She’d left it closed.

She opened it slowly, as silently as she could, and peeked around the edge…

…and saw Eve up against the wall, and Miranda holding a knife at Eve’s throat. She recognized the bruises and bite marks on her neck first, then the faded blue eyes as the girl’s head turned toward her.

“Don’t,” Miranda said. “I have to do this. Charles says I need to. To make the visions stop. I want it to stop, Claire. You understand, right?”

“Let her go, Miranda, okay? Please?” Claire swallowed hard and stepped into the room. She could hear fighting from down the hall. Shane and Michael were busy. “You don’t want to hurt Eve. She’s your friend!”

“It’s too much,” Miranda said. “So many people dying, and I can’t do anything. Charles said he’d make it go away. All I have to do is—”

“What? Kill Eve? Really, don’t—you don’t want to—to do anything—” Panicked, she looked to Eve for help. One thing was for sure: the pallor in Eve’s face wasn’t makeup.

“Yeah,” Eve said faintly. “I’m your friend, Mir. You know that.”

Miranda shook her head so hard her dark hair flew. The knife trembled against Eve’s throat, and she squeezed her eyes shut, whispering something that sounded like, “Charles,” and when she opened her eyes again she looked different. Not scared. Focused.

She’s going to do something. I need to— Claire didn’t have time to figure it out; she just moved, because Eve was moving, her arm flashing up and smacking Miranda’s elbow. In the second that the knife was away from Eve’s throat, Claire grabbed a thick handful of Miranda’s hair and yanked, hard, dragging her backward. Miranda shrieked and slashed wildly at them. Eve’s upraised arm got a bloody cut, and Claire moved backward, gasping, holding on to Miranda’s hair and trying to stay out of cutting range.

Miranda swept the knife around and cut off the clump of hair a couple of inches away from Claire’s knuckles. Ohno…

Miranda lunged at her, knife held out, and Claire ran into the black bedside table, toppled over onto the black satin comforter, and saw the knife coming for her.

“Hey!” Eve screamed, and spun Miranda around and slapped her, hard, across the face. Twice. When Miranda tried to stab her, Eve smacked the girl’s hand into the wall and twisted her wrist until Miranda’s fist opened and the knife dropped to the wood floor.

Miranda started crying. It was a hopeless, helpless sound, and if Claire hadn’t been angry-scared, she might have actually felt sorry for her. “No, no, I don’t want to see it anymore, I don’t want to—he said he’d make it stop—”

Eve grabbed her by the arm, opened up the closet door, and stuffed Miranda inside, then jammed a wooden chair under the door handle to hold it shut. She looked furious and really, really hurt. Her arm was bleeding all over the place—not spurting, but flowing pretty freely. Claire grabbed up a black towel lying on the bureau and pressed the makeshift bandage to the wound; Eve blinked, like she’d forgotten all about it, and held it in place.