KIN (46 page)

"You did nothing wrong," Claire said, the sentence dropping in pitch as she glanced toward the house. Pete followed her gaze and noticed that a light had come on. "You were there for me."

"We're friends," Pete said with a shrug, wishing he had the courage to say more.
We're friends and that's all we'll ever be, but I love you, Claire. And right now, you're all I got in the world.

"That sounds so simple," Claire replied. "And wrong."

With another wary glance at the house, she leaned over, cupped a hand behind his head and drew him close. During the drive here, he had rationalized the kiss at the Merrill House as one of relief or gratitude, particularly considering the iciness she had shown him prior to that moment, but there was no mistaking the motive behind the kiss she gave him now. It was soft and wet, and prolonged. As soon as she broke contact, she quickly initiated it again, her tongue briefly touching his own until he felt like he'd been electrocuted.

Finally she drew away. "We will see each other again," she said, and smiled. Then her face darkened. "Shit," and she opened the door and got out. He started to say something but instead watched as she hurried into the street. Her sister, Kara, was doing the same, coming from the opposite direction, dressed in a robe, her hair tousled, face grim, eyes dark with anger. Pete's hand moved to the keys, waiting for the moment when he would know without question that it was time for him to get moving.

The women met in the street and immediately began to argue, Kara's eyes roving over her sister, registering every cut and bruise as she gesticulated madly. Claire had her hands in her hair and was shaking her head with a pained expression. Then they stopped, and Kara looked directly at Pete.

He glanced away. The look had been his cue, and yet he couldn't turn the keys. His fingers gripped them tightly, his eyes on the road, his heart pounding, but he couldn't start the engine. He didn't want to, aware that as soon as he did, he would not just be leaving a quiet street in the rearview.

A tap on the glass made him jump. He looked and was surprised, and more than a little dismayed to see Claire's sister looking in at him. He cleared his throat, watched as she made a circular motion with her index finger.

He rolled down the window, the word
Sorry
already on his tongue.

"You got a call," she said, and that made him swallow the word. It had been the last thing he'd expected to hear.

"A call?"

Kara ran a hand through her hair. She looked tired. Dark bags hung under eyes made shallow with worry. "Yeah. A cop in Detroit."

Pete swallowed, felt himself stiffen with panic. "What...?" he started to say, then shook his head.

"They said they want to talk to you."

"About what?"

"About a woman up there. Louise something."

The mention of her name made him ache inside. In all that had happened, his mind had not been able to entertain more than one sorrow at a time, but he realized now, in the days ahead, he would have nothing but time to ponder them.

"She's dead," he said. "She got hurt."

Kara frowned at him. "She's not dead."

He gaped at her, sure he hadn't heard her correctly. "What?"

"She's in the hospital, but she's not dead. She asked for you. Told the cop you were her only living kin, so they want you to come up. Wanted you to know she got hurt, but apparently that's not news to you."

Stunned, he smiled at her and shook his head.

Kara did not look like she shared his joy. "Seems like trouble just draws you to it, doesn't it?"

"Thank you," he told her with genuine warmth. She could stick her arms in and throttle him, or curse him to high Heaven and it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference now because Louise was
alive
. He was almost afraid to believe it. "Thank you, Ma'am," he said again and glanced at Claire, who'd been listening. She was smiling at him, a light in her eyes anyone else might have said was simply a reflection of the sun as it crept over the horizon, but he knew better.

# # #

Born and raised in Dungarvan, Ireland, Kealan Patrick Burke is a Bram Stoker Award-winning author described as "a newcomer worth watching" (
Publishers Weekly
) and "one of the most original authors in contemporary horror" (
Booklist
).

Some of his works include the novels MASTER OF THE MOORS, CURRENCY OF SOULS and THE HIDES, the novellas THE TURTLE BOY (Bram Stoker Award Winner, 2004), VESSELS, MIDLISTERS, and JACK & JILL, and the collections RAVENOUS GHOSTS, THEATER MACABRE, THE NUMBER 121 TO PENNSYLVANIA & OTHERS (Bram Stoker Award-Nominee, 2009), DEAD OF WINTER, DEAD LEAVES, and THEATER MACABRE.

Visit Kealan on the web at
http://www.kealanpatrickburke.com
.

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