slept with him. We can‟t always know the consequences of our choices. But we can try to learn as much as we can so we can
make informed decisions.”
He twisted his mouth in a smile. “You mean, by looking stuff up on the Internet?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “And sometimes we just need to talk.”
He absorbed that for a beat, maybe two. “Is it okay if we talk later? Because the movie starts in like ten minutes.”
She stared at him in disbelief. How could he even think of going to the movies with so much undisclosed, undiscussed, and
undecided?
Because he was fifteen, she realized. Still a child, still a boy, no matter how “unique” he was.
She was glad, relieved to have any evidence he was still a normal teenager.
“That‟s fine.” She dried her hands on a dish towel. “You have a good time. Be home by eleven.”
“Mom. It‟s Friday.”
She draped the towel over the bar on the oven door. “And you have work tomorrow.”
“Not until noon. Noon to six.”
He was growing up some, if he remembered his work schedule.
“Eleven,” she repeated.
“Fine.”
“I love you, Zack.”
He met her gaze. His eyes were Morgan‟s eyes, pale gold with deep black centers, but his smile was pure Zachary, sweet
and careful. “Yeah. Me you too.”
Her heart swelled.
Maybe love would be enough, she thought when he‟d said good-bye and the house was empty.
She filled the kettle and set it on the stove to make a cup of tea. The gas flared, too high, too fast. She frowned and adjusted
the dial.
Maybe love was all you had, and all you could hold were the moments snatched before the ones you loved were gone.
As Ben had gone.
And Morgan.
Blue flames jumped and licked at the kettle‟s sides. The spout burped water as if it were boiling already, which it wasn‟t.
Odd. Fat drops sizzled against the steel. The little hairs lifted on the back of her neck.
She adjusted the heat again carefully. Old stoves could be temperamental. Nothing to worry about. She‟d had this one
inspected with the rest of the house before they moved in.
Tigger mewed, plaintive, insistent.
She opened a cupboard to get a mug and the tea canister. She smelled . . . Not gas. Something fecal, something fetid,
something rotten.
A hiss, a whoosh behind her made her turn.
A sheet of blue and orange flame shot upward from the stove.
“Shit,” she yelled and dropped the mug and lunged for the burner control.
The fire reached greedily for her, a flash of heat, a howl of glee. She ducked, twisting the dial. The gas snapped off. The
fire wavered. Dropped. Died.
Heart hammering, she backed away. The broken mug rolled at her feet.
Tigger cried.
“It‟s okay,” she said shakily.
The burner was black, the kettle quiet. She glanced down and saw the kitten puffed with fright, backed against a table leg.
She blew out her breath. “It‟s okay, baby.”
She stooped to comfort him, and the dish towel hanging on the oven door burst into flame.
16
THE PREMONITION OF DANGER TRICKLED THROUGH Morgan like smoke.