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  "I don't go out with stran­gers," I sa­id.

  "Go­od thing I do. I'll pick you up at fi­ve."

  CHAPTER 17

  THE­RE WAS COLD RA­IN ALL SA­TUR­DAY, AND I SAT NE­AR the win­dow watc­hing it pep­per down on the gro­wing pud­dles in the lawn. I had a dog-eared copy of Ham­let in my lap, a pen tuc­ked be­hind my ear, and an empty mug of hot cho­co­la­te at my fe­et. The she­et of re­ading comp­re­hen­si­on qu­es­ti­ons on the si­de tab­le was just as whi­te as it had be­en when Mrs. Le­mon pas­sed it out two days ago. Al­ways a bad thing.

  My mom had left for yo­ga class al­most thirty mi­nu­tes ago, and whi­le I'd prac­ti­ced a few dif­fe­rent ways of bre­aking the news of my da­te with Patch to her, in the end I'd let her walk out the do­or wit­ho­ut vo­ca­li­zing any of them. I told myself it was no big de­al, I was six­te­en and co­uld de­ci­de when and why I left the ho­use, but the truth was, I sho­uld ha­ve told her I was go­ing out. Per­fect. Now I was go­ing to be car­ting aro­und my gu­ilt all night.

  When the grand­fat­her clock in the hall chi­med to an­no­un­ce 4:30, I gladly tos­sed asi­de the bo­ok and jog­ged ups­ta­irs to my bed­ro­om. I'd bur­ned thro­ugh most of the day with ho­me­work and cho­res, and that had kept my mind off to­night's da­te. But now that I was down to the fi­nal mi­nu­tes, ner­vo­us an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on over­ru­led all. Whet­her or not I wan­ted to think abo­ut it, Patch and I had un­fi­nis­hed bu­si­ness. Our last kiss got cut short. So­oner or la­ter, the kiss wo­uld ne­ed re­sol­ving. I had no do­ubt I wan­ted re­so­lu­ti­on, I just wasn't su­re I was re­ady for it to­night. On top of all this, it didn't help that Vee's war­ning kept pop­ping up li­ke a red flag at the back of my mind. Stay away from Patch.

  I po­si­ti­oned myself in front of the bu­re­au mir­ror and to­ok in­ven­tory. Ma­ke­up was mi­ni­mal, re­ser­ved to a swe­ep of mas­ca­ra. Too much tumb­le­we­ed ha­ir, but what el­se was new? Lips co­uld use so­me gloss. I lic­ked my bot­tom lip, gi­ving it a wet shi­ne. That got me thin­king mo­re abo­ut my al­most-kiss with Patch, and I got an in­vo­lun­tary rush of he­at. If an al­most-kiss co­uld do that, I won­de­red what a full-on kiss co­uld do. My ref­lec­ti­on smi­led.

  "No big de­al," I told myself whi­le trying on ear­rings. The first pa­ir was big, lo­opy, and tur­qu­o­ise… and tri­ed too hard. I put them asi­de and tri­ed aga­in with to­paz te­ard­rops. Bet­ter. I won­de­red what Patch had in mind. Din­ner? A mo­vie? "It's a lot li­ke a bi­ology study da­te," I told my ref­lec­ti­on nonc­ha­lantly. "Only… wit­ho­ut the bi­ology and stud­ying."

  I tug­ged on matchs­tick je­ans and bal­let flats. I wrap­ped a Hal­ly-blue silk scarf aro­und my wa­ist, up over my tor­so, then ti­ed the ends be­hind my neck to fas­hi­on a hal­ter-style blo­use. I fluf­fed my ha­ir, and the­re was a knock at the do­or.

  "Co­ming!" I hol­le­red down the sta­irs.

  I did one fi­nal check in the hall mir­ror, then ope­ned the front do­or and fo­und two men in dark trench co­ats stan­ding on the porch.

  "No­ra Grey," sa­id De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so, hol­ding up his po­li­ce bad­ge. "We me­et aga­in."

  It to­ok a mo­ment to find my vo­ice. "What are you do­ing he­re?"

  He tip­ped his he­ad si­de­ways. "You re­mem­ber my part­ner, De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic. Mind if we step in­si­de and ask you a few qu­es­ti­ons?" It didn't so­und li­ke he was as­king per­mis­si­on. In fact, it so­un­ded just this si­de of a thre­at.

