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“I’m fine,” I insisted as I blazed a path through the house to the door, turning on lights and opening windows until all of the rooms were sunlit.
“Don’t lie to me. You’re frightened. I can hear it in your voice,” he insisted. “What happened?”
“There was someone in the house, but I’m fine,” I said, bolting for the front door. My car was down the street, untouched. I jumped in and pulled out into the street without bothering with a seat belt. I did, however, manage to find the lemon drops in my center console.
“What do you mean, someone in the house?” he demanded. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that, but I don’t believe you.”
I didn’t answer, crunching my teeth through the citrusy hard candy instead. A few houses down the street, I forced myself to pull over. I took a few deep breaths, leaning my head against the steering wheel. I had nothing against the guard at the booth. I didn’t think it would be nice to run him down. “I’ll be home in a few minutes. I’ll explain then. Just let me get out of here. I just can’t—I can’t talk right now.”
Breathing. I focused on breathing, on keeping my hands steady on the wheel and distinguishing the gas pedal from the brake. My losing track of the pedals would surely upset the other drivers.
“Start talking to me,” Cal said, his voice like a gentle caress against my ear.
“About what?” I asked. I sniffed, wiping at my eyes and pushing the car back into gear.
“Anything. It occurs to me that I’ve entrusted my entire existence to you, but I know very little about you. What’s your favorite color?”
I scoffed. “Really?”
“It’s to get your mind off of your state of panic. So, favorite color?”
“Blue.”
He prompted, “What kind of blue?”
“The kind that’s not red or yellow,” I deadpanned.
“There are hundreds of different shades of blue.”
“Cobalt.” I huffed. “My mom had this vase when I was a kid, cobalt glass. I used to sit on the floor and watch the sunlight coming through it.”>He snickered.
“What was in it?” I asked.
“I hand-copied about a year’s worth of Penthouse Forum letters into steno notebooks.”
“Ew.”
“In Serbian,” he added. “By the time they figure out what they have …”
“They’ll think you stole a bunch of notebooks from a perverted Serbian,” I said. “I’m not sure whether to be impressed with you or concerned. Where are the real notebooks?”
I could hear him rolling over on the bed, the sheets rustling against the phone. This called to mind images of Cal naked and barely covered by sleep-rumpled sheets, which was not good for my powers of stealth and concentration. He cleared his throat, as if he could sense my indecent thoughts through the phone connection. “Front bedroom closet, in a box marked ‘Receipts 2009.’ ”
“Vampires never save receipts.”
“So it should be easy for you to find,” he retorted.
I stepped into the hallway. I heard a strange sort of shuffling noise downstairs, then a light thud. I stopped.
“Iris? Your breathing’s changed. What’s happening?”
“Shh,” I whispered, listening.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded, his voice suddenly sharp.
