Boy Dog had somehow kept pace with us and now he was prowling back and forth across the porch, growling and darting his head at every new sound. He was just as scared as we were.
The house was smallish. It had a wooden porch big enough to hold a pair of rocking chairs and windows on either side of the door. There was car in the driveway, which hadn’t been there when we’d passed the place earlier; it was old, and the brownish paint was flaking off in a pattern that looked surprisingly organic, like an alien beast crouching in the shade.
“This is someone from church?” asked Brooke.
I nodded. “Sara Glassman. She…” I paused, suddenly remembering something. “Those three dirtbags last night mentioned a Ms. Glassman; they said she had relatives in town.”
“So?”
“So today when she invited us she said she’d made a pie and that she didn’t want to eat it alone. If she has relatives in town she’s not alone, so someone is lying.”
Brooke panted a moment longer, then shook her head. “About a pie?”
“I’m … just nervous, is all. It’s probably nothing, I know. But if I jump at enough shadows I’ll eventually jump at something real and save our lives.”
“Is that why you just mouthed off to an asshat with a rifle?”
I peered at her more closely. “Marci?”
She shook her head. “Still Brooke.”
“You don’t talk like that very often.”
“I don’t get shot at very often.”
I nodded. “Considering how often our lives in danger, that’s pretty surprising.”
“Don’t go back and hurt him,” she said.
“What?” I straightened up, finally breathing at a normal rate. “Why would I go back?”
“Because he hurt you,” said Brooke. “And you don’t like it when people hurt you.”
It wasn’t me that I worried about, it was her. For daring to threaten her I’d cut Derek into a thousand pieces, I’d stab and slice and chop and mince until there was nothing left, nothing even recognizable as a mammal, let alone a human, but …
… then what? What would I do after his danger was gone, and another rose up to take its place. Just kill again? And what after that? I couldn’t just murder my way to peace. There would always be another danger.
What would I give to just disappear back onto the road? To stick out my thumb and be gone again, leaving only a fading memory of Those Weird Kids Who Came To Church.
We’d had nothing but trouble since we’d gotten here. Since Marci had gotten here. I took a deep breath, then shook my head. “It’s free food,” I said, addressing my own doubts out loud. “We’ll take that wherever we can get it; no sense running. And it can’t be any worse than anything else that’s happened today.”
Brooke nodded. “What kind of pie?”
The door opened, and Ms. Glassman beamed from the doorway. “I thought I heard voices out here! Come on in, I’m so glad you came! Oh, and you brought your adorable dog!”
“Thank you,” said Brooke, smiling politely. We passed inside while Ms. Glassman held the door. The house smelled delicious.
“Did you get your medicine okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Brooke, lying better than usual. “I’m feeling much better.”
Ms. Glassman crouched to scratch Boy Dog’s head. “What’s his name?”
“Boy Dog,” I said. “We didn’t name him.”
“Ha! You can leave your packs on the couch,” said Ms. Glassman, pointing to a sagging sofa. She bustled into the kitchen, and I took the chance to study the room—art on the walls, mostly nature scenes, and a pair of old black-and-white photos hanging over the mantel. There were no other photos. “Is it a mental thing?” she called from the other room.
“Depression,” said Brooke. “It comes and goes, but I’m okay now.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Ms. Glassman. “My aunt was like that, but this was back in the day, when they didn’t consider things like depression to be a condition. It was just a thing that you felt and got over. I’m just guessing, of course, but I kind of wish she’d had some of the modern medicines like yours. Coke or apple?”
“What?” I stepped into kitchen and saw her setting the table with thick ceramic dishes.
“To drink,” she explained. “My brother buys this apple soda all the time, and I’ve still got some in the fridge. But I have Coke, too, if you’d rather.”
“Apple sounds great,” said Brooke.
“Just water for me,” I said.
“Absolutely,” said Ms. Glassman. “You can wash up in the sink there.”
We obediently washed our hands, and I counted the settings at the table: only three. I still couldn’t help myself from looking around the house for more people.
“Have a seat,” she said, dishing some kind of green vegetable from a saucepan to a serving dish. “You said you were vegetarian, so I made beet greens. It’s a southern thing, which we don’t do a lot of in these parts, but I used to have family out that way, so I picked up a few recipes.” She set the dish on the table and sat down, licking her fingertips. “Ready?”
“Is it just the three of us?” I asked.