  "What's wrong?" I as­ked, di­vi­ding a glan­ce bet­we­en them.

  "Is yo­ur mom ho­me?" De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so as­ked.

  "She's at yo­ga. Why? What's go­ing on?"

  They wi­ped the­ir fe­et and step­ped in­si­de.

  "Can you tell us what hap­pe­ned bet­we­en you and Mar­cie Mil­lar at the lib­rary Wed­nes­day eve­ning?" De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic as­ked, plun­king down on the so­fa. De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so re­ma­ined stan­ding, scru­ti­ni­zing the fa­mily pic­tu­res ar­ran­ged on the man­tel.

  His words to­ok a mo­ment to re­gis­ter. The lib­rary. Wed­nes­day eve­ning. Mar­cie Mil­lar.

  "Is Mar­cie okay?" I as­ked. It was no sec­ret I didn't hold a warm, af­fec­ti­ona­te pla­ce in my he­art for Mar­cie. But that didn't me­an I wan­ted her in tro­ub­le, or wor­se, in dan­ger. I es­pe­ci­al­ly didn't want her in tro­ub­le if it ap­pe­ared to in­vol­ve me.

  De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so put his hands on his hips. "What ma­kes you think she's not okay?"

  "I didn't do anyt­hing to Mar­cie."

  "What we­re the two of you ar­gu­ing abo­ut?" De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic as­ked. "Lib­rary se­cu­rity told us things we­re get­ting he­ated."

  "It wasn't li­ke that."

  "What was it li­ke?"

  "We cal­led each ot­her a few na­mes," I sa­id, ho­ping we co­uld le­ave it at that.

  "What kind of na­mes?"

  "Stu­pid na­mes," I sa­id in ret­ros­pect.

  "I'm go­ing to ne­ed to he­ar tho­se na­mes, No­ra."

  "I cal­led her an ano­re­xic pig." My che­eks stung and my vo­ice was hu­mi­li­ated. If the si­tu­ati­on hadn't be­en so se­ri­o­us, I might ha­ve wis­hed I'd in­ven­ted so­met­hing a lot mo­re cru­el and de­me­aning. Not to men­ti­on so­met­hing that ma­de a lit­tle mo­re sen­se.

  The de­tec­ti­ves exc­han­ged a lo­ok.

  'Did you thre­aten her?" as­ked De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic.

  'No."

  "Whe­re did you go af­ter the lib­rary?"

  'Ho­me."

  'Did you fol­low Mar­cie?"

  "No. Li­ke I sa­id, I ca­me ho­me. Are you go­ing to tell me what hap­pe­ned to Mar­cie?"

  "Can an­yo­ne vo­uch for that?" De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so as­ked.

  "My bi­ology part­ner. He saw me at the lib­rary and of­fe­red me a ri­de."

  I had a sho­ul­der prop­ped aga­inst one si­de of the French do­ors le­ading in­to the ro­om, and De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so wal­ked over and to­ok up a post on the op­po­si­te si­de, ac­ross from me. "Let's he­ar abo­ut this bi­ology part­ner."

  "What kind of qu­es­ti­on is that?"

  He spre­ad his hands. "It's a pretty ba­sic qu­es­ti­on. But if you want me to get mo­re spe­ci­fic, I can. When I was in high scho­ol, I only of­fe­red ri­des to girls I was in­te­res­ted in. Let's carry that a step furt­her. What's yo­ur re­la­ti­ons­hip with yo­ur bio part­ner… out­si­de the clas­sro­om?"

  "You're joking, right?"

  One si­de of De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so's mo­uth hitc­hed up. "That's what I tho­ught. Did you ha­ve yo­ur boyf­ri­end be­at up Mar­cie Mil­lar?"

  "Mar­cie was be­at up?"

  He pus­hed up from the do­or­way and po­si­ti­oned him­self di­rectly in front of me, sharp eyes bo­ring in­to me. "Did you want to show her what hap­pens when girls li­ke her don't ke­ep the­ir mo­uths shut? Did you think she de­ser­ved to get a lit­tle ro­ug­hed up? I knew girls li­ke Mar­cie when I went to scho­ol. They ask for it, don't they? Was Mar­cie as­king for it, No­ra? So­me­one be­at her up pretty bad Wed­nes­day night, and I think you know mo­re than you're sa­ying."

