Free Overbite by Meg Cabot Page B

upset about something. And she’d called Holtzman . He wanted to be the person she turned to when she was shaken and upset. Not Holtzman .
    How could he have let everything go so wrong? And how could he possibly fix it?
    She looked pointedly down at the wrist he was holding. Instantly, he released it. She turned away and started to walk past him, into the building.
    He should have let it end there. But he couldn’t.
    So instead, he reached out and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her toward him in an embrace that was awkward as much because she wasn’t expecting it as because Alaric Wulf was not used to hugging people, and wasn’t very good at it.
    “It’s all right,” he said, in what he hoped was a soothing voice. He stroked her hair. The fine threads, a little coarse from all the dye her friend Leisha had been using on them lately, were hot from the sun. “Whatever it is. It’s going to be fine.”
    She finally seemed to realize what he was doing and stopped trying to pull away. To his surprise, he actually felt her relax in his arms. Something warm and wet touched his neck, and he realized, with a shock, that it was her tears.
    “I don’t think so, Alaric,” she whispered. “I really don’t. Not this time.”
    He didn’t know what to do. He’d gotten so accustomed to her giving him the cold shoulder that for her to completely drop all her defenses and melt against him like this was a little unnerving. He almost preferred the hostile glances and sarcasm. It was certainly better than tears. Hundreds of women had cried in front of him before, and it had never bothered him.
    But this was awful.
    He tightened his grip and said, lamely, “It can’t be that bad.” Then he wanted to kick himself. Actually, it really could be that bad. What did he know?
    A squad car pulled up beside them. A Freewell police officer got out from behind the wheel, then walked around to haul a surprisingly tall and colorfully dressed—for suburban New Jersey—drag queen from the backseat.
    “Honey,” the drag queen said to Meena as the officer escorted her into the building, “you save me a piece of that boy’s ass. I will be right out to get it.”
    Alaric looked skyward, thankful he had taken Holtzman’s advice not to bring his sword.
    “I think we should go inside and find Abraham,” Meena said in a small voice, stepping away from him.
    “I think that’s an excellent idea,” Alaric said, and hurried to open the door for her. He didn’t understand the look Meena gave him when he did this, one that seemed to be of mingled shock, gratitude, and something else that he could not identify.
    But it did not make him feel any better.

Chapter Nine
    M eena, followed closely by Alaric, walked into the impeccably clean, high-tech Freewell Police Department. She wondered why every head in the room did not swivel toward her as she came in. That’s how loudly her heartbeat was slamming inside her ears. She felt as if everyone in the whole world must be able to hear it.
    But apparently, she was the only one who could.
    She could see Abraham Holtzman sitting in the conference room the polite receptionist led them to, speaking to a sleepy-looking woman in a beige suit, and to David’s parents, who appeared decades older than they had the last time Meena had seen them.
    Of course they did. Because their son was dead. Although they didn’t know it yet.
    Meena swallowed and tried to plaster a warm smile of greeting on her face.
    It was difficult to do so, however, when she was so hyperaware of Alaric Wulf behind her. She’d never forget the look in his eyes when he’d seen the scarf she’d tied around her neck to hide the ugly bruise David’s bite mark had left behind. She’d thought he was going to throw the coffee he was holding right into her face.
    That he was only half wrong about how the bite had been acquired—since she had seen Lucien last night—caused her cheeks to burn. She wondered if he noticed.
    “Ah,