When she'd left, Judith stepped close to Claire. Marie moved over to put out the fire, discreetly giving them space to talk.
Judith didn't hug Claire. She didn't touch her or smile at her. She simply held Claire's gaze with her blue-gray eyes, which were exactly the color of a February morning.
"Beatrice isn't telling you the truth. She's trying to be nice, but if you treat this like it's no big deal, it will just make things worse for you in the end."
The words were painful, but the honesty of the hurt felt better than the lying smile she'd put on for Beatrice.
"I know," Claire whispered.
"No, you don't," Judith said quietly. "This will break you. The same way that the surface of the moon has been broken by the meteors that smash against it. But this doesn't have to destroy you. The shattered moon still glows. You will still be. And from there you will have to find your own way through."
It was the worst thing anyone had said to Claire all night. But, somehow, it gave her the courage to face the next twentyfour hours. And she was determined to do exactly what Judith had said—to find her own way through. Claire didn't go to school the next day. She couldn't. It was easy to extend the sickness she'd faked on Saturday night—it probably made the whole thing more believable, anyway. The dance seemed like a lifetime ago. Her dress was still stuffed into the duffel bag she'd carried into the woods, tossed into a corner of her room. There were texts from Emily piling up on her phone, and downstairs her mother was hovering uncomfortably.
She reached for her phone, texting Emily back. If something had gone . . . wrong, then Emily would know about it—Emily would tell her.
Still feel like crap. Everything okay with you? Claire sent the text and then held her breath, waiting for a response. A few minutes later, her phone beeped, which meant that Emily was texting midclass.
Sorry! Boring day here—everyone's still hungover. Amy's acting weird, too, but she won't say why.
Emily's message was reassuring and worrying at the same time. Amy still hadn't said anything, which was good, but Emily was probably employing the "pester them until they tell you what's going on" tactic. Claire knew how persuasive Emily could be when she wanted to know something.
She couldn't let Emily find out. As much as she wanted to pretend things were fine, that Amy wasn't living her last day, she couldn't afford to wait.
She looked out at the woods and begged the Goddess to help her.
Claire swung herself out of bed and pulled on a ratty pair of jeans and one of Matthew's old sweatshirts. She'd just go to his house. School would be out in a couple of hours, and if she was there—waiting for him—then he'd have to talk to her.
She thundered down the stairs and into the kitchen, where her mother was pretending to be busy reading a catalog.
"Where's Lisbeth?" she demanded.
"I gave her the day off," Marie said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Claire blinked, thinking through her options. Her very limited options.
"I'm taking the car," she announced. "I have to go to Matthew's."
Marie looked up at her sharply. "I don't think so. I'm not letting you drive the Mercedes while you have so much on your mind—you'll be too distracted. I'll take you over to the Engles'."
Claire's shoulders slumped. "Fine," she said. She didn't care how she got there. She just needed to go.
The two of them rode in silence most of the way. A few blocks from the Engles' house, Marie turned to her. "I know you have not asked for my advice."
Claire looked back at her mother. "Didn't you give me your advice last night? If I don't have any choice, then what words of wisdom do I need?" Her voice was cold and hard as hail.
Irritation flashed across Marie's face, erased in a moment by an understanding that made Claire's stomach sink. Marie was treating her like a cancer patient. Like she was terminal.
"I would not have you do this if there were any other way, Claire. But the law is immutable on this point. And so I would advise you to do it without thinking. The less you dwell on it now, the easier it may be to tuck away later. So that it does not define you, the way it defined Judith. I do not wish to see you . . ."
"Shattered?" Claire offered, thinking of Judith's description of the rock-battered moon.
"Exactly," Marie agreed, turning onto the Engles' street. Claire stared at the passing houses. She didn't know how to tell her mother that it was already too late. That nothing was ever going to be the same again. Something had changed in her when she'd agreed to kill Amy, even if she hadn't done it yet. It was like watching a dropped glass fall toward the floor, knowing that it was going to break but not knowing how badly. Just knowing that it couldn't be saved.
The Engles' driveway was empty, and Claire was grateful. She'd figured that Dr. Engle would be at the lab, but Matthew's mom might have been home.