  I was wor­king hard to sup­press my tho­ughts, af­ra­id they might so­me­how show on my fa­ce. May­be it was a co­in­ci­den­ce that on the sa­me night I comp­la­ined to Patch abo­ut Mar­cie, she to­ok a be­ating.

  Then aga­in, may­be it wasn't.

  "We're go­ing to ne­ed to talk to yo­ur boyf­ri­end," De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic sa­id.

  "He's not my boyf­ri­end. He's my bi­ology part­ner."

  "Is he on his way he­re now?"

  I knew I sho­uld be up-front. But on furt­her ref­lec­ti­on, I co­uld not ac­cept that Patch wo­uld hurt Mar­cie. Mar­cie wasn't the ni­ce
st per­son, and she'd ac­qu­ired mo­re than a hand­ful of ene­mi­es. A few of tho­se ene­mi­es might be ca­pab­le of bru­ta­lity, but Patch wasn't one of them. Sen­se­less be­ating wasn't his style. "No," I sa­id.

  De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so ga­ve a stiff smi­le. "All dres­sed up for a Sa­tur­day night in?"

  "So­met­hing li­ke that," I sa­id in the col­dest to­ne I da­red.

  De­tec­ti­ve Hols­ti­j­ic pul­led a small no­te­pad out of his co­at poc­ket, flip­ped it open, and clic­ked his pen. "We're go­ing to ne­ed his na­me and num­ber."

  Ten mi­nu­tes af­ter the de­tec­ti­ves left, a black Je­ep Com­man­der rol­led to the curb. Patch jog­ged thro­ugh the ra­in to the porch, we­aring dark je­ans, bo­ots, and a ther­mal gray T-shirt.

  "New car?" I as­ked af­ter I ope­ned the do­or.

  He ga­ve me a myste­ri­o­us smi­le. "I won it a co­up­le nights ago off a ga­me of po­ol."

  "So­me­one bet the­ir car?"

  "He wasn't happy abo­ut it. I'm trying to stay cle­ar of dark al­leys for the next lit­tle whi­le."

  "Did you he­ar abo­ut Mar­cie Mil­lar?" I threw it out the­re, ho­ping the qu­es­ti­on wo­uld ta­ke him by surp­ri­se.

  "No. What's up?" His ans­wer ca­me easily, and I de­ci­ded it pro­bably me­ant he was tel­ling the truth. Un­for­tu­na­tely, when it ca­me to tel­ling li­es, Patch didn't stri­ke me as an ama­te­ur.

  "So­me­one be­at her up."

  "A sha­me."

  "Any idea who might ha­ve do­ne it?"

  If Patch he­ard the con­cern in my vo­ice, he didn't show it. He le­aned back aga­inst the porch ra­iling and rub­bed a hand tho­ught­ful­ly ac­ross his jaw. "No­pe."

  I as­ked myself if I tho­ught he was hi­ding so­met­hing. But re­ading li­es wasn't a strong po­int of mi­ne. I didn't ha­ve a lot of ex­pe­ri­en­ce. Typi­cal­ly I hung aro­und pe­op­le I trus­ted… typi­cal­ly.

  Patch par­ked the Je­ep be­hind Bo's Ar­ca­de. When we got to the front of the li­ne, the cas­hi­er la­id eyes first on Patch, then on me. Back and forth they went, trying to ma­ke a con­nec­ti­on.

  "What's up?" Patch sa­id, and put three tens on the co­un­ter.

  The cas­hi­er tra­ined his watch­ful sta­re on me. He'd no­ti­ced that I co­uldn't stop sta­ring at the moldy-gre­en tat­to­os co­ve­ring every ava­ilab­le inch of skin on his fo­re­arms. He mo­ved a wad of gum? to­bac­co? to the ot­her si­de of his bot­tom lip and sa­id, "You lo­oking at so­met­hing?"

  "I li­ke yo­ur tat-," I be­gan. He ba­red po­in­ted dog te­eth.

  "I don't think he li­kes me," I whis­pe­red to Patch when we we­re a sa­fe dis­tan­ce away.

  "Bo do­esn't li­ke any­body."

  "That's Bo of Bo's Ar­ca­de?"

  "That's Bo Juni­or of Bo's Ar­ca­de. Bo Se­ni­or di­ed a few ye­ars ago."

  "How?" I as­ked.

  "Bar brawl. Downs­ta­irs."

  I felt an overw­hel­ming de­si­re to run back to the Je­ep and pe­el out of the lot.

  "Are we sa­fe?" I as­ked.

