Maybe putting things in drawers and in the narrow closet would make her feel less … lost.

An hour later, though, the suitcases were empty, and the drawers were full of underwear and T-shirts and clothes, what needed to be on hangers successfully on the closet rod, and her battered assortment of shoes neatly arranged … and she put the small number of personal things she’d brought with her around the room. She hadn’t bothered with posters, but she had framed photos of Shane, and an album of photos of Michael and Eve and Myrnin and Amelie and everybody else she knew in Morganville who’d stand still for it, or even those who wouldn’t, like Oliver, taken on the stealth. A record of what she’d left behind, the good and the bad. Even Myrnin’s pet Bob the Spider had his own close-up. He was surprisingly kind of cute.

And Claire still felt lost and alone. Having the familiar around only made all this seem more alien.

She kept arranging things until she realised it was verging on obsessive, and finally hooked up her computer, logged on to the house Wi-Fi (at least that was decent) and found e-mails had exploded like popcorn in the microwave of her inbox. One was from her dad, telling her to call to confirm she was safe in her new place. Ditto from Michael, and from Eve, and even an awkward, formal note from Myrnin that boiled down to the same thing (she was surprised he’d actually figured out how to manage it on his own). It was all really sweet, but she couldn’t stand to talk to them right now; the despair of having made the decision loomed all over her, and she knew she’d break down and cry if she heard a familiar voice. So she sent out e-mails instead.

It was all she could do not to beg them to come get her and take her back home.

No, I won’t do that. I didn’t quit, she reminded herself. I didn’t quit when I got to Morganville, and people were actually trying to kill me. I’m not going to quit now, just because I don’t like my room and my housemate’s kind of nuts.

It suddenly struck her that there was no message from Shane. Not one.

A lump formed hard in her throat, and she involuntarily looked up at the closest picture she’d placed of him. It was her favourite. She’d caught him relaxed, laughing, and the warmth in his face always made her feel safe and happy.

But what if that light was gone? What if she never saw it in him again – if he’d forget about her while she was gone, or everything changed between them? It’ll be your fault, something in her said. Because you walked away.