pe­red, gi­ving her a small sha­ke. "I can't see eit­her. We ha­ve to fe­el our way downs­ta­irs. We're go­ing to le­ave thro­ugh the exit by the ath­le­tics of­fi­ce."
  "He's got cha­ins on all the do­ors."
  A mo­ment of ri­gid si­len­ce drop­ped bet­we­en us. I re­mem­be­red Jules wis­hing me luck es­ca­ping, and now I knew why. A per­cep­tib­le chill rip­pled from my he­art thro­ugh the rest of my body. "Not the do­or I ca­me in," I sa­id at last. "The far east do­or is un­loc­ked."
  "It must be the only one. I was with him when he cha­ined the ot­hers. He sa­id that way no­body wo­uld be temp­ted to go out­si­de whi­le we pla­yed hi­de-and-se­ek. He sa­id out­si­de was out-of-bo­unds."
  "If the east do­or is the only one left un­loc­ked, he'll try to block it. He'll wa­it for us to co­me to him. But we're not go­ing to. We're go­ing out a win­dow," I sa­id, de­vi­sing a plan off the top of my he­ad. "On the op­po­si­te end of the bu­il­ding-this end. Do you ha­ve yo­ur cell?"
  "Jules to­ok it."
  "When we get out­si­de, we ha­ve to split up. If Jules cha­ses us, he'll ha­ve to cho­ose one of us to fol­low. The ot­her will get help." I al­re­ady knew who he'd cho­ose. Jules had no use for Vee, ex­cept to lu­re me he­re to­night. "Run as hard as you can and get to a pho­ne. Call the po­li­ce. Tell them El­li­ot is in the lib­rary."
  "Ali­ve?" Vee as­ked, her vo­ice tremb­ling.
  "I don't know."
  We sto­od hud­dled to­get­her, and I felt her pull her shirt up and wi­pe her eyes. "This is all my fa­ult."
  "This is Jules's fa­ult."
  "I'm sca­red."
  "We're go­ing to be fi­ne," I sa­id, at­temp­ting to so­und op­ti­mis­tic. "I stab­bed Jules in the leg with a scal­pel. He's ble­eding he­avily. May­be he'll gi­ve up cha­sing us and go get me­di­cal at­ten­ti­on."
  A sob es­ca­ped Vee. We both knew I was lying. Jules's de­si­re for re­ven­ge out­we­ig­hed his wo­und. It out­we­ig­hed everyt­hing.
  Vee and I crept down the sta­irs, ke­eping tight to the walls, un­til we we­re back on the ma­in flo­or.
  "This way," I whis­pe­red in her ear, hol­ding her hand as we spe­ed-wal­ked down the hall, he­ading fart­her west.
  We hadn't wal­ked very far when a gut­tu­ral so­und, not qu­ite la­ugh­ter, rol­led out of the tun­nel of dark­ness ahe­ad.
  "Well, well, what do we ha­ve he­re?" Jules sa­id. The­re was no fa­ce at­tac­hed to his vo­ice.
  "Run," I told Vee, squ­e­ezing her hand. "He wants me. Call the po­li­ce. Run!"
  Vee drop­ped my hand and ran. Her fo­ots­teps fa­ded dep­res­singly fast. I won­de­red bri­efly if Patch was still in the bu­il­ding, but it was mo­re of a si­de tho­ught. Most of my con­cent­ra­ti­on went in­to not pas­sing out. Be­ca­use on­ce aga­in, I fo­und myself all alo­ne with Jules.
  "It will ta­ke the po­li­ce at le­ast twenty mi­nu­tes to res­pond," Jules told me, the tap of his sho­es dra­wing clo­ser. "I don't ne­ed twenty mi­nu­tes."
  I tur­ned and ran. Jules bro­ke in­to a run be­hind me.
  Fumb­ling my hands over the walls, I tur­ned right at the first in­ter­sec­ti­on and ra­ced down a per­pen­di­cu­lar hall. For­ced to rely on the walls to gu­ide me, my hands slap­ped over the sharp ed­ges of loc­kers and do­orj­ambs, nic­king my skin. I ma­de anot­her right, run­ning as fast as I co­uld for the do­ub­le do­ors of the gymna­si­um.
  The only tho­ught po­un­ding thro­ugh my he­ad was that if I co­uld get to my gym loc­ker in ti­me, I co­uld lock myself in­si­de it. The girls' loc­ker ro­om was wall-to-wall and flo­or-to-ce­iling with over­si­ze loc­kers. It wo­uld ta­ke Jules ti­me to bre­ak in­to each one in­di­vi­du­al­ly. If I was luck), the po­li­ce wo­uld ar­ri­ve be­fo­re he fo­und me.
  I flung myself in­to the gym and ran for the at­tac­hed girls' loc­ker ro­om. As so­on as I pus­hed on the do­or hand­le, I felt a spi­ke of cold ter­ror. The do­or was loc­ked. I rat­tled the hand­le aga­in, but it didn't gi­ve. Spin­ning aro­und, I se­arc­hed fran­ti­cal­ly for anot­her exit, but I was trap­ped in the gym. I fell back aga­inst the do­or, squ­e­ezed my eyes shut to sta­ve off fa­in­ting, and lis­te­ned to my bre­ath hitch up.
