Last Breath
Chapter Six

CLAIRE
Friday morning dawned clear, all rain clouds gone; the air was crisp, dry, and icy cold, and the wind - which never really stopped out here - whipped up random gusts of blown sand as Claire, wrapped in a thick jacket, scarf, hat, and gloves, picked up her coffee from Common Grounds. Eve hated the early-morning shift, so this morning it was a girl named Christy; she was a bouncy little blonde who had probably been a Morganville High cheerleader last year, two years ago at the most. Common Grounds was doing brisk business serving up coffee delicacies to people heading off to work and students making their way to early classes. Claire had trouble finding a table, but finally spotted one crammed in close to the wall just as the previous occupant vacated it.
She was three sips into her mocha and checking e-mail on her phone when a plaid book bag thumped down on the table. Claire glanced up and saw Monica Morrell dropping into the chair across from her. Monica wasn't making any concessions to the weather. She had on white kneesocks and a plaid, pleated miniskirt with a low-cut white top. No coat.
"Aren't you freezing?" Claire asked. "Oh, and by the way, the seat's taken by my invisible friend."
"Yes, I'm freezing - it's what you do for fashion, not that you'd know anything about that, Brainiac. And screw your invisible friend. I want my coffee, and you've got the only open chair. Not like I want to be besties or anything." Monica tossed her lustrous dark hair back over her shoulders. It had been a while since she'd changed the color, and Claire thought this one suited her best anyway. She was a tall, attractive girl with a mean, sharp edge to the pretty, but she and Claire had, over the long months, achieved something like armed truce if not friendship.
"How's Gina?" Claire asked, and took another drink. The faster she finished her coffee, the faster she could escape from Planet Princess. "I heard she's in rehab."
Gina was one of Monica's two normal wing girls, and she wasn't in the celebrity kind of rehab; no, this was physical rehab, because she'd smashed up her car in a pretty spectacular wreck. One that Claire figured was karmic in nature. She felt a little guilty about not being more concerned. The question had been purely for form's sake.
"She's walking fine," Monica said. "They're thinking about putting her into some kind of mental-therapy thing, though. Apparently she slapped a nurse."
"Well, that's Gina," Claire said. "Making friends."
"Grudge-hold much?"
"She pulled a knife on me, Monica. More than once. And she broke Miranda's nose." Miranda was a skinny kid who'd taken way too much trauma in her short life; Gina had cold-bloodedly punched her, and just for that, Claire hoped that the rehab lasted forever. Well, not literally. But hopefully it was at least painful.
Monica didn't say anything to that. She hadn't, Claire knew, been all that thrilled with Gina's behavior, but she hadn't put a stop to it, either. "It's probably good they get her in to see a shrink," Monica said. "Bitch is crazy."
Three words, and she dismissed one of her most loyal followers and henchwomen. Claire didn't know whether to be impressed or disgusted. Probably both. "She's not the only one around here."
"You should know. Speaking of crazy bitches, can't wait to see what happens at the engagement party. Ought to be epic." Monica's eyes sparkled with petty delight. "I hear Wannabe Dead Girl invited half the rebel alliance of Morganville, and they're bringing their friends. I'm wearing something that blood will wash out of, just to be safe."
Of course Monica would be coming to the party; Monica never missed one, especially one where she could cause mayhem. Well, Claire figured she wouldn't be the biggest problem they had. Or even the worst behaved.
That was just sad.
"This has been fun," Claire said, and even though she had half her coffee left, she got up to leave.
Monica flung out her hand, grabbed Claire's coat sleeve, and said, "Wait. Sit. Please."
A please from Morganville's self-appointed crown princess? Now, that was interesting. Claire settled back down and took a sip of her mocha, waiting for the other designer shoe to drop.
"Something's going on," Monica said. She dropped her voice, and leaned across the table as she glanced around to be sure nobody was watching them. As far as Claire could tell, nobody was. "My brother got called in to some kind of closed-door meeting with Amelie yesterday and he hasn't come out yet. He doesn't answer his cell, either. Can you find out . . . ?"
Richard Morrell, Monica's brother, was the mayor of the town - young for it, but one of the most responsible people Claire had ever met. He'd gotten Monica's normal share of it, apparently. And Monica was right - closeted with Amelie all night? That didn't sound good at all.
"I can ask," Claire said. "But they probably won't tell me anything more than what you know."
