of his feet. I recognized that stance. Dad looked that way when he was picking out someone for a

fight. “Why is that, I wonder?”

“You and your little bitch—”

I slid over to the side, losing the battle with the darkness. Leon caught me, and at least he didn’t

bruise me. “Fight later,” he said over his shoulder. “Or at least let me get her out of here. For

Christ’s sake, she’s not even bloomed yet.”

Jealousy

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

For once, August showed no desire to leave when dusk came around. Instead, he settled down on

the ancient flowered couch, smoking, loading clips, and staring at the television. He had it turned all

the way down and a black-and-white movie played, the light flickering over every surface. I sat on

the other end of the couch, folding laundry. He’d brought two big bags of it back from the laundry

room downstairs, and while I was glad I didn’t have to trudge out to a Laundromat, I felt kind of

weird about someone else washing my panties.

August had gone from once or twice letting me go out with him on sunny days to not letting me out

of the house at all. He got takeout, or we ate omelets. I was beginning to get itchy, and if Dad hadn’t

told me to stay put I would have at least snuck out on the roof at night. Just to get some air. All the

movie posters on the walls were watching me with blank eyes.

There wasn’t even a plant in here. At least I could have talked to a philodendron or something. And

the lack of natural light was really beginning to get me down. I’d taken to lying in front of the bedroom window, staring up and aching for some sun. But it was gray, the sky threatening snow. I was

beginning to think sunshine was something I’d made up.

I held up one of August’s T-shirts. Ragged claw marks sliced the thin fabric. It was a wonder there

was any shirt left. “What was this?”

“That? Oh. Just some trouble over in Manhattan.” He slid the bullets into the clip, each one going in

smoothly. He didn’t have to look while he did it. His short Russian cigarette fumed in the ashtray,

and I wrinkled my nose. On the screen, a very young Marlon Brando sat on a swing and fitted a

girl’s white glove on his hand, looking up at a slim pretty blonde. “Got ’em cornered in a stairwell.

Dark work.” August set the clip down, picked up an empty one. Muscle moved under the skin of his

arm, left bare by a Rolling Stones T-shirt.

Dark work. Which meant I didn’t need to know any more. I nodded, knowing he’d see the movement in his peripheral vision. Tossed the shirt into my mending pile. He had a truly ancient Singer