  When I re­ope­ned my eyes, Jules was wal­king in­to the ha­ze of mo­on­light trick­ling thro­ugh the skylights. He'd knot­ted his shirt aro­und his thigh; a sta­in of blo­od se­eped thro­ugh the fab­ric. He was left in a whi­te un­ders­hirt and chi­nos. A gun was tuc­ked in­to the wa­ist­band of his pants.
  "Ple­ase let me go," I whis­pe­red.
  "Vee told me so­met­hing in­te­res­ting abo­ut you. You're af­ra­id of he­ights." He lif­ted his ga­ze to the raf­ters high abo­ve the gym. A smi­le split his fa­ce.
  The stag­nant air was sod­den with the smells of swe­at and wo­od var­nish. The he­at had be­en tur­ned off for spring bre­ak and the tem­pe­ra­tu­re was icy. Sha­dows stretc­hed back and forth ac­ross the po­lis­hed flo­or as the mo­on­light bro­ke thro­ugh the clo­uds. Jules sto­od with his back to the ble­ac­hers, and I saw Patch mo­ve be­hind him.
  "Did you at­tack Mar­cie Mil­lar?" I as­ked Jules, or­de­ring myself not to re­act and gi­ve Patch away.
  "Elli­ot told me the­re's bad blo­od bet­we­en the two of you. I didn't li­ke the idea of so­me­one el­se ha­ving the ple­asu­re of tor­men­ting my girl."
  "And my bed­ro­om win­dow? Did you spy on me whi­le I was sle­eping?"
  "Not­hing per­so­nal."
  Jules stif­fe­ned. He step­ped for­ward sud­denly and jer­ked on my wrist, spin­ning me aro­und in front of him. I felt what I fe­ared was the gun press in­to the na­pe of my neck. "Ta­ke off yo­ur hat," Jules or­de­red Patch. "I want to see the exp­res­si­on on yo­ur fa­ce when I kill her. You're help­less to sa­ve her. As help­less as I was to do anyt­hing abo­ut the oath I swo­re to you."
  Patch to­ok a co­up­le of steps clo­ser. He mo­ved easily, but I sen­sed his tightly re­ined ca­uti­on. The gun pro­bed de­eper, and I win­ced.
  "Ta­ke anot­her step and this will be her last bre­ath," Jules war­ned.
  Patch glan­ced at the dis­tan­ce bet­we­en us, cal­cu­la­ting how qu­ickly he co­uld co­ver it. Jules saw it too.
  "Don't try it," he sa­id.
  "You're not go­ing to sho­ot her, Cha­un­cey."
  "No?" Jules squ­e­ezed the trig­ger. The gun clic­ked, and I ope­ned my mo­uth to scre­am, but all that ca­me out was a tre­mu­lo­us sob.
  "Re­vol­ver," Jules exp­la­ined. "The ot­her fi­ve cham­bers are lo­aded."
  Re­ady to use tho­se bo­xing mo­ves you're al­ways brag­ging abo­ut? Patch sa­id to my mind.
  My pul­se was all over the pla­ce, my legs ba­rely hol­ding me up. "W-what?" I stam­me­red.
  Wit­ho­ut war­ning, a rush of po­wer co­ur­sed in­to me. The fo­re­ign for­ce ex­pan­ded to fill me. My body was comp­le­tely vul­ne­rab­le to Patch, all my strength and fre­edom for­fe­ited as he to­ok pos­ses­si­on of me.
  Be­fo­re I had ti­me to re­ali­ze just how much this loss of cont­rol ter­ri­fi­ed me, a crus­hing pa­in spi­ked thro­ugh my hand, and I re­ali­zed Patch was using my fist to punch Jules. The gun was knoc­ked lo­ose; it skid­ded ac­ross the gym flo­or out of re­ach.
  Patch com­man­ded my hands to slam Jules back­ward aga­inst the ble­ac­hers. Jules trip­ped, fal­ling in­to them.
  The next thing I knew, my hands we­re clo­sing on Jules's thro­at, flin­ging his he­ad back aga­inst the ble­ac­hers with a lo­ud crack! I held him the­re, pres­sing my fin­gers in­to his neck. His eyes wi­de­ned, then bul­ged. He was trying to spe­ak, mo­ving his lips unin­tel­li­gibly, but Patch didn't let up.
  I won't be ab­le to stay in­si­de you much lon­ger, Patch spo­ke to my tho­ughts. It's not Chesh­van and I'm not al­lo­wed. As so­on as I'm cast out, run. Do you un­ders­tand? Run as fast as you can. Cha­un­cey will be too we­ak and stun­ned to get in­si­de yo­ur he­ad. Run and don't stop.
  A high hum­ming so­und whi­ned thro­ugh me, and I felt my body pe­eling away from Patch's.
  The ves­sels in Jules's neck jum­ped out and his he­ad dro­oped to one si­de. Co­me on, I he­ard Patch ur­ge him. Pass out… pass out…
  But it was too la­te. Patch va­nis­hed from in­si­de me. He was go­ne so sud­denly, I was left dizzy.
