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journalists—a greasy-haired man with a ragged notebook, a college kid with a video camera. Not real journalists. Just people hoping to sell a picture or a firsthand account. The kind who didn’t know that chasing me into my house was against the law. Or the kind who didn’t care.
    “Miss Larsen?”
    “Eden! Look over here!”
    “Mrs. Taylor?”
    The kid with the video camera rushed past me toward my mother. Mum started up the stairs. The kid reached over the railing and caught her sleeve.
    The rip of tearing fabric. A gasp. A thump as she tripped, falling down the steps and landing in a heap at the base.
    I shoved past two reporters and scooped her up.
    “The car!” I yelled to Howard. “Get your car!”
    I half dragged, half carried my mother to the garage. Cameras flashed. Voices shouted. Hands grabbed for us. I kept plowing through, oblivious.
    When I got into the garage, Howard was already in his Mercedes, engine running. I pushed Mum forward.
    “Get in the car!” I yelled.
    She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even look back.
    Howard hit the button to open the garage door. I shouted to wait until I was in, but the door was rising and I could make out the legs of people outside waiting for it to open. Someone shoved a video camera underneath.
    My mother’s face was stark with terror. There was a bloody print on her shoulder, from my cut hand. I saw her face and I saw that blood, and I realized I couldn’t get into Howard’s car. If I did, the reporters would never let it out of the garage.
    I had to protect my mother. I’d promised Dad.
    I waved at Howard. “Go! Get her out of here.”
    He didn’t need any more prompting. I was probably lucky he didn’t throw open the door and shove my mother out in his haste to escape.
    He put the car into reverse. My mother just sat in the backseat. I told myself she was in shock, but it looked like simple relief. She’d gotten away. As for me…? Well, I could look after myself.
    The Mercedes reversed down the driveway, sending the onlookers scattering like bowling pins. No one tried to stop Howard. Their prey was still in the garage, alone and defenseless.
    I ran. No choice really. Well, there was. I could grab the pruning shears and attack anyone who came near me. I considered it. Even wondered whether I could get away with a self-defense plea. I might have done it, too, if I hadn’t just discovered who I was and realized that slicing someone up really wouldn’t be the way to prove I wasn’t truly the Larsens’ daughter.
    I darted inside my dad’s workshop and threw the dead bolt. I took a quick look around at the tools. The heavy tools. The sharp tools. The lethal tools.
    A longing look. Then a queasy look, before I raced out the back door. A glance around. No one in sight yet. I followed the line of trees across the property and took off.

The Product of Monsters
    T he college student huddled behind the tree, listening to the cacophony of voices inside the house. Dear God, had they actually broken in? She rubbed her arms against the night’s chill. Her fingers brushed the strap around her neck, and she looked down at the camera, hanging there like an albatross.
    It had seemed so simple when he phoned. She hadn’t heard from him since school broke for exams. He’d said he’d call, but he hadn’t. Then he did.
    “Hey,” he’d said. “You live in Chicago, right?”
    She told herself it wasn’t really a question. Of course he remembered where she lived.
    She’d said yes, and he’d said, “Good. ’Cause there’s this story about to break. I got a heads-up from a buddy of mine. It’s leaked on the Internet, but not far, meaning it’s still fresh, and it’s taking place right there in Chicago. Do you know where Kenilworth is?”
    She did. Not that she’d ever been there. People in her neighborhood didn’t know those in Kenilworth unless they worked for them.
    “Perfect,” he’d said. “I need you to snap a couple pictures of a girl who lives