"I just want to know if he's okay." Monica looked almost . . . well, human. "Richard's all I've got. You know?"
Claire nodded. "I'll see what I can find out, but I'm sure he's okay. Don't worry."
"Thanks." Monica said it grudgingly, but she did say it. That was more than a little amazing. Claire didn't want to spoil it by saying anything else, so she drank her coffee in silence, and so did Monica, and after a while, it almost felt . . . comfortable.
Compared to the other times when they'd tried to kill each other, anyway.
Claire's next stop was the TPU science building, where she found Professor Howard waiting with her test. She took it in twenty minutes, not needing the hour he'd allotted; it was an easy A, she knew that, and so did he as soon as he glanced over her answers. She got a nod of approval from him, and a stern warning not to miss any other tests.
Sadly, she wasn't sure she could accommodate him on that. Not in Morganville.
After the test, she sat on the steps in the chilly sunlight and dialed Oliver's phone. Not surprisingly, it went to his voice mail, which sharply ordered her to leave a message. "Monica Morrell's worried about her brother," she said. "She's worried enough to talk to me, and that means she's probably tried everybody else in town. I assume you don't want the buzz, so go calm her down. Please." The please was an afterthought, and half hearted; she was still angry at him, and furious at Myrnin. And Amelie. She was truly furious at Amelie.
She'd given so much to the vampires, given so much to keep things stable around here, and this was how they paid her back? By trying to take away Shane?
The longer she considered it, the angrier it made her. And the more frightened. Because what it meant opened up a terrifying gulf in front of her.... She'd always thought that at a certain level she could trust Myrnin, and Amelie. (She'd never deluded herself about Oliver.) But if she couldn't . . . if deep down, they saw her as disposable . . . what chance did any human really have in Morganville?
None.
That was what Shane had been trying to tell her all along. We don't mean anything to them except as a life-support system, Claire thought. Individually, we're nothing. Servants. No, cattle with opposable thumbs, occasionally useful.
She clutched her phone hard, stood up, and went down the steps, two at a time. Burning in her stomach was a mixture of nerves, nausea, and a new sense of purpose.
She went straight to the camera store that she and Shane had visited; the engagement party flyer wasn't posted, but Claire hadn't really expected it to be. The man behind the counter - the same one - straightened as she entered and put both hands on the glass top. "What do you want?" he asked. The indigo dye of the stake tattoo showed against the pale skin of his forearm, peeking out from under his rolled-up shirtsleeve.
Claire pulled off her cap and gloves, jammed them in a pocket, and said, "I don't know." That was honest. She'd come here on impulse, but now that she was facing him, she wasn't sure what she wanted to ask. "What's the deal with the tattoos?"
He rolled down his sleeves, staring at her with cold suspicion. "Chicks dig them," he said. "I don't do tats. This is a camera store. You might want to check down the street."
"Captain Obvious used to be your friend."
He didn't answer that at all. He was frowning now, and she was wondering if she'd made a terrible, impulsive mistake.
"I just - " She took a deep breath and plunged on. "Shane may be in danger. Real danger. From the top. Can you protect him?"
"Sorry?" His eyebrows rose. "Don't know what you're talking about. I just run a - "
"Camera store, yeah, I heard you. Listen. I need to know - can you, I don't know, watch out for him? Please?"
"You think I'm going to fall for your innocent act? You've been in the vampires' corner since day one around here. No chance, sweetheart. And if you keep poking around here, you're going to get hurt."
"It's not for me," she said. "It's for Shane. And I think you know he's never been in the vampires' corner. So please. Just - help him if you see he's in trouble. That's all I'm asking."
"What about you?" he asked, and gave her an evil little smile. "What if you're in trouble?"
Claire shrugged and put her gloves and hat back on. "I guess I'm on my own. Right?"
He was still watching her, trying to figure her out, as she walked out into the weak winter sun. There were still pools of dirty water at the edges of the uneven parking lot, and the ground remained soaked.
When she looked back, the camera shop owner nodded, once.
She put her hands in her pockets and walked home.
Home was chaos, and for a moment, Claire was truly worried that something awful had happened; Eve was stomping around the house slamming things around, and Shane was saying, in a thin and raspy voice, "It's not a big deal, man; calm down."
"I'm not your man and I will not calm down!" Eve yelled, and gave a piercing, full-throated shriek of frustration.
