When he didn’t say anything, giving me a death glare, I said, “Christoff. Hey, listen. I’m sorry about your sister.”
“Why are you sorry?” he asked. “Did you do it?”
God damn, the way he could say it as if I had… with a hardness in his voice? That had to have been something that the family had imbued in him over the years of fighting. Something he would have picked up. It was the kind of accusation that had enough weight to it that even an innocent target could be put off balance and made to consider the question.
“No, Christoff. The police already cleared me.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Did you kill my sister?”
“No,” I said. Not unless murder by omission is possible. “I didn’t.”
I could see Callan approaching, giving me a bit of a wary look. His mother wasn’t far behind.
Callan was almost thirty. His mother was forty and looked ten years older, by the condition of her skin and hair, her arms full with a bundle of shirts with superheroes on them. I couldn’t help but see Aunt Irene as the type of person who had faced hardships every day and had emerged just a fraction weaker from each crisis. Worrying about money and work and all of that tended to eat you up inside. I knew, even if I had lived it for only a short time, what that was like.
All that said, it didn’t mean I was a fan of her as a person.
Callan frowned as stopped behind Christoff, putting his hands on his little brother’s shoulders.
“I was just saying to Christoff,” I said, “I’m sorry about Molly. You have my condolences.”
“But you still didn’t waste any time in taking the house,” Callan said. His glare matched those of Christoff and my aunt.
“Ah, someone told you?”
“It’s in the papers,” he said. “Every day, talking about Molly, talking about you. Who’s the new heir, that sort of thing.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice in any of it,” I said. “I don’t want the house or the baggage that comes with it. At this point, I’d be pretty happy give up all the money and walk away from all of this… without anyone getting hurt.”
“But you’re living there,” Callan said. “So you must want some part of it.”
“It’s complicated,” I said.
“Your parents said you were homeless. I bet you fucked up, and this is the only place you have to live. Squatting in my sister’s house before her body’s even cold.”
I expected his mother to rebuke him, to respond to the callous comment about Molly.
She was cold before she died, I thought.
What I said was, “She was one of the very few family members I ever liked, honestly. She was a friend to me. I meant it when I said I’m sorry.”
“She wasn’t your friend,” Aunt Irene said, and her voice had that accusatory hardness that Christoff had picked up. Her eyes narrowed, an expression to match her tone, “Every other second I look at you, I wonder how you’re responsible.”
How, not if.
“You keep saying you’re sorry, and I believe it a little less each time,” Callan said. “Tell you what. Go. Don’t ever fucking talk about my sister again, just go, and we won’t have a problem.”
I didn’t say anything, out of concern it would be taken as binding. Instead, I circled around to walk past him.
He took a step to the side, getting in my way. “I didn’t say pay and leave. I said leave.”
“You said go,” I said. “I’m going.”
“Not this way,” he said. “Not with this shit you need to keep squatting in my sister’s house.”
Heads were turning. We had the attention of every shopper and employee in the store, now.
I thought of Rose’s recent surrender. I didn’t agree with it. It wasn’t what I wanted… but I didn’t want an issue here, either.
“Fine,” I said. “Let me give the basket to the cashier-”
“Don’t be an asshole,” Callan said. “Go put it all back on the shelves and racks.”
I dropped the basket. “No. But I’ll leave, without buying, without incident. You win, Callan.”
He smirked, but when I turned to go around him, he reached out and put his hand on my shoulder, maybe to slow me down so he could get in my way again.
I shoved him, hard enough he stumbled three steps back.
Before anything further could happen, I headed for the doors. More for his sake than mine. I wasn’t forgetting the consequences of missing the council meeting, as I thought that. I was-
The sound of running footsteps made me stop. The expressions of the cashiers to my right clued me in.
I reacted, half-turning, bringing my arm up. The arm wasn’t in position to deflect the worst of the hit, but I was more or less ready as Callan did his damndest to sucker-punch me. It hurt, but it was only pain. No disorientation, no loss of consciousness.
My retaliation was automatic. I hit him, fist to face. He reeled, bending over to the point that I thought he was going to do a somersault. But I was already swinging the follow-up strike, waist-level.
He hit the ground, rolled onto his back, and he didn’t get up. His mouth was open, lip split, and he stared, blinking hard, looking in a different direction each time he opened his eyes.
Fuck, my hands hurt like a bitch.
Employees came running, as well as one or two male customers. I backed away, hands raised.
But when they reached us, two employees dropped to their knees beside Callan, and the rest of the intervening bystanders put themselves between us, forming a protective half-circle around Callan. Six of them, and another fourteen or so bystanders.
“He hit me first,” I said.
“You shoved him,” a man said. He looked fifty or so, but had a walker, oddly out of tune with his age.
“That’s not how it happened and you know it,” I said.
The man said, “I know you’re that guy in the Hillsglade place right now. You selling it anytime soon?”
“No, the contract-”
“Then I think I know what we’re telling the police,” he said. He looked around, and slowly, each other member of the small crowd started nodding in agreement.
Too coincidental. Too much fuckery, for this to happen now. I switched to my other way of seeing.
Nothing stood out, no strange glows or images that weren’t supposed to be here. No Others were in the area.
When I turned to more basic elements, I could see how active the spirits were. Nothing too unusual, though this was my first opportunity seeing how the spirits traveled back and forth between people, maintaining relationships. If I unfocused a bit, they almost looked like ribbons or cords, connecting people throughout the area.
Three of the ribbons stood out from the rest. Too straight, too narrow. They were like spears that had penetrated Callan, Aunt Irene and Christoff and plunged into me.
Forced connections between us. Too direct to be natural. Someone had aimed them at me.
Fuckery.
There were rules, though. No interfering with or attacking anyone else in the time leading up to, during, or after the meeting.