Free Son of Destruction by Kit Reed Page B

than it was when she first lay down on the air mattress, trying to get up the strength to sob out her heart.
    She’ll sit out the next hour out back.
    By the time Steffy hits the back porch she’s gasping for air like one of those girls some creep stole and buried alive.
    Oh, shit.
    There’s a guy on the steps. Just sitting there.
    Perv alert!
    Why am I not scared?
    Whoever he is, he’s cute. Not scared. I am sooo not scared.
    Be cool. Breathe. Ask, like you belong here and he doesn’t, ‘Who are you?’
    He looks up. Nice, like it’s no big deal being a grownup, more like he’s another kid. ‘Oh, sorry. I didn’t know there was anybody home.’
    ‘Somebody lived here but she’s dead.’ Steffy ought to be on guard right now, hopping off the porch for a head start in case he lunges, but he is not that guy. ‘Nobody lives here.’ He is hanging in place like a sentence ready to be completed or a song waiting to be sung. She almost smiles. ‘Not even me.’
    His head comes up. Noted: this is not her house.
    ‘But I sort of do,’ she says, to forestall questions.
    Nice guy, he doesn’t ask. ‘I see,’ he says, waiting for whatever comes next.
    God he is cute sitting there with the sunlight on his hair. God he is too old for her. Steffy should get out of this conversation and off the premises, but she won’t. Not yet. ‘I thought you would say, “What are you doing here?”’
    ‘That would be a no.’ He gets up. ‘None of my business, right?’ He shakes one foot and then the other to see if they’re still working, like you do when you need to get the blood running so you can move on.
    ‘It’s OK, you can stay.’
    ‘Can’t.’ He grimaces. ‘I’ve got stuff to do.’
    Steffy discovers that she’ll say anything to keep him. ‘No problem if you want to hang in. Really.’ Question, keep him with a question. ‘So. What got you here?’
    ‘Long story.’
    ‘Want to tell it?’
    ‘Not really. Well, part of it.’
    ‘Which part?’
    ‘We’ll get to that.’ He has this sweet, wide open look; it’s what Steffy’s guidance counselor tries and fails to hit with her because he’s a jerk. Guidance guy strikes out in spite of all the heavy eye contact and trust exercises he makes them do in fifth period Sex Ed, never mind that it’s humiliating. But this guy . . . The smile.
    Steffy is sort of smiling too.
    ‘So. Can I see inside?’
    ‘Not really,’ Steffy says. It’s not her house, but it is, and they both know both these things.
    ‘Look, I’m down here for a newspaper? It would be a big help if you let me look around inside.’
    ‘Are you writing a story or what?’
    ‘If you’re worried I can show you my press pass.’
    ‘I believe you,’ she says. ‘I just can’t . . .’
    ‘Like you’re not allowed to . . .’
    ‘Talk to strangers? Not really.’ She lifts her head in that proud, cocky way her mother hates. ‘I can talk to anyone I want.’
    He almost-laughs. ‘Because you’re a big girl.’ He’s not being condescending or anything, he is doing a great job of imitating Mom.
    ‘Pretty much.’ How can she not grin?
    ‘Look, if this a bad time, no problem. I can come back.’
    ‘That won’t make it OK.’
Don’t go
.
    ‘Me talking to you?’
    ‘Me letting you in.’
    ‘Did you know this Mrs Archambault?
    ‘Not really.’
    ‘This is her house.’
    She bristles. ‘Not any more.’
    ‘I’m doing a story about some bad old stuff that happened here.’
    Right, Carteret. Early American History. ‘When?’
    ‘You don’t know?’
    ‘Not really.’
    Instead of hitting on her or trying one of those sinister things the TV teaches you to beware, he backs away from the house, pointing up. ‘That’s the room where it happened.’
    Steffy moves out into the yard so she can see where he is pointing. ‘Where what happened?’
    ‘The last spontaneous human combustion.’
    ‘Holy crap!’
    ‘Crash, bam. Whammo, she just. Burned up.’ As though he already has her