“What do you know, dumbass?” she said, and shoved past me, heading for the door. “When did you go to med school? You couldn’t even pass bio, for God’s sake. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Monica,” I said. Maybe it was the fact that I didn’t insult her back, or raise my voice, or grab her; maybe it was just that she already knew. I don’t have any idea what happened inside her head. But she stopped as if she’d run into an invisible wall, and waited. “I saw it. I’m sorry. Hannah was with him. They’re going to bring him in soon. I thought you ought to know before—” Before you saw his body.

She whirled on me then, and the rage in her face took me by surprise. “You lying son of a bitch!” she screamed, and picked up the first thing she could reach—the TV’s remote control—and flung it at me as hard as she could, which was pretty hard, actually. I batted it out of the way and didn’t respond. She went for something heavier, a big marble bust of somebody I supposed I should have recognized, but she couldn’t throw that nearly as well. It hit the carpet three feet from me and rolled.

And then she stumbled and fell on her knees. All the anger drained out of her, just as if someone had pulled a plug, leaving her pale and empty. Her eyes were open wide, pupils contracted to pinpoints, and she stared at me with her lips parted.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. Seemed like all I could say. Had I thought this was a dream, a perfect revenge? Wish fulfillment? It wasn’t. It was just … sad. “He was okay, your brother. He always tried to be fair. And he cared about you.”

It wasn’t much, as eulogies go, but it was all I had. Whatever entertainment I’d thought I would get out of this had been pure fantasy, and all I felt now was sickness, and bone-deep discomfort. I should have let Michael do it. Michael would have been good at it; he was all sensitive and crap, knew what to say and when …

Monica just stared at me. As if she was waiting for me to tell her it was all just a really nasty joke.

This should have been Oliver’s job, I thought. Oliver was her vampire godfather Protector, wasn’t he? Where was he?

Monica finally said, in a voice I would never have recognized as belonging to her, “You’re a liar. He’s not dead. He can’t be dead. He’s hurt, that’s all, he got hurt and you’re just a fucking liar. You’re messing with me, you asshole. Because of your sister.”

“I wish I was,” I said. I shook my head and started for the door, because there was nothing else I could do here. Nothing but hurt and get hurt.

“Wait,” she said. Her voice was shaking now, as her world fell apart inside. “Shane, wait. I didn’t do it—I didn’t start that fire. You don’t have to be a jerk about this. This isn’t funny ….”