“Try to eat.” Bruce laid down a fork and table knife. Unless I missed my guess, they were heavy silver, polished to a sharp gleam I saw through a haze.

My eyes were burning. The food turned into colored gleams.

“Oh, no.” The redhead sounded horrified. “Is she—”

“Kir, shut up.” Bruce handed me a cloth napkin. “I’ll get you some coffee, Milady. There is no hurry at all. You’re safe now.”

I didn’t bother to tell him I didn’t believe him. Instead I mopped at my stupid eyes, sniffed back the

weight of crying in my nose, and picked up a piece of bacon. I should eat while I could. Even if

there was a hook in it.

Jealousy

INTERMEZZO

The hospital corridors smelled like pain and Lysol. I hunched in the hard plastic seat, arms around

my legs. I was still in the jeans I’d been in when I came home from school and found Gran still in

bed, the fire almost out and the cold wind whistling in through the cracked-open door.

She hung on as long as she could for me. I’d bundled her into the ancient Packard—the thing was

probably older than Dad—and half-hoped it wouldn’t start. But it did, rumbling into life, and Gran

had muttered sleepily that she hated going into town, she surely did.

Driving down into the valley took a long time, and I was afraid she’d leave before I could get her to

the hospital down the way. I drove half the night, and when I got there the emergency room people

took one look at her and whisked her out of my hands. I had to search until I found the room they

put her in. Then the questions started.

Who are you? What’s her name? Who’s next of kin? How old are you?

I just kept saying Dad was on his way and hoped like hell it was true. But he was gone, like he always was, and not due back for awhile. I put my head down on my knees for a moment, but there

was no resting. It was too dangerous. I pinched the underside of my left arm again, hard. Bruises

were already flowering where I’d pinched and pinched all night.

Across the hall was the visiting area. The chairs over there were padded, but this one was too uncomfortable to let me sleep. Besides, if that doctor came back with a cop or a social worker, I could

escape at least three ways from here. If I moved across the hall, I’d be trapped.

My fingers made little patterns on the chair arm. They itched with the urge to draw. I wished I had

pencil and paper. There was also a window, showing the naked tops of trees. Winter had begun. And

on the ledge in front of the glass, Gran’s owl crouched. Keeping watch, just like me.