  My hands we­re in my cont­rol aga­in, and they sprang away from Jules's neck on im­pul­se. He gas­ped for air and blin­ked up at me. Patch was on the flo­or a few fe­et away, un­mo­ving.
  I re­mem­be­red what Patch had sa­id and sprin­ted ac­ross the gym. I flung myself aga­inst the do­or, ex­pec­ting to sa­il in­to the hall. Ins­te­ad it was li­ke hit­ting a wall. I sho­ved the push bar, kno­wing the do­or was un­loc­ked. Fi­ve mi­nu­tes ago I'd co­me thro­ugh it. I hur­led all my we­ight aga­inst the do­or. It didn't open.
  I tur­ned aro­und, the ad­re­na­li­ne let­down ca­using my kne­es to sha­ke. "Get out of my mind!" I scre­amed at Jules.
  Pul­ling him­self up to sit on the lo­west ri­se of the ble­ac­hers, Jules mas­sa­ged his thro­at. "No," he sa­id.
  I tri­ed the do­or aga­in. I got my fo­ot up and kic­ked the push bar. I smac­ked my palms aga­inst the do­or's slit of a win­dow. "Help! Can an­yo­ne he­ar me? Help!"
  Lo­oking over my sho­ul­der, I fo­und Jules lim­ping to­ward me, his inj­ured leg buck­ling un­der each step. I squ­e­ezed my eyes shut, trying to fo­cus my mind. The do­or wo­uld open as so­on as I fo­und his vo­ice and swept it out. I se­arc­hed ever) cor­ner of my mind but co­uldn't find him. He was so­mew­he­re de­ep, hi­ding from me. I ope­ned my eyes. Jules was much clo­ser. I was go­ing to ha­ve to find anot­her way out.
  Dril­led in­to the wall abo­ve the ble­ac­hers was an iron lad­der. It re­ac­hed to the grid of raf­ters at the top of the gym. At the far end of the raf­ters, on the op­po­si­te wall, al­most di­rectly abo­ve whe­re I sto­od, was an air shaft. If I co­uld get to it, I co­uld climb in and find anot­her way down.
  I bro­ke in­to a de­ad sprint past Jules and up the ble­ac­hers. My sho­es slap­ped the wo­od, ec­ho­ing thro­ugh the empty spa­ce, ma­king it im­pos­sib­le to he­ar whet­her Jules was fol­lo­wing me. I got my fo­oting on the first lad­der rung and ho­is­ted myself up. I clim­bed one rung, then anot­her. Out of the cor­ner of my eye, I saw the drin­king fo­un­ta­in far be­low. It was small, which me­ant I was high. Very high.
  Don't lo­ok down, I or­de­red myself. Con­cent­ra­te on what's abo­ve. I ten­ta­ti­vely clim­bed one mo­re rung. The lad­der rat­tled, not pro­perly wel­ded to the wall.
  Jules's la­ugh­ter car­ri­ed up to me, and my con­cent­ra­ti­on slip­ped. Ima­ges of fal­ling flas­hed in my mind. Lo­gi­cal­ly, I knew he was plan­ting them. Then my bra­in til­ted, and I co­uldn't re­mem­ber which way was up or down. I co­uldn't de­cip­her which tho­ughts we­re mi­ne and which be­lon­ged to Jules.
  My fe­ar was so thick it blur­red my vi­si­on. I didn't know whe­re on the lad­der I sto­od. We­re my fe­et cen­te­red? Was I clo­se to slip­ping? Clenc­hing the rung with both hands, I pres­sed my fo­re­he­ad aga­inst my knuck­les. Bre­at­he, I told myself. Bre­at­he!
  And then I he­ard it.
  The slow, ago­ni­zing so­und of me­tal cre­aking. I clo­sed my eyes to sup­press a dizzy spell.
  The me­tal brac­kets se­cu­ring the top of the lad­der to the wall pop­ped free. The me­tal­lic gro­an chan­ged to a high-pitc­hed whi­ne as the next set of brac­kets down to­re from the wall. I watc­hed with a scre­am trap­ped in my thro­at as the en­ti­re top half of the lad­der bro­ke free. Loc­king my arms and legs aro­und the lad­der, I bra­ced myself for the back­ward fall. The lad­der wa­ve­red a mo­ment in air, pa­ti­ently suc­cum­bing to gra­vity.
  And then it all hap­pe­ned qu­ickly. The raf­ters and skylights fa­ded away in­to a diz­zying blur. I flew down un­til, sud­denly, the lad­der slam­med to a stop. It bo­un­ced up and down, per­pen­di­cu­lar to the wall, thirty fe­et abo­ve gro­und. The im­pact jer­ked my legs lo­ose, my hands my only at­tach­ment to the lad­der.
  "Help!" I scre­amed, my legs bicyc­ling thro­ugh air.
  The lad­der lurc­hed, drop­ping se­ve­ral mo­re fe­et. One of my sho­es slid down my fo­ot, ca­ught on my toe, then drop­ped. Far too long la­ter, it hit the gym flo­or.
  I bit down on my ton­gue as the pa­in in my arms de­epe­ned. They we­re te­aring out of the­ir soc­kets.
  And then, thro­ugh the fe­ar and pa­nic, I he­ard Patch's vo­ice. Block him out Ke­ep clim­bing. The lad­der's in­tact.
