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skin around my eyes; it felt lumpy and puffed up like it
was full of tears that hadn t been let out yet. Had I been
crying?
The face in front of me shifted into focus again as the
light drenched us both again. He squinted at the ceiling at
held the cord until it shuddered to a stop.  There, he said
with finality, like now that the puzzle of the swinging light
was solved, he could figure out the mystery of me.
I stared at the ridges slithering across his forehead, the
way his nose was a little too bulky for his face. I knew this
guy; I d met him before.
The last time I was in here for questioning.
He touched his nose and looked at me, like he could
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read my mind or something. What was his name? Rob,
Rich? Why couldn t I remember? It didn t matter; it was
disturbing.
But at the same time, kind of comforting.
Because maybe Rob/Rich really could tell me what
had happened to me and why my eyes were almost swollen
shut and why there were stitches gnawing at the center of
my palm.
 Do you remember how you got here? He watched
me as I rubbed my fingers over the stitches. I looked up at
him.
 Not really.
 Do you remember how you got those stitches?
I shook my head.
He leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath.
 Do you remember who I am?
I bit my lip and stared at the purplish skin under his
eyes. Somehow I couldn t get over the itchy feeling that
this was a trick question, or that he was trying to make it
one. But it didn t matter anyway; I really didn t know any
of the answers. I puffed out my lip and whispered,  Yes.
Something in his eyes flickered and his shoulders
sagged, like he was melting from the top down like an ice
cream cone under the sun. He scribbled something on his
notepad and asked,  How do you remember me, Claire?
 The last time, I said.  The last time I was here. But
I knew it was a lie as soon as I said it. Because all I could
think of was Grant, Grant, Grant and the way he looked
at me in this office while were searching for my criminal
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history: like the earth had cracked open and sucked in all
the light. That was what had happened the last time I was
here.
 The last time you were here, he started, swiveling
his chair to grab a fat file on the corner of the desk,  was
because you were a suspect in your sister s death.
 My sister didn t die. I dug my fingernails into my
jeans until I could feel them through the denim.  She
didn t die.
Rob/Rich flipped through the file before pausing to
squint at a piece of paper. He cleared his throat and said,
 Sorry about that. Right when I saw the pictures at the
scene, I thought she was gone. Guess I never could get it
out of my head that she made it somehow.
Then he did something I never thought was possible.
He did something almost like magic almost as magical
as Ella and Grant but a lot less pleasant. He pulled out
a glossy photo from the file and set it in front of me. He
ripped open my brain and plucked out sharp little memo-
ries that I thought I d forgotten. He pulled them out like
fragments of broken glass, caught in between folds of soft
skin: deadly intruders that were never meant to find a
home there.
Ella s eyes stared at me, half-lidded and drained of
all their color. Blood pooled in the creases of her nose,
screamed across her sallow skin, braided its way through
her hair.
Blood pounded in my wrists.
My throat.
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Beating, beating, beating in my shattered little heart.
I was somehow still alive right now. Barely.
He was watching me, his eyes smothered my skin,
pressed the breath back into my lungs. I couldn t look at
him. I couldn t look at her. I chewed on my lip until it
tasted like metal.
Rob/Rich slid another photo across the table. The
skin between his fingers was shiny with sweat. Why was he
sweating?
I shouldn t have, every spark in my brain told me not
to. But I saw the paleness of his eyes and the muscles in my
neck made me lean over so that I could see him again.
Grant s picture, next to Ella in the snow. Dead eyes,
blood-speckled nose that used to be lined with stars. Two
bloody angels lying side by side. It was a horrifying thing,
to see them both of their bodies mangled between the
cornstalks.
My head snapped up.  Where s Grant?
He cocked his head to the side as he ran a finger over
Grant s picture.  Hospital.
I let out a puff of breath.  He s alive?
Rob/Rich s eyes snapped to mine before he reached for
the file again. I was a feral animal, a wolf with yellow eyes
and yellow teeth, and I couldn t be trusted.
Two more photos slid across the desk. One next to
Ella, one next to Grant.
One of an imprint. One of a knife.
Both in the snow.
The one by Ella was the imprint of the paring knife,
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the one I had shoved in my back pocket the night of my
birthday party and Dad had taken from the scene.
The other was the carved wolf knife with jeweled eyes.
Both were just inches from their bodies.
Both were smothered in blood.
 There was a weapon that could be traced back to you,
both times, Rob/Rich said, still staring at the photos. Still
afraid to look at me.  Both times you were found at the
scene. The crimes were the same. He looked up at me
now, cupped my eyes with his.  We can t ignore the evi-
dence this time, Claire. Not even for your father.
 You need evidence? Ask Lacey! I yelled, slapping my
hands against the table.  And Patrick. Lacey Jordan and
Patrick Gillet. They saw the wolves, you need to talk to
them. They ll tell you about the wolf attack at Lacey s bon-
fire. It was right by where they where they found Grant.
I tried to swallowed up the image of Grant s bloody face,
but it had burned itself into my brain. Permanently.
He shook his head.  No one has been able to locate
Mr. Gillet at this time. It seems as though he s skipped
town. And we ve already questioned Ms. Jordan. She
denied the existence of any sort of party.
I closed my eyes and tipped my head back against
the chair. Damn it. Of course Lacey would deny having a
party, let alone seeing any wolves. Hating me would be a
good enough reason alone, but her mother would murder
her if she found out about Lacey s binger bonfires. Plus I
was sure she was trying to avoid the whole  crazy label.
Smart girl.
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 Ryan. The voice came through the door first, and
soaked through to my bones. And then Dad followed, his
eyes heavy, shoulders slumped.
 I m sorry, Ryan said as he stood to meet Dad. Their
faces were so close I thought their noses were going to
smash into each other.  We can not let her go 
 I know, is all Dad said. His head dipped between his
shoulders.  I know.
Ryan started toward me and my heart beat, beat, beat [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]