Claire dumped her stuff in the hall and raced into the living room, expecting to see . . . Well, she didn't know what she expected to see, except disaster in some form.
What she saw was a cake sitting on the dining table that was . . . well, a disaster. In cake form.
The two-tiered dessert itself was uneven and leaning, the icing was messy, the red flowers had melted into the white and left unsettling bloodlike stains, and, worst of all, as Claire got closer, she realized that the writing on top said MICHAEL & EVA in a big, lopsided, amateurish outline of a heart with an arrow through it.
Eva. Not Eve.
Eve kicked the sofa with her Doc Martens boots and burst into tears, and really, Claire didn't blame her a bit. Shane was looking helpless as he stood there watching her, not sure what to do.
So he did, of course, the wrong thing, and said, "Look, it's just a cake. I'm sure it's still delicious."
Eve glared at him. Claire walked over and put her arms around her friend, and sent Shane an irritated look.
"What did I do?" he croaked. His throat was turning a spectacular sunset purple now, with hints of blue. "Cake! It's cake! Delicious cake!"
"Honey, it's okay, really," Claire said. "We can - fix it."
"We can't," Eve managed to gasp out between sobs. "I shouldn't have made the trim red - it's all runny. . . ."
It did look a little bit slaughterrific, actually, but Claire put on a brave face. "So we scrape it all off, get some store-bought icing, and put it on," she said. "Can't be any worse, right? And we decorate it ourselves. It'll be fun!"
"It's horrible!" Eve cried, and buried her face in Claire's puffy coat. "It looks like Dracula's wedding cake!"
"Which should be a plus, shouldn't it?" Shane asked. "I mean, thematically?"
"Really not helping, Shane!" Claire said.
"I am helping! I even carried it in!"
"Yeah, good job." Claire sighed and shook her head. "Go upstairs or something. We'll find a way to fix this. Eve - just calm down and relax, okay? Breathe. I'll get the frosting and be back in a little while."
She got Eve to sit on the couch. She'd stopped sobbing, which was good, but she was staring at the cake with a dead-eyed, horrified look. The sooner the icing was scraped and the whole cake redone, the better.
Shane said, "Want me to go with?"
Her first impulse was to say no . . . but he'd survived the morning running around with Eve, and Eve was more consumed with party planning than watching his back. Besides, it was still broad daylight. The safest he'd be, even from Amelie.
He gave her puppy-dog eyes and said, "Please?"
She could never resist the puppy-dog eyes, and he knew it. "All right," she said. "But wear a scarf. Your throat makes you look like a zombie."
"I hear zombies are hot right now," Shane said, straight-faced. "They've got their own TV show and everything. Okay. Scarf."
She supervised, making sure the scarf was looped high enough to cover up the worst of the bruising. "Just tell anyone who asks that you got a wicked new tattoo and you're still healing up," she said. She stopped and brushed her fingertips lightly over the discolored skin. "Does it hurt?"
He bent his head and lightly kissed her forehead. "Only when I laugh."
"I'll try not to be funny."
"Epic fail, beautiful." She tingled all over when he called her beautiful. He didn't do it often, but when he did, he said it in this tone that was . . . just so incredibly intimate. "You know I need to watch your back, right?"
"I'm buying icing, Shane. I'm not going on safari. Besides, you're the one with the target on his back, not me."
"Then you can protect me." He kissed her on the nose, lightly.
The idea of her - small, not-very-physical Claire - protecting big, strong, very physical Shane . . . Well, that was just funny, somehow, and she couldn't help but laugh.
But he kept looking at her, very warm and very serious, and after her giggles faded, he said, "I mean it, Claire. I trust you."
She put her hand on his cheek and, without speaking, led him out the door.
At the grocery store, the first thing Claire noticed was that there was some kind of a crisis . . . not a we're-out-of-milk crisis, but something bigger. Management-style. As she and Shane walked in the door, they were almost knocked down by a very agitated man with that store-manager look about him. He was on his cell phone. His tie was pulled askew, and there were sweat stains under his arms. He was saying, "Yes, I know you need payment for deliveries, and I'm trying to reach our owner - I've been trying for days! . . . No, I don't have another number. Look, I'm sure nothing's wrong. I'm going over there myself to see. If you can just go ahead and make the scheduled delivery . . ." His voice faded out as he kept walking, heading for the office. Claire exchanged a look with Shane, who shrugged, and then they went in search of cake supplies.