  "I can't," I sob­bed. "I'll fall!"
  Block him out. Clo­se yo­ur eyes. Lis­ten to my vo­ice.
  Swal­lo­wing, I for­ced my eyes shut. I clung to Patch's vo­ice and felt a sturdy sur­fa­ce ta­ke sha­pe be­ne­ath me. My fe­et we­re no lon­ger han­ging in air. I felt one of the lad­der rungs dig­ging in­to the balls of my fe­et. Fo­cu­sing with re­sol­ve on Patch's vo­ice, I wa­ited un­til the world crept back in­to pla­ce. Patch was right. I was on the lad­der. It was up­right, se­cu­red to the wall. I re­ga­ined a me­asu­re of de­ter­mi­na­ti­on and con­ti­nu­ed clim­bing.
  At the top I eased myself pre­ca­ri­o­usly on­to the clo­sest raf­ter. I got my arms aro­und it, then swung my right leg up and over. I was fa­cing the wall, with my back to the air shaft, but the­re was not­hing I co­uld do now. Very ca­re­ful­ly, I ro­se up on my kne­es. Using all my con­cent­ra­ti­on, I star­ting inc­hing back­ward ac­ross the ex­pan­se of the gym.
  But it was too la­te.
  Jules had clim­bed qu­ickly, and was now less than fif­te­en fe­et away from me. He clim­bed on­to the raf­ter. Hand over hand, he drag­ged him­self to­ward me. A dark slash on the in­si­de of his wrist ca­ught my eye. It in­ter­sec­ted his ve­ins at a ni­nety-deg­ree ang­le and was ne­arly black in co­lor. To an­yo­ne el­se, it might ha­ve lo­oked li­ke a scar. To me, it me­ant so much mo­re. The fa­mily con­nec­ti­on was ob­vi­o­us. We sha­red the sa­me blo­od, and it sho­wed in our iden­ti­cal marks.
  We we­re both strad­dling the raf­ter, sit­ting fa­ce-to-fa­ce, ten fe­et apart.
  "Any last words?" Jules sa­id.
  I lo­oked down, even tho­ugh it ma­de me dizzy. Patch was far be­low on the gym flo­or, still as de­ath. Right then, I wan­ted to go back in ti­me and re­li­ve ever) mo­ment with him. One mo­re sec­ret smi­le, one mo­re sha­red la­ugh. One mo­re elect­ric kiss. Fin­ding him was li­ke fin­ding so­me­one I didn't know I was se­arc­hing for. He'd co­me in­to my li­fe too la­te, and now was le­aving too so­on. I re­mem­be­red him tel­ling me he'd gi­ve up everyt­hing for me. He al­re­ady had. He'd gi­ven up a hu­man body of his own so I co­uld li­ve.
  I wob­bled ac­ci­den­tal­ly, and ins­tinc­ti­vely drop­ped lo­wer to ba­lan­ce myself.
  Jules's eyes we­re de­vo­id of light. They we­re tra­ined on me, ab­sor­bing every word I spo­ke. I co­uld tell by his exp­res­si­on that he was we­ig­hing my words. A flush ro­se in his fa­ce, and I knew he be­li­eved me. "You-," he sput­te­red.
  He slid to­ward me with fran­tic spe­ed, si­mul­ta­ne­o­usly re­ac­hing in­to his wa­ist­band to draw the gun.
  Te­ars stung my eyes. With no ti­me for se­cond tho­ughts, I threw myself off the raf­ter.
  Jules's la­ugh­ter car­ri­ed li­ke a cold whis­per. "It ma­kes no dif­fe­ren­ce to me whet­her I sho­ot you or you fall to yo­ur de­ath."
  "It do­es ma­ke a dif­fe­ren­ce," I sa­id, my vo­ice small but con­fi­dent. "You and I sha­re the sa­me blo­od." I lif­ted my hand pre­ca­ri­o­usly, sho­wing him my birth­mark. "I'm yo­ur des­cen­dant. If I sac­ri­fi­ce my blo­od, Patch will be­co­me hu­man and you'll die. It's writ­ten in The Bo­ok of Enoch"

CHAPTER 30

  A DO­OR OPE­NED AND CLO­SED. I WA­ITED TO HE­AR fo­ots­teps ap­pro­ach, but the only so­und ca­me from the tic­king of a clock: a rhythmic, ste­ady po­un­ding thro­ugh the si­len­ce.
  The so­und be­gan to fa­de, win­ding down. I won­de­red if I wo­uld he­ar it stop comp­le­tely. I sud­denly fe­ared that mo­ment, un­su­re of what ca­me af­ter.
  A much mo­re vib­rant so­und ec­lip­sed the clock. It was a re­as­su­ring, et­he­re­al so­und, a me­lo­dic dan­ce on air. Wings, I tho­ught. Co­ming to ta­ke me away.
  I held my bre­ath, wa­iting, wa­iting, wa­iting. And then the clock be­gan to go in re­ver­se. Ins­te­ad of slo­wing, the be­at be­ca­me mo­re cer­ta­in. A spi­ral-li­ke li­qu­id for­med in­si­de me, co­iling de­eper and de­eper. I felt myself pul­led in­to the cur­rent. I was sli­ding down thro­ugh myself, in­to a dark, warm pla­ce.
