Glass Houses

“Somebody died in this house! I see him. I see his body lying on the floor…,” Miranda moaned, and thrashed around in her chair, twisting and turning. “It’s not over. It’s never over. This house—this house won’t let it be over.”

Claire, unable to stop herself, looked at Michael, who was staring at Miranda with cold, slitted eyes. His hand was gripping Claire’s tightly. When she started to say something, he squeezed it even more. Right. Shutting up, she was.

Miranda wasn’t. “There’s a ghost in this house! An unquiet spirit!”

“Unquiet spirit?” Shane said under his breath. “Is that politically correct for pissed off? You know, like Undead American or something?”

Miranda opened her eyes and frowned at him. “Somebody already died,” she proclaimed. “Right here. Right in this room. His spirit haunts this place, and it’s strong.”

They all just looked at one another. Michael and Claire avoided more eye contact, but Claire felt her breath get short and her heart race faster. She was talking about Michael! She knew! How was that even possible?

“Is it dangerous?” Eve asked breathlessly. Claire nearly choked.

“I–I can’t tell. It’s murky.”

Shane said, “Right. Dead man walking, can’t tell if he’s dangerous because, wow, murky. Anything else?” And again, Claire had to choke back a hysterical giggle.

There was a bitter, unpleasant twist to Miranda’s face now. “Fire,” she said. “I see fire. I see someone screaming in the fire.”

Shane yanked his hands away from Eve and Michael, slammed his chair back, and said, “Okay, that’s it. I’m outta here. Feel free to get your psychic jollies somewhere else.”

“No, wait!” Eve said, and grabbed for him. “Shane, wait, she saw it in the cards, too—”

He pulled free. “She sees whatever you want! And she gets off on the attention, in case you didn’t notice! And she’s a fang banger!”

“Shane, please! At least listen!”

“I’ve heard enough. Let me know when you want to move on to table rapping or Ouija boards—those are a lot more fun. We could get some ten-year-olds to show us the ropes.”

“Shane, wait! Where are you going?”

“Bed,” he said, and went up the stairs. “Night.”

Claire was still holding Michael’s hand, and Miranda’s. She let go of both, pushed her chair back, and went up after him. She heard his door slam before she made it to the top, and raced down the hall to bang her fist on the wood. There was no answer, no sound of movement inside.

Then she noticed that the picture on the wall hallway was crooked, and moved it to stare at the button underneath. Would he?

Of course he would.

She hesitated for a second, then pressed it. The panel across the hallway clicked open, letting out a breath of cold air, and she quickly slipped inside, latched it back, and went up the stairs.

Shane was lying on the couch, feet on the curved polished-wood armrest, one arm flung over his eyes.

“Go away,” he said. Claire eased herself down on the couch next to him, because his voice didn’t sound, well, right. It was quiet and a little bit choked. His hand was shaking. “I mean it, Claire, go.”

“The first time you met me, I was crying,” she said. “You don’t have to be ashamed.”

“I’m not crying,” he said, and moved his arm. He wasn’t. His eyes were hot and dry and furious. “I can’t stand that she pretends to know. She was Lyssa’s friend. If she knew, if she really knew, she should have tried harder.”

Claire bit her lip. “Do you mean she—?” She couldn’t even say it. Do you mean she tried to tell you? And he couldn’t admit it if she had. If he admitted that much…maybe his sister didn’t have to be dead.

No, Claire couldn’t say that. And he couldn’t hear it.

Instead, she just reached out and took his hand. He looked down at their clasped fingers, sighed, and closed his eyes. “I’m drunk and I’m pissed off,” he said. “Not the best company right now. Man, your parents would kill us all if they knew about any of this.”

She didn’t say anything, because that was absolutely true. And something she didn’t want to think about. She just wanted to sit here, in this silent room where time had frozen still, and be with him.

“Claire?” His voice was quieter. A little smeared with sleep. “Don’t do that again.”

“Do what?”

“Go out like you did tonight. Not at night.”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

He smiled, but didn’t open his eyes. “No dates? What is this, the Big Brother house? Anyway, I didn’t come back to Morganville to hide.”

She was instantly curious. “Why did you come back?”

“Michael. I told you. He called, I came. It’s what he’d do for me.” Shane’s smile faded. He was probably remembering Michael not answering the phone, not coming to the hospital. Not having his back.

“It’s more than that,” she said. “Or else you’d have just taken off by now.”

“Maybe,” Shane sighed. “Leave it, Claire. You don’t have to dig into every secret around here, okay? It’s not safe.”

She thought about Michael. About the way he’d looked at Miranda across the séance table. “No,” she agreed. “It’s not.”

They talked for hours, about pretty much nothing—certainly not about vampires, or sisters dying in fires, or Miranda’s visions, obviously. Shane delved into what Claire had always thought were the Boy Classics: debates about whether Superman could take Batman (“Classic Batman or Badass Batman?”), movies they liked, movies they hated. Claire tried him on books. He was light on the classics, but who wasn’t? (She wasn’t, but she was a freak of nature.) He liked scary stories. They had that in common, too.

Time just didn’t seem to pass at all in that little room. The talk seemed to keep going, spi

She woke up with a start when the settee creaked, and she realized that Shane was getting up. He blinked, yawned, rubbed at his hair (which did very fu

“Oh, God, it’s early,” he groaned. “Hell. Well, at least I can grab the bathroom first.”

Claire jumped to her feet. “What time is it?”

“Nine,” he said, and yawned again. She reached over him, pushed the hidden button, dashed past him to the door, barely remembering to shed the afghan on the way. “Hey! Dibs on the bathroom! I mean it!”

She wasn’t worried about the bathroom so much as being caught. After all, she’d spent the entire night with a boy. A boy who’d been drinking. Most of that was against the house rules, she figured, and Michael would have freaked out if he’d known. Maybe…maybe Michael was too distracted from what Miranda had been spilling to worry about it, though, because she had to admit, Miranda had known exactly what she was talking about.

Just not by name, really.

Well, Michael was back to incorporeal in the light of day, so at least she didn’t have to worry about ru

She grabbed her clothes and jumped in the bathroom just as Shane, still yawning, stumbled out of the hidden room.

“But I called dibs!” he said, and knocked on the door. “Dibs! Damn girls don’t understand the rules….”