heard those as she strained to hear the intruder. When nothing unusual sounded, she crept toward the hallway, seeing it as empty as the kitchen. She walked toward the stairs, convinced she’d made it all up. She’d been in a horrible frame of mind this morning; she wouldn’t be surprised at all if she’d seen something frightening in a shadow. Her heartbeat calmer, Winnie went upstairs.
In her bedroom, she spun in a slow circle, her eyes darting carefully and impatiently over the familiar objects. Nothing was...wrong, but something was off. She couldn’t place her finger on it. It felt like someone had been here, even if they weren’t there now. Skirting the window, she made sure not to turn her back to the doors. This was ridiculous, she felt ridiculous, but fear was a compelling argument. She’d look more ridiculous if she ended up dead. You don’t really think there was someone in the house, she thought. The alarm was on. So what did that leave...?
Shoving the curtains aside, she stood in the same place she’d seen the figure. Something had looked at her from this window; she was certain she’d seen it. “No,” she laughed, turning away. The only thing haunting her was her past decisions. She was more afraid of that than ghosts.
17
JUNO
The grass was wet and spongy under Juno’s tennis shoes; she turned her face toward the light drizzle and breathed all that good Washington air into her lungs. The outside was now a special treat to her; if only life could balance out its problems. She saw Joe down the way a little, working his cardboard sign, a bottle of orange juice at his feet.
“Orange juice, Joe?”
Joe looked around until he found the source of the voice. His face lit up when he saw her. “Some motherfucker gave it to me, Juno. You know I want the fizzy shit.” He laughed so hard he slapped his knee. Juno hardly ever saw him without a bottle of soda; Crush, preferably, but any soda would do. She caught a look at his sign and raised her eyebrows. Joe wasn’t the “Please help me out” type. In very bold, block writing he’d jotted three lines of a Johnny Cash song Kregger used to listen to. Juno read them with amusement. He was niche homeless: his signs drew the attention not of the bleeding hearts, but of the edgy music lovers with a soft spot for good lyrics. Joe did pretty well on most days. Joe, who referred to the entire world as “those motherfuckers,” was an eternal optimist. He even called the mutt that followed him around Mother. Juno didn’t see the dog now; it was just Joe trying to get her attention. Juno smiled and walked on, but he called after her. “Hey! Hey, Juno! Where have you been, girl?”
“I’m no more a girl than you are, Joe!”
“That’s right! You’re a motherfucker!” She heard him laughing before she turned the corner, eager to be away. Joe was an insatiable gossip, and she wanted no part of that today. She took the long way to the library, stopping at the corner mart for a hot cup of soup. The guy who worked there on weekdays had always been nice to her. He did a double take, then bopped his head at her as she headed over to the soup counter. She had been gone for a while. It was nice that he noticed. Choosing the minestrone and ladling it into the to-go container, she headed to the register to wait her turn. The soup was two dollars fifty, and she set the money on the counter and asked for a single stamp, fishing the extra change out of her pocket. She had just enough left to use the printer at the library, which was five cents a page. With the stamp tucked away, she drank her soup straight from the paper bowl as she walked. The guy at the register had slid her a pack of Mentos before she could walk away—no charge. She ate half the pack as she sat at the computer terminal in the library, slipping them discreetly between her lips. When she had what she needed and the printer hummed out its last warm sheet, she headed out. Samuel would be home in an hour. He’d take care of the alarm, and Juno would slip in through the kitchen while he did his homework. The problem was Mr. Nevins, who occasionally peeked out of