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pushed.
    Dad’s face set, still red, and very hard. ‘‘This isn’t over, Michael.’’
    â€˜â€˜Yes sir,’’ he said. ‘‘That much I know. We haven’t even started yet.’’
    The drive back was even more uncomfortable, and not just physically; Claire’s father was livid, her mother embarrassed, and Claire herself was so mad she could barely stand to look at either of them. How could they? Even if Mr. Bishop had done something to them, screwed with their heads, they’d bought into it completely. They’d always said they trusted her, always said that they wanted her to make her own decisions, but when it came right down to it, they wanted her to be their helpless little girl, after all.
    Well, it wasn’t going to happen. She’d come too far for that.
    Michael pulled to a stop in front of her parents’ new house—another big Gothic-style house, looking almost exactly like their own except for the landscaping out front. Her parents’ Founder House had a spreading live oak tree towering over the property that rustled like dry paper in the evening breeze, and the trim was painted what looked like, in the dark, a dull black.
    Claire’s dad leaned in to give her one last look. ‘‘I expect to hear from you tonight,’’ he said. ‘‘I expect you to tell me when you’re coming home. And by home, I mean here, with us.’’
    She didn’t answer. After extending the look for way too long, her dad shut the car door, and Michael accelerated smoothly away—not too quickly, but not slowly, either.
    And they all breathed an audible sigh of relief when the house faded into the darkness behind the car. ‘‘Wow,’’ Shane said. ‘‘Dude’s got a glare on him. Maybe he really does belong here in Morganville.’’
    â€˜â€˜Don’t say that,’’ Claire said. She was fighting with all kinds of emotions—anger at her parents, frustration with the situation, worry, outright fear. Her parents didn’t belong here. They’d been just fine where they were, but Amelie had to uproot them and bring them here. Having Claire’s parents where she could control them gave her more leverage.
    And now it gave Mr. Bishop leverage, too.
    Shane took her hand. ‘‘Easy,’’ he said. ‘‘Like Michael said, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to go. Not that I wouldn’t feel better if you were someplace a hell of a lot safer.’’
    â€˜â€˜I don’t think the Danvers house will be safer,’’ Michael said. ‘‘They don’t understand the rules, or the risks—they’re too new here. I think Bishop’s trying to play with Amelie’s head, and whatever we think about her, he’s worse. I guarantee it.’’
    Claire shuddered. ‘‘Was it Amelie who called you at the restaurant?’’
    â€˜â€˜No,’’ Michael said, and there was a grim tone in his voice. ‘‘That was Oliver. I have to admit, I’m not feeling real good about this. Oliver’s never really been on her side—maybe he’s taken Bishop’s. In which case we could be going home to a trap.’’
    â€˜â€˜Do we have a choice?’’ Shane asked.
    â€˜â€˜Don’t think so.’’
    â€˜â€˜Then screw it. I’m getting tired.’’ Shane yawned. ‘‘Let’s go get eaten. At least then I can get some sleep.’’
    Nobody thought it was funny—least of all Shane, Claire suspected—but they didn’t have any better ideas, and Michael drove home. Morganville was silent outside the dark-tinted windows; Claire could barely see dim gleams of lights, and they might have been the few and far-between streetlamps, or the glow from house porch lights. It was a lot like being in a space capsule, but with better