“Michael!” I blurted. I wasn’t sure what appalled me more—that he was thinking about letting Jason go, or that he was thinking of killing him. Maybe both.

“Clear,” Jason said. “Look, man, you let me go and I promise you, I’ll do whatever you want. Once that’s done, I’m out of Morganville and out of your lives. All right?”

“Deal,” Michael said. “I’ll be watching you.”

For an answer, Jason held up his pinned wrist. Michael took hold of the chain and bent one of the links, and just like that, my brother was … free.

“Are you totally sure about this?” I asked Miranda under my breath. She nodded placidly. “Because I know him. And he’s not—”

“I know,” she said. “He’s not trustworthy. But that’s okay. This time he’s what we need.”

Jason stood up, moved his arm as if reveling in the freedom, and said, “So, what are we doing?”

“Getting guns,” Miranda said. “Lots of guns.”

That drew a scary smile from my brother. “I like this plan,” he said, and followed Miranda out. Michael went after, dogging him with a worried frown.

I exchanged a look with Shane.

“I know,” he said. “We are into the This Is a Bad Idea neighborhood, and heading down I Have a Bad Feeling Street. But either we believe her or we don’t. Maybe she’s gone completely over the edge. You considered that?”

“I consider it every time I talk to her,” I said, “but do you want to risk it? With Claire’s life on the line?”

He shook his head. “Let’s go,” he said. “But keep an eye on your brother.”

Both eyes. Absolutely.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CLAIRE

She had never seen it coming.

The first moments of waking up were spent wondering what the hell had happened. She remembered getting the call. Dressing. Going down in the elevator. Meeting Myrnin and Hannah in the garage.

And then … and then he’d turned on her. Grabbed her. Abducted her. She’d fought, too. Fought until he’d put her out.

And now she was here, and her head ached miserably. But where was here? And what the hell had happened? Why?

The next thing that came to her, after the panic, was the realization that she wasn’t submerged in water. It wasn’t the draug, at least. The relief of that was intense, until she tried to move, and discovered that she was tied to a chair. A heavy one, thick wood, plush fabric. A smell of old dust.

The room was dim, but after a few blinking seconds of confusion she realized that she knew it.

She was home. In the Glass House.

Don’t go home, Miranda had said. Oh God.

This was the parlor room, the one they rarely used; it was mostly a place to dump backpacks, coats, purses, stuff on the way into the living room, where they actually gathered. She tried to remember when she’d been home last. Days blurred together—God, had it only been yesterday? No, that had to be wrong. It felt like at least a week. Maybe it was somewhere in the middle.