  My eyes flic­ke­red open to fa­mi­li­ar oak pa­ne­ling on the slo­ped ce­iling abo­ve me. My bed­ro­om. A sen­se of re­as­su­ran­ce flo­oded over me, and then I re­mem­be­red whe­re I'd be­en. In the gym with Jules.
  A shi­ver slid over my skin.
  "Patch?" I sa­id, my vo­ice ho­ar­se from di­su­se. I tri­ed to sit up, then ga­ve a muf­fled cry. So­met­hing was wrong with my body. Every musc­le, bo­ne, cell was so­re. I felt li­ke one gi­ant bru­ise.
  The­re was mo­ve­ment ne­ar the do­or­way. Patch le­aned aga­inst the do­orj­amb. His mo­ut­hed was pres­sed tight and lac­ked its usu­al twin­ge of hu­mor. His eyes held mo­re depth than I'd ever se­en be­fo­re. They we­re shar­pe­ned by a pro­tec­ti­ve ed­ge.
  "That was a go­od fight back in the gym," he sa­id. "But I think you co­uld be­ne­fit from a few mo­re bo­xing les­sons."
  On a wa­ve, everyt­hing ca­me back to me. Te­ars rol­led up from de­ep in­si­de me. "What hap­pe­ned? Whe­re is Jules? How did I get he­re?" My vo­ice crac­ked with pa­nic. "I threw myself off the raf­ter."
  "That to­ok a lot of co­ura­ge." Patch's vo­ice tur­ned husky, and he step­ped all the way in­si­de my bed­ro­om. He clo­sed the do­or be­hind him, and I knew it was his way of trying to lock out all the bad. He was put­ting a di­vi­de bet­we­en me and everyt­hing that had hap­pe­ned.
  He wal­ked over and sat on the bed be­si­de me. "What el­se do you re­mem­ber?"
  I tri­ed to pi­ece my me­mo­ri­es to­get­her, wor­king back­ward. I re­mem­be­red the be­ating wings I'd he­ard shortly af­ter I flung myself off the raf­ter. Wit­ho­ut any do­ubt, I knew I'd di­ed. I knew an an­gel had co­me to carry my so­ul away.
  "I'm de­ad, aren't I?" I sa­id qu­i­etly, re­eling with fright. "Am I a ghost?"
  "When you jum­ped, the sac­ri­fi­ce kil­led Jules. Tech­ni­cal­ly, when you ca­me back, he sho­uld ha­ve too. But sin­ce he didn't ha­ve a so­ul, he had not­hing to re­vi­ve his body."
  "I ca­me back?" I sa­id, ho­ping I wasn't fil­ling myself with fal­se ho­pe.
  "I didn't ac­cept yo­ur sac­ri­fi­ce. I tur­ned it down."
  I felt a small Oh form at my mo­uth, but it ne­ver qu­ite ma­de it past my lips. "Are you sa­ying you ga­ve up get­ting a hu­man body for me?"
  He lif­ted my ban­da­ged hand. Un­der­ne­ath all the ga­uze, my knuck­les throb­bed from punc­hing Jules. Patch kis­sed each fin­ger, ta­king his ti­me, ke­eping his eyes glu­ed to mi­ne. "What go­od is a body if I can't ha­ve you?"
  He­avi­er te­ard­rops rol­led down my che­eks, and Patch pul­led me to him, tuc­king my he­ad aga­inst his chest. Very slowly the pa­nic ed­ged away, and I knew it was all over. I was go­ing to be all right.
  Sud­denly I pul­led away. If Patch had tur­ned down the sac­ri­fi­ce, then-
  "You sa­ved my li­fe. Turn aro­und," I or­de­red so­lemnly.
  Patch ga­ve a sly smi­le and in­dul­ged my re­qu­est. I tuc­ked his T-shirt up to his sho­ul­ders. His back was smo­oth, de­fi­ned musc­le. The scars we­re go­ne.
  "You can't see my wings," he sa­id. "They're ma­de of spi­ri­tu­al mat­ter."
  "You're a gu­ar­di­an an­gel now." I was still too much in awe to wrap my mind aro­und it, but at the sa­me ti­me I felt ama­ze­ment, cu­ri­osity… hap­pi­ness.
  "I'm yo­ur gu­ar­di­an an­gel," he sa­id.
  "I get my very own gu­ar­di­an an­gel? What, exactly, is yo­ur job desc­rip­ti­on?"
  "Gu­ard yo­ur body." His smi­le tip­ped hig­her. "I ta­ke my job se­ri­o­usly, which me­ans I'm go­ing to ne­ed to get ac­qu­a­in­ted with the su­bj­ect mat­ter on a per­so­nal le­vel."
  My sto­mach went all flut­tery. "Do­es this me­an you can fe­el now?"
  Patch watc­hed me in si­len­ce for a mo­ment. "No, but it do­es me­an I'm not black­lis­ted."
  Downs­ta­irs, I he­ard the qu­i­et rumb­le of the ga­ra­ge do­or gli­ding open.
  "My mom!" I gas­ped. I fo­und the clock on the nights­tand. It was just af­ter two in the mor­ning. "They must ha­ve ope­ned the brid­ge.
