They fell asleep in each other's arms, and woke up late in the morning to the sound of birds.
Not grackles.
Songbirds.
Chapter Eight
"You are so busted," Eve said, as Claire, fresh from a shower, ran down the steps shouldering her book bag.
Eve was sitting at the dining table, sipping a Coke and reading a Cosmo article with great concentration. She was wearing pink today - or, as Eve liked to call it, Ironic Pink. Pink shirt with poison skull and bones logo. Matching pink pedal-pushers with skulls embossed at the hems. Little pink skull hair ties on her pigtails, which stood out from her head aggressively, daring someone to mock them.
"Excuse me?" Claire kept moving. Eve barely glanced up from the article.
"Don't even try," she said. "I know that look."
"What look?" Claire shoved open the kitchen door.
"The now-I-am-a-woman look. Oh God, don't tell me, please, because then I have to feel guilty that you're seventeen and I should have been more of a den mom, right?" Claire couldn't think of anything to say. Eve sighed. "He'd better have been a good, sweet boy to you, or I swear, I'll kick his ass from here to - Hey, is that Shane's shirt?"
It was. "No." Claire hurried into the kitchen.
Michael was standing at the coffeepot, pushing buttons. He looked over at her and raised his eyebrows, but he didn't say anything.
"What?" she demanded, and dumped her book bag on the table as she poured herself a glass of orange juice. "Do I owe back rent?"
"We've got some things to talk about other than the rent."
"Like what?" She kept her stare focused on her OJ."Like how far you're going to take this whole undercover-cop thing with Bishop, and whether or not you're going to get yourself killed? Because I'm wondering, Michael."
He took in a deep breath and ran his hands through his curly golden hair as if he wanted to rip a handful out in frustration. The cut on his hand, Claire noticed, was neatly healed without any trace of a scar. "I can't tell you anything else. I already took a huge risk telling you what I did, understand?"
"And did I rat you out? No. Because according to Patience Goldman, this" - she yanked back her sleeve and showed him the tattoo, which was barely a shadow now under her skin, and hardly moving at all - "this thing is running out of juice. I don't think he's noticed yet, but he probably will soon."
"That's why I told you to stay away from him."
"Not like I came on my own! Theo . . . " It struck her hard that she hadn't even asked, and she felt all of her good vibes of the morning flee in horror. "Oh God. Theo and his family - "
"They're okay," Michael said. "They were taken to a holding cell. I checked on them, and I told Sam. He'll get word to Amelie."
"That'll do a lot of good."
Michael glanced up at her as he poured his coffee. "You seem different today."
She was struck speechless, and she felt a blush burn its crimson onto her face. Michael's eyebrows rose, slowly, but he didn't say anything.
"Okay, that's . . . not what I meant. And don't ever play poker." He gave her a half smile to show her he wasn't going to harass her about it. Yet. "You moving back in?"
"I don't know." She swallowed and tried to get her racing heartbeat under control. "I need to talk to my parents. They're really . . . I'm just scared for them, that's all. I thought that maybe if I stayed with them, it would make things better, but I think it's made it worse. I wish I could just get them out of Morganville. Somehow."
"You can," said a voice from the kitchen doorway. It was - of all people! - Hannah Moses, looking tall, lean, and extremely dangerous in her Morganville police uniform, loaded down with a gun, riot baton, pepper spray, handcuffs, and who knew what else. Hannah was one of those women who would command attention no matter what she was wearing, but when she put on the full display, it was no contest at all. "Mind if I come in?"
"I think you're already in," Michael said, and gestured to the kitchen table. "Want some coffee to go with that breaking and entering?"
"It's not breaking and entering with a badge, especially if someone lets you in."
"And that would be . . . ?"
"Eve. Actually, I'll have some orange juice, if you've got more," Hannah said. "All coffeed out. I've been patrolling all night." She did look tired, as she settled in a chair and stretched her legs out, although tired for Hannah just looked slightly less focused. She was wearing her cornrowed hair back in a complicated knot at the nape of her neck; having it away from her face emphasized the scar she'd gotten in Afghanistan, a seam that ran from her left temple over to her nose. On some women it might have been disfiguring. On Hannah, it was kind of a terrifying beauty mark. "It's getting nasty out there."