Free Ghost Flower by Michele Jaffe Page B

just the expression in his eyes, the cold cop stare. I’d seen it before.
    I wondered what the N stood for. “Nosey,” maybe.
    My left hand looked bad, the knuckles covered with blood—mine, I noticed, as I rinsed it off—and starting to swell. It would be useless for at least a few days, depending on how long I kept itwrapped in a bandage. And that was the idea: No one could expect me to play the piano or tennis with a bandaged hand.
    Everything was going just how I’d intended. It was all—
    Cursed thing, only half-alive.
    I shivered.
Stop it,
I told myself. I reached around with my right hand to lift off my shirt, and it was only then that I realized I was shaking. Not just my hands but all of me, trembling uncontrollably. It was all going how I’d intended, but what was I really doing? Up until now it had been a game, pretend, an idea. Like a play, a character whose attributes you put on for a few hours and then later you get to go home and lie on the couch eating cheesy popcorn and watching movies and being yourself. But not anymore. Now it was irrevocably for real.
    Crashing Coralee Gold’s party was like plunging into a freezing cold lake, committing to it—it left no exit. I’d been seen. I’d been filmed. By tomorrow I’d be all over the YouTube feeds of Aurora’s former friends and classmates. There was no running away now. I felt trapped in the worst kind of trap—one I’d set for myself. Apparently even
I
knew I was unreliable.
    The floor seemed to roll under me, and my head swam. But I was damned if I was going to faint in front of Officer Sort-Of-Ugly. I leaned my hips against the sink and put my right palm on the mirror. I watched mascara trace lines down my cheeks.
I should have worn waterproof
I thought, and started to laugh the way you do when something isn’t funny, the way you do right before you begin to sob.
    “Hurry up,” N. Martinez said.
    If at that moment he had come over and asked if I were all right, if he had said anything nice, anything even the slightest bit reassuring or kind or thoughtful, I think I would have broken down. But the impersonal brusqueness of his command snapped me out of my panic. All my fear turned to anger.
    “I would hate to do anything to inconvenience you,” I said, grabbing a handful of paper towels and leaning toward the mirror to swipe the mascara from my face.
    “I doubt that.”
    His tone stopped me—it was almost like he was making a joke. But that seemed… unlikely. I resisted the urge to glance at him, concentrating on rifling through the first aid kit instead. I found an ace bandage and wrapped it around my left hand. I ran the fingers of my right hand through my hair and was turning from the mirror when I realized I’d parted it on the wrong side. Eve’s side. I quickly shifted it, then faced him and said, “I’m ready.” I held out my wrists for the cuffs.
    He let me stand there like that for a moment, the cuffs dangling from his right index finger, clearly enjoying himself. I could tell he was working up to something, probably some kind of unsavory proposal.
    He said, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but whatever it is, do it between eight A.M. and ten P.M. weekdays.”
    That surprised me, so instead of saying what I should have, I asked, “Why?”
    “I’m not on duty then. I don’t like dealing with spoiled girls or cowards.”
    “How do you know I’m a coward?”
    “You ran away, didn’t you?”
    I shook my head. “Someone has abandonment issues.” That got no reaction, not even a deepened scowl. “Besides, I’m not up to anything.”
    “I have five younger sisters. I know when someone is up to something.” He clicked the cuffs onto my wrists. “Come.”
    When we got back to the squad room, there was a womandetective in trousers and a blue button-down shirt at the desk. To her left was a slight, dark-haired man in khakis and a sweater. He looked like a well-dressed math teacher, but thanks to the flashcards I