  Patch slan­ted a lo­ok si­de­ways. "Angel."

  "Just as­king."

  Downs­ta­irs, the po­ol hall lo­oked exactly li­ke it had the first night I'd co­me. Cin­der-block walls pa­in­ted black. Red felt po­ol tab­les at the cen­ter of the ro­om. Po­ker tab­les scat­te­red aro­und the frin­ge. Low track ligh­ting cur­ving ac­ross the ce­iling. The con­ges­ted smell of ci­gar smo­ke clog­ging the air.

  Patch cho­se the tab­le fart­hest from the sta­irs. He ret­ri­eved two UPs from the bar and pop­ped the­ir caps on the ed­ge of the co­un­ter.

  "I've ne­ver pla­yed po­ol be­fo­re," I con­fes­sed.

  "Cho­ose a cue." He mo­ti­oned to the rack of po­ol sticks mo­un­ted on the wall. I lif­ted one down and car­ri­ed it back to the po­ol tab­le.

  Patch wi­ped a hand down his mo­uth to era­se a smi­le.

  "What?" I sa­id.

  "Can't hit a ho­me run in po­ol."

  I nod­ded. "No ho­me runs. Got it."

  His smi­led stretc­hed. "You're hol­ding yo­ur cue li­ke a bat."

  I lo­oked down at my hands. He was right. I was hol­ding it li­ke a bat. "It fe­els com­for­tab­le this way."

  He mo­ved be­hind me, put his hands on my hips, and po­si­ti­oned me in front of the tab­le. He slid his arms aro­und me and to­ok hold of the po­ol stick.

  "Li­ke this," he sa­id, re­po­si­ti­oning my right hand up se­ve­ral inc­hes. "And… this," he went on, ta­king my left hand and for­ming a circ­le with my thumb and in­dex fin­ger. Then he plan­ted my left hand on the po­ol tab­le, li­ke a tri­pod. He pus­hed the tip of the po­ol stick thro­ugh the circ­le and over the knuck­le of my mid­dle fin­ger. "Bend at the wa­ist."

  I le­aned in­to the po­ol tab­le, with Patch's bre­ath war­ming my neck. He pul­led back on the po­ol stick, and it gli­ded thro­ugh the circ­le.

  "Which ball do you want to hit?" he as­ked, re­fer­ring to the tri­ang­le of balls ar­ran­ged at the far end of the tab­le. "The yel­low one in front's a go­od cho­ice."

  "Red's my fa­vo­ri­te co­lor."

  "Red it is."

  Patch drew the stick back and forth thro­ugh the circ­le, aiming at the cue ball, prac­ti­cing my stro­ke.

  I squ­in­ted at the cue ball, then at the tri­ang­le of balls fart­her down the tab­le. "You're a tiny bit off," I sa­id.

  I felt him smi­le. "How much you want to bet?"

  "Fi­ve dol­lars."

  I felt him gi­ve a soft sha­ke of his he­ad. "Yo­ur jac­ket."

  "You want my jac­ket?"

  "I want it off."

  My arm jer­ked for­ward, and the po­ol stick shot thro­ugh my fin­gers, ram­ming the cue ball. In turn, the cue ball shot for­ward, im­pac­ted with the so­lid red, and shat­te­red the tri­ang­le, balls ri­coc­he­ting in all di­rec­ti­ons.

  "Okay," I sa­id, shuc­king off my je­an jac­ket, "may­be I'm a lit­tle bit imp­res­sed."

  Patch exa­mi­ned my silk-scarf-slash-hal­ter. His eyes we­re as black as a mid­night oce­an, his exp­res­si­on con­temp­la­ti­ve. "Ni­ce," he sa­id. Then he mo­ved aro­und the tab­le, scru­ti­ni­zing the la­yo­ut of balls.

  "Fi­ve dol­lars says you can't sink the blue stri­ped one," I sa­id, se­lec­ting it pur­po­sely; it was shi­el­ded from the whi­te cue ball by a mass of co­lor­ful balls.

  "I don't want yo­ur mo­ney," Patch sa­id. Our eyes loc­ked, and the ti­ni­est dimp­le sur­fa­ced in his che­ek.

  My in­ter­nal tem­pe­ra­tu­re ro­se anot­her deg­ree.

  "What do you want?" I as­ked.