  How do­es this who­le gu­ar­di­an an­gel bu­si­ness work? Am I the only per­son who can see you? I me­an, are you in­vi­sib­le to ever­yo­ne el­se?"
  Patch sta­red at me li­ke he ho­ped I wasn't se­ri­o­us.
  "You're not in­vi­sib­le?" I squ­e­aked. "You ha­ve to get out of he­re!" I ma­de a mo­ve­ment to push Patch off the bed but was cut short by a se­aring jab in my ribs. "She'll kill me if she finds you in he­re. Can you climb tre­es? Tell me you can climb a tree!"
  Patch grin­ned. "I can fly."
  Oh. Right. Well, okay.
  "The po­li­ce and fi­re de­part­ment we­re he­re ear­li­er," Patch sa­id. "The mas­ter bed­ro­om will ne­ed to be gut­ted, but they stop­ped the fi­re from spre­ading. The po­li­ce will be back. They're go­ing to ha­ve a few qu­es­ti­ons. If I had to gu­ess, they al­re­ady tri­ed re­ac­hing you on the cell you cal­led 911 on."
  "Jules to­ok it."
  He nod­ded. "I fi­gu­red. I don't ca­re what you tell the po­li­ce, but I'd ap­pre­ci­ate it if you left me out of it." He slid my bed­ro­om win­dow open. "Last thing. Vee got to the po­li­ce in ti­me. Pa­ra­me­dics sa­ved El­li­ot. He's in the hos­pi­tal, but he'll be all right."
  Down the hall, at the bot­tom of the sta­irs, I he­ard the ho­use do­or shut. My mom was in­si­de.
  "No­ra?" she cal­led. She tos­sed her pur­se and keys on the entry tab­le. Her high he­els clic­ked ac­ross the wo­od flo­ors, al­most at a run­ning pa­ce. "No­ra! The­re's po­li­ce ta­pe on the front do­or! What is go­ing on?"
  I lo­oked to the win­dow. Patch was go­ne, but a sing­le black fe­at­her was pres­sed to the outer pa­ne, held in pla­ce by last night's ra­in. Or an­gel ma­gic.
  Downs­ta­irs, my mom flic­ked on the hall light, a fa­int ray of it stretc­hing all the way un­der the crack at the bot­tom of my do­or. I held my bre­ath and co­un­ted se­conds, as­su­ming I had abo­ut two mo­re be­fo­re-
  She shri­eked. "No­ra! What hap­pe­ned to the ba­nis­ter!
  Go­od thing she hadn't se­en her bed­ro­om yet.
  The sky was a per­fect, rin­sed blue. The sun was just star­ting to fan out ac­ross the ho­ri­zon. It was Mon­day, a brand-new day, the hor­rors of the past twenty-fo­ur ho­urs far be­hind. I had fi­ve ho­urs of sle­ep un­der my belt, and ot­her than the all-over body pa­in that ca­me from be­ing suc­ked in­to de­ath, then spat back out, I felt re­mar­kably ref­res­hed. I didn't want to hang a black clo­ud over the mo­ment by re­min­ding myself that the po­li­ce we­re ex­pec­ted to ar­ri­ve any mi­nu­te to ta­ke my sta­te­ment on the night's events. I still hadn't ma­de up my mind what I was go­ing to tell them.
  I pad­ded to the bath­ro­om in my nights­hirt-men­tal­ly bloc­king the qu­es­ti­on of how I'd chan­ged in­to it, sin­ce I'd pre­su­mably be­en we­aring clot­hes when Patch bro­ught me ho­me-and sped thro­ugh my mor­ning ro­uti­ne. I splas­hed cold wa­ter on my fa­ce, scrub­bed my te­eth, and ta­med my ha­ir back in­to a rub­ber band. In my bed­ro­om, I pul­led on a cle­an shirt, cle­an je­ans.
  I cal­led Vee.
  "How are you do­ing?" I as­ked.
  "Go­od. How are you?"
  "Go­od."
  Si­len­ce.
  "Okay," Vee sa­id in a rush, "I am still to­tal­ly fre­aked out. You?"
  "To­tal­ly."
  "Patch cal­led me in the mid­dle of the night. He sa­id Jules ro­ug­hed you up pretty bad, but that you we­re okay."
  "Re­al­ly? Patch cal­led you?"
  "He cal­led from the Je­ep. He sa­id you we­re as­le­ep in the back­se­at and he was dri­ving you ho­me. He sa­id he just hap­pe­ned to be dri­ving past the high scho­ol when he he­ard a scre­am. He sa­id he fo­und you in the gym, but that you'd fa­in­ted from pa­in. The next thing he knew, he lo­oked up and saw Jules jump off the raf­ter. He sa­id Jules must ha­ve snap­ped, a si­de ef­fect from all the bur­den­so­me gu­ilt he felt over ter­ro­ri­zing you."
  I didn't re­ali­ze I was hol­ding my bre­ath un­til I let go of it. Ob­vi­o­usly, Patch had ma­ni­pu­la­ted a few de­ta­ils.
  "You know I'm not bu­ying it," Vee con­ti­nu­ed. "You know I think Patch kil­led Jules."