Claire could tell that the shelves were badly in need of restocking. . . . Not that there was ever a huge selection in the store, but when the cake mixes were down to one or two boxes, and entirely out in most of the really good flavors . . . well, that didn't bode well. No wonder the manager was freaking out.
Like in most businesses in town, Claire suspected the owner was a vampire.... They liked to keep a tight grip on the purse strings of their investments, too. So why was the manager having so much trouble getting money for his store? Not like vamps went broke, not in Morganville.
"Did he say he couldn't get in touch with the owner?" Shane asked her, very quietly. "Because that's weird."
"Very," she agreed. "You think he might have been part of Bishop's, ah, support group?" Bishop, Amelie's father, had gathered up a nice little cadre of backstabbing traitors to help him on his most recent bid for power; Amelie and Oliver had responded by basically making most of those people disappear. And Bishop had done his share of damage, too.... He'd grabbed some of Amelie's supporters, and they hadn't survived the experience.
Civil war among the vampires: not pretty.
"Possible," Shane said. His voice sounded rougher than before, like he was starting to really hurt. "But that should have been taken care of weeks ago. Amelie doesn't let things go like that."
He was right. This sounded recent, and pretty dire. Amelie certainly wouldn't want one of the town's main grocery stores to crater; she'd fund it first. So this had to be something happening under her radar.
Claire shook her head and checked the frosting. There was enough white available, and she found some red candy flowers, too. The red decorator writing stuff looked doubtful, though Claire grabbed some of that. "Done," she said, and turned around.
Shane was gone.
"Shane?" She clutched the stuff to her chest, suddenly feeling very cold, and turned in a circle. He wasn't at either end of the aisle. In fact, he wasn't anywhere in sight. Claire hurried up toward the registers, hoping to catch sight of him.
Nothing. Her heart sped up, painfully fast. She started walking, fast, pacing past aisle after aisle. There were a dozen or so shoppers, but no sign of her boyfriend.
And then, off to the side, she saw a flash of a blue scarf. She backed up, stared, and saw that Shane was standing close to the office door, head down, listening. He looked up and saw her, and her heartbeat slowly began to ease up. Sweet relief flooded through her. God. She'd thought . . . Well, she'd thought someone had taken him right behind her back. Which was ridiculous, now that she thought about it - he wasn't some defenseless kid; he was a big guy, and he'd make noise, at the very least.
No, of course he'd gone off on his own. Jackass.
She got in line to pay for her stuff, and he came to join her by the time she reached the register. "Jerk," she told him, without the usual lighter edge of humor. "You scared me to death!"
He helped her put her armload of supplies on the belt and nodded at the bored, overweight girl running things over the scanner. "Hey, Bettina."
"Hey, Shane." Bettina sighed.
"So, lot of drama today."
"Haven't had a delivery in two weeks," she said. "I'll be lucky if we're not closed by tomorrow. It's supposed to be payday. No sign of checks, either. This sucks."
"Hang in there," Shane said. He smiled at her, and she smiled back wearily. It occurred to Claire, with a bit of surprise, that he knew the girl, probably from his old neighborhood or school or something. "How's your brother?"
"Same jerkwad as he ever was, only now he's old enough to drink, all legal," she said. "Pretty much sucks."
"Tell me about it."
Bettina's eyes finally focused on Shane's throat, and the scarf. "Hey, is that a bruise? What happened?"
"Tattoo," he said, straight-faced. "It's hard-core."
She looked impressed. "I guess it must be."
Bettina silently bagged the groceries and handed them over, and Claire thanked her - sincerely, because it was obvious Bettina and everybody else at the Food King was going to have a pretty miserable time today - and walked with Shane back out into the cold.
"So, superspy, what did you learn hanging around the office door?" she asked him. Shane was hunched over, hands in his pockets, looking thoughtful.
"The manager called the cops," he said. "Filed a missing persons report. On a vampire."
"Seriously?"
"That's how desperate he is." Shane raised his eyebrows. "He gave them an address, if you're interested."
"That is not a good idea. We're supposed to stay quiet, remember?"
"We're not talking. We're just looking."
"You're going to get us killed," Claire said. "Well, yourself, anyway. Which will kill me, too, Shane. Please, let's go home, just this once! No poking around, no Scooby-Dooing, no taking crazy risks. I'm scared, and I think the less we have to do with whatever's going on, the better."
