He turned his head so that I could see that his yellow eye was already open. “Put it on speaker.”
I did, resting it on my belly so that the camera’s face lit a small blue circle on my tank top.
“What’s going on?” Sam slid up onto one elbow, made a face when he felt the cold, and jerked the blankets up around us, making a tent around the phone.
“Someone attacked Paul. He’s a mess, ripped to shreds.”
Sam’s mouth made a little o. I don’t think he was thinking about what his face looked like—his eyes were far away, with his pack. Finally, he said, “Could you—have you—is he still bleeding? Was he human?”
“Human. I tried to ask him who did it—so I could kill them. I thought…Sam, I really thought I was going to be calling you to tell you he died. It was that bad. But I think it’s closing up now. But the thing is, it was all these little bites, all over, on his neck and on his wrists and his belly, it was as if—”
“—as if someone knew how to kill him,” Sam finished.
“It was a wolf who did it,” Beck said. “We got that much out of him.”
“One of your new ones?” Sam snarled, with surprising force.
“Sam.”
“Could it have been?”
“Sam. No. They’re inside.”
Sam’s body was still tense beside me, and I mulled over possible meanings for that phrase: One of your new ones. Was Jack not the only new one?
“Will you come?” Beck asked. “Can you? Is it too cold?”
“I don’t know.” I knew from the twist of Sam’s mouth that he was only answering the first question. Whatever it was that had distanced him from Beck, it was powerful.
Beck’s voice changed, softer, younger, more vulnerable. “Please don’t be angry with me still, Sam. I can’t stand it.”
Sam turned his face away from the phone.
“Sam,” Beck said softly.
I felt Sam shudder next to me, and he closed his eyes.
“Are you still there?”
I looked at Sam, but he still didn’t speak. I couldn’t help it—I felt sorry for Beck. “I am,” I said.
There was a long pause, completely devoid of static or crackling, and I thought Beck had hung up. But then he asked, in a careful way, “How much do you know about Sam, girl-without-a-name?”
“Everything.”
Pause. Then: “I’d like to meet you.”
Sam reached out and snapped the phone shut. The light of the display vanished, leaving us in the dark beneath the covers.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX • GRACE
45°F
My parents didn’t even know. The morning after Sam and I—spent the night together, it seemed like the biggest thing on my mind was that my parents had no idea. I guessed that was normal. I guessed feeling a little guilty was normal. I guessed feeling giddy was normal. It was as if I had thought all along I was a complete picture, and Sam had revealed that I was a puzzle, and had taken me apart into pieces and put me back together again. I was acutely aware of each distinct emotion, all fitting together tightly.
Sam was quiet, too, letting me drive, holding my right hand in both of his while I drove with the other. I would’ve given a million dollars to know what he was thinking.
“What do you want to do this afternoon?” I asked, finally.
He looked out the window, fingers rubbing the back of my hand. The world outside looked dry, papery. Waiting for snow. “Anything with you.”
“Anything?”
He looked over at me and grinned. It was a funny, lopsided grin. I think maybe he was feeling as giddy as I was. “Yes, anything, as long as you’re there.”
“I want to meet Beck,” I said.
There. It was out. It had been one of the puzzle pieces stuck in my head ever since I’d picked up the phone.
Sam didn’t say anything. His eyes were on the school, probably figuring that if he waited just a few minutes, he could deposit me on the sidewalk and avoid discussion. But instead he sighed as if he was incredibly tired. “God, Grace. Why?”
“He’s practically your father, Sam. I want to know everything about you. It can’t be that hard to understand.”
“You just want everything in its place.” Sam’s eyes followed the knots of students slowly making their way across the parking lot. I avoided finding a parking place. “You just want to perform magical matchmaking on me and him, so that you can feel like everything’s in its place again.”
“If you’re trying to irritate me by saying that, you won’t. I already know it’s true.”
Sam was silent while I circled the lot another time, and finally, he groaned. “Grace, I hate this. I hate confrontation.”
“There won’t be confrontation. He wants to see you.”
“You don’t know everything that’s going on. There’s awful stuff going on. There’ll be confrontation, if I have any principles left. Hard to imagine after last night.”
I found a parking place in a hurry, one on the farthest end of the lot so that I could face him without curious eyes watching us on the way to the sidewalk. “Are you feeling guilty?”
“No. Maybe. A little. I feel…uneasy.”
