“Because this is what people do? They meet, they talk, they get to know each other, they go grab a drink, because I haven’t forgotten that’s what Holly said you were doing tonight.”

Her eyes pin me in place as she lets the moment stretch dramatically. I don’t move a muscle, don’t blink, don’t even breathe, though that’s because of the smell of antiseptic and something I’m not going to label in my brain.

“He’s my brother, but I’m his guardian, so kinda my son too.” She says it like she’s expecting that to be a nuclear bomb that sends me running for the hills. But kids aren’t a deal breaker for me. I love kids and would love to have some of my own someday.

In the meantime, I get the biggest kick out of playing with Amy and Fernanda’s son, Miles, who’s five going on fifteen, with all the associated attitude.

“How old is he? My nephew is five, and like me, he loves making new friends. Maybe we can all play soccer some time? Or video games?” I can’t help the way my voice pitches like I’m talking to an actual kid.

Zoey seems taken aback by my response and dumbly says, “He’s eighteen.”

“Oh,” I say, somewhat disappointed on Miles’s behalf. “Well, soccer and video games are probably doable, but maybe not with Miles. Jacob probably isn’t into hanging out with little kids.”

There’s a question in the statement, begging her to correct me, but she looks at me like I grew another head out of my left shoulder.

“You’re . . .” I’m ready for her to tell me what I am, but the door opens and a gray-haired, uniformed guy peeks his head in.

“Hey, Zoey, you want anything for dinner?” He doesn’t react to the dead body or the random organs in bowls, but when he catches sight of me, I see nerves shoot through him.

Without waiting for Zoey’s answer to his first question, he asks another. “Should I be worried? He okay?”

It’s a kind question, or it should be. Like that the guard is checking that Zoey is okay with some random guy in her basement office. But there’s something about his tone that makes it seem like that’s not what he’s asking at all.

Zoey catches it too. “Yeah, Alver. He’s fine. The full moon isn’t until next week, so I’m not looking for sacrifices . . . yet,” she says darkly, one brow arching high and one dropping low.

Oh shit, she’s got a ‘The Rock’ look too, and it’s nearly as awesome as mine. I’d be imagining babies with wiggly brows if not for Alver’s reaction.