He shot a look over at her, a smile playing hide-and-seek with his lips. "Who are you, and what did you do with Claire?"
"I'm serious."
"I can see that." He sucked in a deep breath, as if playing for time, and after a moment, he said, "Claire, Myrnin's a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but he's got no reason to come after me. I could tell it wasn't his idea. He actually apologized to me before he choked the crap out of me. So . . . who gives Myrnin orders?"
"Shane - "
"C'mon. Help me out."
Claire sighed, and her breath puffed white in the fierce, cold wind that stung her skin. "Only one person."
"Yeah. Her. And then Oliver comes racing to stop him. Again, who gives Oliver orders, when he bothers to listen?"
"Amelie."
"And you think that by keeping our heads down, we're really going to get out of this? You want to believe in Santa and the Easter Bunny while we're at it?"
Claire jumped over a broken part of the sidewalk, which Shane's longer legs carried him effortlessly over. "Hey, you're the one who says the Easter Bunny is actually evil."
"Granted, but you're avoiding the point."
"I've thought about it," she said. "And I'm angry, Shane. I'm really angry. After everything we've done, everything we've risked, we're expendable. And it hurts. Believe me."
He stopped and looked at her for a moment, then put his arms around her. The street was empty except for a few passing cars, and it felt like they were all alone, against the world. That wasn't true, but in that moment, Claire was feeling particularly vulnerable.
Shane kissed her on the top of the head and said, "Welcome to Morganville. We grew up knowing that. You're just now realizing it."
She hid her face in the warm, rough weave of his jacket. Her voice came out muffled. "How do you stand it?"
"We get mean," Shane said. "And we get cynical. And we stick together. Always. Because first, last, and always, we rely on each other."
They stood there together, holding each other, until finally the wind got so cold Claire shivered even in his embrace.
Shane put his arm around her and walked her the rest of the way home. She forced herself to forget all they'd seen and said, and throw herself into salvaging Eve's engagement cake. It was actually fun, and three tubs of frosting later, they'd made it look, if not professional, presentable. The cakes were level, and the decoration was even; the red flowers looked sweet and just a bit in-your-face. Claire had decided to make the most of the amateurish clumsiness of the squeeze decorator stuff, so there was a funny lopsided heart with a childish arrow through it, and the initials MG and ER.
Simple, but fun.
Eve hugged her, hard. "It's beautiful," she said. "What happened to the old frosting?"
Shane, sitting at the table, raised his hand. "Took one for the team."
"Jesus, you ate it? All of it?"
"Nah." He held up the bowl that was sitting in front of him. There was still about half a cup left. "Couldn't finish it all."
Eve blinked and looked at Claire, who shrugged and said, "I always thought he was sweet."
The next day, they were all up early - hideously early, according to Eve, who looked hollow-eyed and desperate as she glugged down three cups of coffee before heading up to hog the bathroom for an hour and a half. Claire had wisely done all her showering and getting ready before Eve was even up.
She hadn't seen Michael at all yet, but Shane was up, yawning and looking almost as out of it as Eve. "Why are we doing this again?" he asked. "And where are all those doughnut things I bought?"
"Eaten," Claire said. "Besides, you ate about a pound of frosting last night. No sugar for you."
This time she got the finger, which was amusing; he never, ever shot it at her. She gave it right back, which made him smile. "So wrong. So what's Slave Driver Eve got us doing today?"
"We have to take the cake and flowers over to the ballroom," Claire said, ticking it off on her fingers. "Decorate the tables. Put out the plates and forks. Get the punch ready and set up the plasma table . . ."
"You cannot be serious."
"Relax - we're not managing the plasma table. The blood bank is doing that."
"Great. My two pints are going to be party food."
"Stay on target, Shane. What are you wearing?"
"Relax, Fashion Police. I'm dressing up. I've got a tuxedo T-shirt and everything." When her mouth opened in horror, he grinned. "Kidding. I'll look okay. Oh, and I'm wearing a turtleneck, so don't get on to me about the bruises not going with my shoes or anything." The bruises were, Claire had to admit, spectacular today, though his voice sounded more normal. "I promise, no lime green suits." He yawned. "I guess I'd better go bang on Michael's door. Dude's going to be late to his own party, and Eve would stake him right through the heart. Messy."