“We used protection,” I said.
Sam didn’t look at me. “Not that. I just—I just—I just hope it was the right time.”
“It was the right time.”
He looked away. “Only thing I wonder, is…did you have s—make love—to me to get back at your parents?”
I just stared at him. Then I grabbed my backpack from the backseat. I was suddenly furious, ears and cheeks hot, and I didn’t know why. I didn’t recognize my voice when I answered. “That’s a nice thing to say.”
Sam didn’t look back at me. It was like the side of the school was fascinating to him. So fascinating he couldn’t look me in the eyes while he accused me of using him. A new wave of anger washed over me.
“Do you have such crap self-esteem that you think I wouldn’t want you just for you?” I pushed open the door and slid out; Sam winced at the air that came in, though it couldn’t have been cold enough to hurt him. “Way to ruin it. Just—way to ruin it.”
I started to slam the door, but he reached far across the seat to keep the door from shutting all the way. “Wait. Grace, wait.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to let you go like this.” His eyes were pleading with me, their absolute saddest. I looked at the goose bumps raising on his arms, and the slight tremble of his shoulders in the cold draft. And he had me. No matter how angry I was, we both knew what could happen while I was in school. I hated that. The fear. I hated it.
“I’m sorry I said it,” Sam blurted out, rushing to get out words before I left. “You’re right. I just couldn’t believe something—someone—so good could happen to me. Don’t go mad, Grace. Please don’t go mad.”
I closed my eyes. For a brief moment I wished with all my heart that he was just a normal boy, so that I could storm away with my pride and indignation. But he wasn’t. He was as fragile as a butterfly in autumn, waiting to be destroyed by the first frost. So I swallowed my anger, a bitter mouthful, and opened the door a bit more. “I don’t want you to ever think something like that again, Sam Roth.”
He closed his eyes just a little bit when I said his name, lashes hiding his yellow irises for a second, and then he reached out and touched my cheek. “I’m sorry.”
I caught his hand and tangled his fingers in mine, fixing my gaze on his face. “How do you think Beck would feel if you went away mad?”
Sam laughed, a humorless, self-deprecating laugh that reminded me of Beck’s on the phone the night before, and dropped his eyes from mine. He knew I had his number. He pulled his fingers away. “We’ll go. Fine, we’ll go.”
I was about to leave, but I stopped. “Why are you angry at Beck, Sam? Why are you so mad at him when I’ve never seen you angry at your real parents?”
Sam’s face told me he hadn’t asked himself this question before, and it took him a long time to answer. “Because Beck—Beck didn’t have to do what he did. My parents did. They thought I was a monster. They were afraid. It wasn’t calculated.”
His face was full of pain and uncertainty. I stepped up into the car and kissed him gently. I didn’t know what to say to him, so I just kissed him again, got my backpack, and went into the gray day.
When I looked back over my shoulder, he was still sitting there, gaze silent and lupine. The last thing I saw was his eyes half-closed against the breeze, black hair tousled, reminding me for some reason of the first night I’d ever seen him.
An unexpected breeze lifted my hair from my neck, frigid and penetrating.
Winter suddenly felt very close. I stopped on the sidewalk, closing my eyes, fighting the incredible desire to go back to Sam. In the end, duty won out, and I headed into the school. But it felt like a mistake.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN • SAM
44°F
After Grace got out of the car, I felt sick. Sick from arguing with her, sick from doubt, sick from the cold that was just warm enough to keep me human. More than sick—restless, unsettled. Too many loose ends: Jack, Isabel, Olivia, Shelby, Beck.
I couldn’t believe that Grace and I were going to see Beck. I turned up the heat in the Bronco and rested my head on the steering wheel for several long moments, until the ridged vinyl started to hurt my forehead. With the heat turned up all the way, it didn’t take too long for the car to become stuffy and hot, but it felt good. It felt far away from changing. Like I was firmly in my own skin.
I thought at first that I might just sit like that all day, singing a song under my breath—Close to the sun is closer to me / I feel my skin clinging so tightly—and waiting for Grace, but it only took me a half hour of sitting to decide that I needed to drive. More than that, I needed to atone for what I’d said to Grace. So I decided to go to Jack’s house again. He still hadn’t turned up, either dead or in the newspapers, and it was the only place I could think of starting the search again. Grace would be happy to see me trying to put everything into place for her.