  In Vee's po­si­ti­on, I'd pro­bably think si­mi­larly. I sa­id, "What do the po­li­ce think?"
  'Turn on the TV. The­re's li­ve co­ve­ra­ge right now, Chan­nel Fi­ve. They're sa­ying Jules bro­ke in­to the scho­ol and jum­ped. They're ru­ling it a tra­gic te­en su­ici­de. They're as­king pe­op­le with in­for­ma­ti­on to call the hot­li­ne lis­ted at the bot­tom of the scre­en."
  "What did you tell the po­li­ce when you first cal­led it in?"
  "I was sca­red. I didn't want to get bus­ted for B and E. So I cal­led in anony­mo­usly from a pay pho­ne."
  "Well," I sa­id at last, "if the po­li­ce are ru­ling it a su­ici­de, I gu­ess that's what hap­pe­ned. Af­ter all, this is mo­dern-day Ame­ri­ca. We ha­ve the be­ne­fit of fo­ren­sics."
  "You're ke­eping so­met­hing from me," sa­id Vee. "What re­al­ly hap­pe­ned af­ter I left?"
  This is whe­re it got stick). Vee was my best fri­end, and we li­ved by the mot­to No Sec­rets. But so­me things are just im­pos­sib­le to exp­la­in. The fact that Patch was a fal­len-tur­ned-gu­ar­di­an an­gel top­ped the list. Di­rectly be­low it was the fact that I'd jum­ped off a raf­ter and di­ed, but was still ali­ve to­day.
  "I re­mem­ber Jules cor­ne­ring me in the gym," I sa­id. "He told me all the pa­in and fe­ar he was go­ing to inf­lict. Af­ter that, the de­ta­ils get hazy."
  "Is it too la­te to apo­lo­gi­ze?" Vee sa­id, so­un­ding mo­re sin­ce­re than she had in our who­le fri­ends­hip. "You we­re right abo­ut Jules and El­li­ot."
  "Apo­logy ac­cep­ted."
  "We sho­uld go to the mall," she sa­id. "I fe­el this overw­hel­ming ne­ed to buy sho­es. Lots of them. What we ne­ed is so­me go­od old-fas­hi­oned shoe-shop­ping the­rapy."
  The do­or­bell rang, and I glan­ced at the clock. "I ha­ve to gi­ve the po­li­ce my sta­te­ment abo­ut what hap­pe­ned last night, but I'll call you af­ter that."
  "Last night?" Vee's to­ne shot up with pa­nic. "They know you we­re at the scho­ol? You didn't gi­ve them my na­me, did you?"
  "Actu­al­ly, so­met­hing hap­pe­ned ear­li­er in the night." So­met­hing na­med Dab­ria. "I'll call you so­on," I sa­id, han­ging up be­fo­re I had to lie my way thro­ugh anot­her exp­la­na­ti­on.
  Lim­ping down the hall, I'd ma­de it as far as the top of the sta­irs when I saw who my mom had in­vi­ted in­si­de.
  De­tec­ti­ves Bas­so and Hols­ti­j­ic.
  She led them in­to the li­ving ro­om, and alt­ho­ugh De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic col­lap­sed on­to the so­fa, De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so re­ma­ined stan­ding. He had his back to me, but a step cre­aked half­way thro­ugh my des­cent, and he tur­ned aro­und.
  "No­ra Grey," he sa­id in his to­ugh cop vo­ice. "We me­et aga­in."
  My mom blin­ked. "You've met be­fo­re?"
  "Yo­ur da­ugh­ter has an ex­ci­ting li­fe. Se­ems li­ke we're he­re every we­ek."
  My mom aimed a qu­es­ti­oning glan­ce at me and I shrug­ged, clu­eless, as if to gu­ess, Cop hu­mor?
  "Why don't you ha­ve a se­at, No­ra, and tell us what hap­pe­ned," De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic sa­id.
  I lo­we­red myself in­to one of the plush armc­ha­irs op­po­si­te the so­fa. "Just be­fo­re ni­ne last night I was in the kitc­hen drin­king a glass of cho­co­la­te milk when Miss Gre­ene, my scho­ol psycho­lo­gist-appe­ared."
  "She just wal­ked in­to yo­ur ho­use?" De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so as­ked.
  "She told me I had so­met­hing she wan­ted, and that's when I ran ups­ta­irs and loc­ked myself in the mas­ter bed­ro­om."
  "Back up," sa­id De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so. "What was this thing she wan­ted?"
  "She didn't say. But she did men­ti­on she's not a re­al psycho­lo­gist. She sa­id she was using the job to spy on stu­dents." I di­vi­ded a glan­ce among ever­yo­ne. "She's crazy, right?"
  The de­tec­ti­ves sha­red a lo­ok.
  "I'll run her na­me, see what I can find," De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic sa­id, pul­ling him­self back to his fe­et.
  "Let me get this stra­ight," De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so sa­id to me. "She ac­cu­sed you of ste­aling so­met­hing that be­lon­ged to her, but she ne­ver sa­id what?"