He took his coffee and ambled away, and Claire found herself standing there smiling like an idiot. She didn't know when it had happened, but something had changed in Shane - something important. It wasn't a big shift, from most perspectives, but he seemed . . . more responsible now. Less the rebel slacker and more someone who liked being thought of that way.
Progress.
She sucked down the rest of her coffee, fast, and washed up the mugs in the sink. She was wrist-deep in warm, soapy water when Shane's voice came from behind her, calling her name. She looked around, and saw him standing in the doorway, holding it open. He looked . . .
Odd was her first thought, but in the next second, she amended it to scared. She hadn't seen him scared very often.
"Shane?" She left everything where it was and reached for a towel to wipe her hands.
"You'd better come out here," he said. "We've got visitors."
"Who . . . ?" It wasn't even eight a.m. and someone had come calling? So not right.
"Sheriff Moses and Dick Morrell," Shane said. "They've got Michael with him. He never came home last night."
"Oh God," Claire breathed. "Is he okay?"
"Depends," he said. "Come on."
She threw the towel at the counter and didn't care where it landed as she followed him out, down the hall, and into the parlor room at the front, where Hannah Moses and Morganville's mayor, Richard Morrell, were waiting. Hannah was dressed in her crisp blue police uniform, holding the peaked cap under her arm; she was a tall African-American woman with a scar on her face that she'd earned in Afghanistan combat, and she was one of the most capable and practical people Claire knew. Richard Morrell was wearing a suit and tie, but the tie was pulled loose and it seemed like yesterday's clothing, from the wrinkles and the dark circles beneath his eyes. He and Hannah were both kind of young - under thirty, at least - and even though Shane had never gotten over Richard being Monica's brother, Claire thought he was sort of all right.
They both nodded at Claire as she came into the room.
Michael didn't. He was sitting down in one of the chairs, elbows on his knees, hunched over. Like Richard, he didn't look like he'd changed out of the jeans and dark blue shirt he'd been wearing yesterday. He raised his head to glance at Claire, then returned to studying the carpet.
"What's wrong?" she asked breathlessly. She'd expected it was something to do with Michael, but he didn't seem to be in custody, exactly. Besides, handcuffs were more Shane's style.
Eve came in right behind her, still in a black silk kimono robe embroidered with cranes; her hair was up under a towel turban. She went to Michael and touched him on the shoulder. He looked up and smiled wanly, put his paler hand over hers, and straightened up in the chair.
Hannah cleared her throat. "I need to ask you all some questions," she said. "About a missing vampire."
Claire saw Shane's reaction, and imagined she'd made the same half-guilty start. Someone must have seen him snooping, or heard them talking . . . but they hadn't gotten involved. They hadn't! Great, now we're guilty even when we didn't do anything.
"We don't know anything about it," Claire said, before Hannah could continue. "We overheard it at the grocery store, that's all. The only thing we know is that whoever the vampire is, he's been missing for two weeks and the checks aren't getting signed."
Richard Morrell frowned at her. So did Hannah, just a little. "What grocery store?"
"The . . . Food King?" Too late, Claire realized that she'd gone entirely the wrong direction. "Oh. So . . . not him?"
"Separate case," Hannah said, "but similar circumstances, as it happens. We're looking into Mr. Barrett's disappearance, but we have a more pressing issue now. He was the fourth vampire to go missing in the last three weeks, and now there's a fifth."
"It's Naomi," Michael said. "Nobody's seen her since she visited us here. We're the last people who saw her." He didn't say alive, but Claire understood what he meant. It was possible that Naomi, like the other four vampires, had been killed.
No wonder Hannah was tense, and Richard was losing sleep. Dead vampires in Morganville were a very, very serious problem - for humans.
"I need you each to tell me exactly where you've been since then," Hannah said, and took out a pad and pen. "Eve. Go first."
Eve clutched her robe closed, even though it was tightly tied, and her dark eyes widened. "You think I - "
"I don't think anything, except that you need to establish your movements so I can eliminate you, fast. You know that if something is going on, Amelie will come down hard on whoever is responsible. Let's make sure you're not on that list."
"But I didn't - we wouldn't - "
"Just tell her where you've been," Michael said. "Eve. It's going to be okay. I promise."
But looking at him, at the tense set of his body and the worried look in his blue eyes . . . Claire wasn't so sure.