"I don't want to do this." Her voice was flat.
"I know." Matthew reached over and brushed her hair away from her face, his thumb tracing the angle of her cheekbone. "Is there—I . . ." He sighed. "Nothing I say is going to make this any better, is it?"
Claire shook her head. She stared down at the keyboard, thinking only about what she needed to do next, instead of why she was doing it in the first place. In less than five minutes, she'd figured out how to set up an untraceable e-mail account, complete with a professional-looking signature.
Claire clicked open a new message and started to type out an e-mail. She tried to keep from using any sort of abbreviations, so that she'd sound older. She'd seen Lisbeth's e-mails-anyone over the age of twenty-two wrote e-mails like an English teacher was going to read them.
Hi! I'm Lynn - I own the Potter's Wheel, on River Glen Drive. I saw some of your work when I was in Philadelphia last month, and I was really impressed. Kelly from Thrown Gallery gave me your e-mail address. I'm looking for some young artists in Hanover Falls for a new show I'm setting up. Would you be interested in meeting?
She sent the message and waited, watching the minutes tick past on her computer, praying that this wasn't the one afternoon that Amy decided not to check her e-mail. Everything inside her burned. It hurt to breathe.
Half an hour later, the computer pinged, and an e-mail popped into her inbox. Claire clicked open the message.
Hey, Lynn - Thanks for the message. I'm very interested! I'm glad Kelly gave u my e-mail addy.
With her fingers shaking over the keys, Claire sent a response.
Great! Can you come by around eight tonight? If you could bring some samples of your work, we can see where it might fit in the gallery. We're down on River Bend Drive. Just park in the lot and walk across the bridge, and we'll be on your right.
She had to close her eyes when she pressed send. It was like handing someone a noose and asking them to check if it would fit around their neck.
Amy responded faster than a kid grabbing an ice cream cone.
That would be great! I'll be there right at eight - I'm so excited!
It was done.
Claire crumpled into herself like a wadded-up piece of paper, wishing she could shrink herself down until she was small enough to disappear.
Matthew wrapped his arms around her, scooting her over into his lap.
"I'm staying with you until it's time. I'll drive you there," he announced.
Claire shook her head. "No," she whispered. "You have to go home."
"Claire, let me stay with you. Let me help you."
She leaned into him.
"I wish you could," she said. "but you have to go home. You're sure your parents won't be there?"
"I'm sure," he said.
"I'll come straight there, after—" She couldn't bring herself to say the words. "I'll come over when it's done." She shuddered, and Matthew tightened his arms around her.
"Be careful." His voice was urgent, pleading, in her ear. "I couldn't stand it if anything happened to you. I love you, Claire. And I'm so sor—"
"Don't say it," she begged. "It just makes it worse." She turned her head so that her forehead was pressed against the side of his neck. "Just tell me one more time that you still love me."
"I do love you," he said. "I love you now, and I'll love you tomorrow, no matter what you have to do tonight. You're not choosing this, Claire. You're not responsible for things you don't choose."
His kind words fell flat inside Claire. She didn't believe him. Amy's death might have been an order, but she was still the one who was going to reach out and take her life. Pushing away the thought, she straightened enough to kiss him.
"I'll see you soon," she said.
He slipped out of the room, and the click of the door closing behind him was the loneliest sound Claire had ever heard. When darkness fell, Claire dragged herself downstairs, so wrapped up in adrenaline and disbelief that she didn't even feel the stairs beneath her feet.
Her mother looked up at her.
"I'm going," Claire said simply.
"So soon?" Marie seemed surprised, but she recovered quickly. Smoothly.
"Yep." Claire's voice was crisp as an apple but not nearly as sweet. "It's worked out. She fell—she bought it." She was going to say, 'She fell for it,' but it was too close to the truth of what was going to happen. What she was going to do.
Marie turned to her.
"Claire—just . . . be careful. Please. I do not wish to see you broken by this. Not in body and not in mind."
Claire shrugged. There was nothing she could say. She had little enough hope for herself—there wasn't any left over to offer her mother.
"I'll call you when it's done." She grabbed a dark-colored coat, stepped out into the cold, and walked away.
She did not look back.
Claire found a spot next to the bridge, behind some prickly
leaved holly bushes. Below her, the sound of the river, icy and