  Anot­her sticky qu­es­ti­on. "She was hyste­ri­cal. I only un­ders­to­od half of what she was sa­ying. I ran and loc­ked myself in­si­de the mas­ter bed­ro­om, but she bro­ke down the do­or. I was hi­ding in­si­de the flue of the fi­rep­la­ce, and she sa­id she'd burn the ho­use down ro­om by ro­om to find me. Then she star­ted a fi­re. Right the­re in the mid­dle of the ro­om."
  "How did she start the fi­re?" my mom as­ked.
  "I co­uldn't see. I was in the flue."
  "This is crazy," De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so sa­id, sha­king his he­ad. "I've ne­ver se­en anyt­hing li­ke this."
  "Is she go­ing to co­me back?" my mom as­ked the de­tec­ti­ves, co­ming over to stand be­hind me and pla­cing her hands pro­tec­ti­vely on my sho­ul­ders. "Is No­ra sa­fe?"
  "Might want to see abo­ut get­ting a se­cu­rity system ins­tal­led." De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so ope­ned his wal­let and held out a card to Mom. "I vo­uch for the­se guys. Tell them I sent you, and they'll gi­ve you a dis­co­unt."
  A few ho­urs af­ter the de­tec­ti­ves left, the do­or­bell rang aga­in.
  "That must be the alarm system com­pany," Mom sa­id, me­eting me in the hall. "I cal­led, and they sa­id they'd send a guy out to­day. I can't stand the tho­ught of sle­eping he­re wit­ho­ut so­me kind of pro­tec­ti­on un­til they find Miss Gre­ene and lock her away. Didn't the scho­ol even bot­her to check her re­fe­ren­ces?" She ope­ned the do­or, and Patch sto­od on the porch. He wo­re fa­ded Le­vi's and a snug whi­te T-shirt, and he held a to­ol­box in his left hand.
  "Go­od af­ter­no­on, Mrs. Grey."
  "Patch." I co­uldn't qu­ite na­il my mom's to­ne. Surp­ri­se mi­xed with dis­com­fi­tu­re. "Are you he­re to see No­ra?"
  Patch smi­led. "I'm he­re to spec yo­ur ho­use for a new alarm system."
  "I tho­ught you had a dif­fe­rent job," sa­id Mom. "I tho­ught you bus­sed tab­les at the Bor­der­li­ne."
  "I got a new job." Patch loc­ked eyes with me, and I war­med in a lot of pla­ces. In fact, I was dan­ge­ro­usly clo­se to fe­ve­rish. "Out­si­de?" he as­ked me.
  I fol­lo­wed him out to his mo­torcyc­le.
  "We still ha­ve a lot to talk abo­ut," I sa­id.
  "Talk?" He sho­ok his he­ad, his eyes full of de­si­re. Kiss, he whis­pe­red to my tho­ughts.
  It wasn't a qu­es­ti­on, but a war­ning. He grin­ned when I didn't pro­test, and lo­we­red his mo­uth to­ward mi­ne. The first to­uch was just that-a to­uch. A te­asing, temp­ting soft­ness. I lic­ked my lips and Patch's grin de­epe­ned.
  "Mo­re?" he as­ked.
  I cur­led my hands in­to his ha­ir, pul­ling him clo­ser. "Mo­re."

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to Ca­leb War­nock and my fel­low wri­ters at Wri­ting in Depth; I co­uldn't ha­ve as­ked for tru­er fri­ends to ma­ke this jo­ur­ney. A sho­ut-out to La­ura An­der­sen, Gin­ger Churc­hill, and Patty Es­den, who ne­ver let me qu­it and who we­re ho­nest (even when I didn't want it). Spe­ci­al thanks to Eric James Sto­ne for tying the rib­bon on the pac­ka­ge.
  I owe Ka­tie Jep­pson, Ali Eise­nach, Kylie Wright, Me­gan and Josh Walsh, Lind­sey Le­avitt, and Ri­ley and Jace Fitz­pat­rick thanks, too, for everyt­hing from baby­sit­ting, to in­for­ma­ti­on on sur­gi­cal pro­ce­du­res, to com­mu­nal bra­ins­tor­ming, to un­de­ser­ved pa­ti­en­ce.
  It has be­en she­er fun wor­king with Emily Me­ehan, my savvy edi­tor, and my many fri­ends at Si­mon and Schus­ter BFYR who've che­ered me on and wor­ked be­hind the sce­nes to ma­ke this all hap­pen-Jus­tin Chan­da, An­ne Za­fi­an, Co­urt­ney Bon­gi­olat­ti,
  Do­rothy Grib­bin, Cha­va Wo­lin, Lucy Ruth Cum­mins, Lu­cil­le Ret­ti­no, El­ke Vil­la, Chrissy Noh, Julia Ma­gu­ire, and An­na McKe­an. Thank you!
  I'm es­pe­ci­al­ly thank­ful that Cat­he­ri­ne Dray ton ca­me in­to my li­fe at just the right ti­me. Thanks for hel­ping me ma­ke it this far. I'll ne­ver for­get the pho­ne call when I le­ar­ned my bo­ok had be­en sold…
  Thanks to James Por­to for a co­ver that blew away my ex­pec­ta­ti­ons. I owe my copy edi­tor, Va­le­rie Shea, a big thank-you as well.
  Most of all, thanks to my mom. For everyt­hing. XO­XO.

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