  Patch lo­we­red his po­ol stick to the tab­le, to­ok one prac­ti­ce stro­ke, and dril­led the cue ball. The mo­men­tum of the cue ball trans­fer­red to the so­lid gre­en, then to the eight ball, and punc­hed the stri­ped blue in­to a poc­ket.

  I ga­ve a ner­vo­us la­ugh and tri­ed to co­ver it up by crac­king my knuck­les, a bad ha­bit I ne­ver suc­cum­bed to. "Okay, may­be I'm mo­re than a lit­tle imp­res­sed."

  Patch was still bent over the tab­le, and he lo­oked up at me. The lo­ok war­med my skin.

  "We ne­ver ag­re­ed on a bet," I sa­id, re­sis­ting the ur­ge to shift my we­ight. The po­ol stick felt a lit­tle slick in my hands, and I disc­re­etly wi­ped a hand on my thigh.

  As if I wasn't al­re­ady swe­ating eno­ugh, Patch sa­id, "You owe me. So­me­day I'll co­me to col­lect."

  I la­ug­hed, but it wasn't qu­ite on pitch. "You wish."

  Fo­ots­teps bar­re­led down the sta­irs ac­ross the ro­om. A tall, stringy guy with a hawk no­se and shaggy blue-black ha­ir ap­pe­ared at the bot­tom. He lo­oked at Patch first, then shif­ted his ga­ze to me. A slow grin ap­pe­ared, and he stro­de over and tip­ped back my 7UP, which I'd le
ft on the rim of the po­ol tab­le.

  "Excu­se me, I be­li­eve that's-," I be­gan.

  "You didn't tell me she was so soft on the eyes," he sa­id to Patch, wi­ping his mo­uth with the back of his hand. He spo­ke with a he­avy Irish ac­cent.

  "I didn't tell her how hard you are on them eit­her," Patch re­tur­ned, his mo­uth at the re­la­xed sta­ge just be­fo­re a grin.

  The guy bac­ked up aga­inst the po­ol tab­le be­si­de me and stuck his hand out si­de­ways. "The na­me's Ri­xon, lo­ve," he told me.

  I re­luc­tantly slid my hand in­to his. "No­ra."

  "Am I in­ter­rup­ting so­met­hing he­re?" Ri­xon sa­id, di­vi­ding an in­qu­iring lo­ok bet­we­en me and Patch.

  "No," I sa­id at the sa­me ti­me Patch sa­id, "Yes."

  Sud­denly Ri­xon lun­ged play­ful­ly at Patch, and the two drop­ped to the flo­or, rol­ling and thro­wing punc­hes. The­re was the so­und of husk) la­ugh­ter, fists la­ying in­to flesh, and fab­ric te­aring, and Patch's ba­re back ca­me in­to vi­ew. Two thick gas­hes ran the length of it. They star­ted ne­ar his kid­neys and en­ded at his sho­ul­der bla­des, wi­de­ning to form an up­si­de-down V. The gas­hes we­re so gro­tes­que I al­most gas­ped in hor­ror.

  "Aye, get off me!" Ri­xon bel­lo­wed.

  Patch swung off him, and as he got to his fe­et, his torn shirt flut­te­red open. He slo­ug­hed it off and tos­sed it in­to the trash can in the cor­ner. "Gi­ve me yo­ur shirt," he told Ri­xon.

  Ri­xon di­rec­ted a wic­ked wink at me. "What do you think, No­ra? Sho­uld we gi­ve him a shirt?"

  Patch ma­de a play­ful lun­ge for­ward, and Ri­xon's hands flew up to his sho­ul­ders.

  "Easy now," he sa­id, bac­king up. He pe­eled off his swe­ats­hirt and tos­sed it at Patch, re­ve­aling a fit­ted whi­te tee un­der­ne­ath.

  As Patch rol­led the swe­ats­hirt down over abs hard eno­ugh to put a flut­ter in my sto­mach, Ri­xon tur­ned to me. "He told you how he got his nick­na­me, didn't he?"

  "Sorry?"

  "Be­fo­re our go­od fri­end Patch he­re got mi­xed up in po­ol, the lad fa­vo­red Irish ba­re-knuck­le bo­xing. Wasn't very go­od at it." Ri­xon wag­ged his he­ad. "Truth be told, he was down­right pat­he­tic. I spent most nights patc­hing him up, and so­on af­ter, ever­yo­ne star­ted cal­ling him Patch. Told him to gi­ve up bo­xing, but he wo­uldn't lis­ten."