Linger

“I have homework,” I interrupted. “I’m going upstairs. See you next week.”

As I turned to go, Dad said, “Isabel, wait.”

I waited.

“Jerry told me you were hanging out with Lewis Brisbane’s daughter. Is that true?”

Now I turned, to see what his expression was. His arms crossed, he leaned against the colorless counter, his shirt and tie still perfectly unwrinkled, one eyebrow raised in his narrow face. I raised mine to match. “What about it?”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Dad said. “I just asked a question.”

“Then fine. Yes. I hang out with Grace.”

I could see a vein stand out on one of his arms as he closed his hands into fists and opened them again, over and over. “I hear that she has a lot to do with the wolves.”

I made a little gesture in the air like, What are you talking about?

“Rumor is she feeds them. I’ve been seeing them around here a lot,” he said. “Looking suspiciously well cared for. I’m thinking it’s time to do some more thinning.”

For a moment we just looked at each other. Me trying to decide if he knew I’d been feeding them and was doing his passive-aggressive thing to get me to say something, and him trying to stare me down.

“Yeah, Dad,” I said, finally. “You should go shoot some animals. That’ll bring Jack back. Good idea. Should I tell Grace to lure them closer to the house?”

My mother stared at me, a frozen piece of art: Portrait of a Woman With Chardonnay. My father looked like he wanted to hit me.

“Are we done?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m getting very close to done,” my father said. He turned and gave my mother a meaningful look, which she didn’t see because she was too busy filling her eyes with tears that had yet to fall.

I thought my part in this particular episode was definitely over, so I left them behind in the kitchen. I heard my dad say, “I’m going to kill all of them.” And my mother said, voice full of tears, “Whatever, Tom.”

The end. I probably needed to stop feeding the wolves.

The closer they got, the more dangerous it was for all of us.

CHAPTER TEN

• GRACE •

By the time Sam got home, Rachel and I had been attempting to make chicken parmesan for a half hour. Rachel lacked the concentration to bread the chicken pieces, so I had her stirring the tomato sauce while I dredged an endless number of chicken parts through egg and then through breadcrumbs. I pretended to be annoyed, but really the repetitive action had a kind of relaxing effect, and there was a subtle pleasure in the tactile elements: the viscous swirling of the brilliantly yellow egg over the chicken, then the soft shush of the breadcrumbs rubbing against one another as they moved out of the chicken’s way.

If only I didn’t have this persistent headache. Still, the process of making dinner and having Rachel over was doing a pretty good job of making me forget about both my headache and the fact that it had gotten winter dark outside, the chill pressing in against the window above the sink, and Sam was still not here. I kept repeating the same mantra over and over in my head. He won’t change. He’s cured. It’s over.

Rachel bumped her hip against my hip, and I realized, all at once, that she had turned up the music insanely loud. She bumped my hip again, in time with the song, and then spun into the center of the kitchen, wiggling her arms over her head in some sort of demented Snoopy dance. Her outfit, a black dress over striped leggings, paired with her dual ponytails, only added to the ludicrous effect.

“Rachel,” I said, and she looked at me but kept dancing. “This is why you are single.”

“No man can handle this,” Rachel assured me, gesturing to herself with her chin. She spun and came face-to-face with Sam, standing in the doorway from the hall. The thumping bass must’ve drowned out the sound of the front door. At the sight of him, my stomach slid down to my feet, a weird combination of relief, nerves, and anticipation all in one, a feeling that never seemed to go away.

Still facing Sam, Rachel did a strange dance move with her index fingers extended; it looked like it had possibly been invented in the fifties, when people weren’t allowed to touch each other. “Hi, The Boy!” she shouted over the music. “We’re making Italian food!”

Still holding a piece of chicken, I turned and made a loud noise in protest. Rachel said, “My colleague informs me that I spoke too strongly. I am watching Grace make Italian food!”

Sam smiled at me, his always sad-looking smile maybe a little tighter than usual, and said, “…”

I struggled to turn down the radio with my hand that wasn’t covered with breading. “What?”

“I said, ‘What are you making?’” Sam repeated. “And then, ‘Hi, Rachel.’ And ‘May I come into the kitchen, Rachel?’”

Rachel swept grandly out of his way, and Sam came to lean on the counter next to me. His yellow wolf’s eyes were narrowed, and he seemed to have forgotten that he was still wearing his coat.

“Chicken parmesan,” I said.

He blinked. “What?”

“It’s what I’m making. What were you up to?”

Sam said, stumbling, “I—was—at the store. Reading.” With a quick glance toward Rachel, he sucked in his lips and said, “Can’t talk. My lips are still cold from being outside. When will it be spring?”

“Forget spring,” said Rachel, “when will it be dinner?”

I waved unbreaded chicken at her, and Sam looked around at the counter behind him. “Can I help?” he asked.

“Mostly I need to finish breading these eight million chicken br**sts,” I said. My head was starting to pound, and I really was beginning to hate the mere sight of uncooked chicken. “I never realized what happened to two pounds of chicken when you pounded it flat.”

Sam gently shouldered past me to the sink to wash his hands, his cheek leaning against mine as he reached behind me for the dish towel to dry his hands. “I’ll bread the rest while you fry them. Does that work?”

“I’ll cook the water for the pasta,” Rachel volunteered. “I’m excellent at boiling things.”

“The big pot’s in the pantry,” I said.

As Rachel disappeared into the small pantry and began crashing through the pots and lids, Sam leaned over to me so that his lips pressed against my ear. He whispered, “I saw one of Beck’s new wolves today. Shifted.”