Glasshouse

16. Suspense

THE next day is Friday. I wake up late, and by the time I get downstairs, Sam has already gone to work. I feel drained, enervated by the aftereffects of my infection and the stupid climbing attempt, so I don't do much. I end up spending most of the day shuttling between the bedroom and the kitchen, catching up on my reading and drinking cups of weak tea. When Sam comes home—really late, and he's already eaten at the steak diner in town and had a glass or three of wine—I demand to know where he's been, and he clams up. Neither of us wants to back down, so we end up not talking.

On Saturday I come downstairs in time to find him putting the lawn mower away. "You'll need to tidy up in the garage," he says by way of greeting.

"Why?" I ask.

"I need to stash some stuff."

"Uh-huh. What stuff?"

"I'm going out. See you later."

He means it—ten minutes after that he's gone, off in a taxi to who knows where. And it's our most significant communication in two days.

I kick myself for being stupid. Stupid is the watchword of the day. So I go into the garage and look for stuff to throw out. It's a scrapyard of unfinished projects, but I think the welding gear can go, and the half-finished crossbow, and most of the other junk I've been tinkering with under the mistaken idea that what I need to escape from is where I am, rather than who I am. Some bits are missing anyway; I guess Sam's already made a start on clearing it out to make room for his golf clubs or whatever. So I heap my stuff in one corner and pull a tarpaulin over it. Out of sight, out of mind, out of garage, that's what I say.

Back inside, I try to watch some TV, but it's inane and slow, not to mention barely comprehensible. Bright blurry lights on a low-resolution screen with a curving front, slow-moving and tedious, with plots that don't make sense because they rely on shared knowledge that I just don't have. I'm steeling myself to turn it off and face the boredom alone when the telephone rings.

"Reeve?"

"Hi? Who—Janis! How are you?" I clutch the handset like a drowning woman.

"Okay, Reeve, listen, do you have anything on today?"

"No, no I don't think so—why?"

"I'm meeting a couple of friends in town this afternoon to try out a new cafe near the waterfront that's just appeared. I was wondering if you'd like to come and join us? If you're well enough, that is."

"I'm"—I pause—"supposed to take it easy for a few days. That's what Dr. Hanta said." Let her chew on that. "Is there a problem with work?"

"Not so you'd notice." Janis sounds dismissive. "I'm catching up on my reading, to tell the truth. Anyway, I got the note from the hospital. Don't worry on my part."

"Oh, okay then. As long as I'm not going to have to run anywhere. How do I get to this place?"

"Just ask a taxi to take you to the Village Cafe. I'll be there around two. I was thinking we could try out the cafe and maybe chat."

I am getting an itchy feeling that Janis isn't telling me everything, but the shape of what she's not telling me is coming through clearly enough. I shiver a bit. Do I really want to get involved? Probably not—but they'll start talking if I don't, I think. Besides, if they're planning something stupidly dangerous, I owe it to Dr. Hanta to talk them out of it, I suppose. I glance at the TV set. "All right. Be seeing you."

It's already one o'clock, so I change into a smarter outfit and call a taxi to the Village Cafe. I've no idea what friends Janis might have in mind, but I don't think she'd be tasteless enough to invite Jen along. Beyond that, I don't want to risk making a bad impression. Appearances count if you're trying to up your score, and other people pay attention to that kind of thing. And I don't expect Janis would be organizing anything like this if it wasn't important.

It's a wonderful day, the sky a deep blue and a warm breeze blowing. Janis is right about one thing—I don't remember ever seeing this neighborhood before. The taxi cruises between rows of clapboard-fronted houses with white picket fences and mercilessly laundered grass aprons in front of them, then hangs a left around a taller brick building and drives along a tree-lined downhill boulevard with oddly shaped buildings to either side. There are other taxis about, and people! We drive past a couple out for a stroll along the sidewalk. I thought Sam and I were the only folks who did that. Who am I missing?

The taxi stops just before a cul-de-sac where a semicircle of awnings shield white tables and outdoor furniture from the sky. A stone fountain burbles wetly by the roadside. "Village Cafe," recites the driver. "Village Cafe. Your credit score has been debited." Blue numerals float out of the corner of my left eye as I open the door and step out. There are people sitting at the tables—one of them waves. It's Janis. She's looking a lot better than the last time I saw her: She's smiling, for one thing. I walk over.

"Janis, hi." I recognize Tammy sitting next to her but don't know what to say. "Hello everybody?"

"Reeve, hi! This is Tammy, and here's Elaine—"

"El," El mumbles.

"And this is Bernice. Have a chair? We were just trying to work out what to order. Would you like anything?"

I sit down and see printed polymer sheet menus sitting in front of each chair. I try to focus on them, just as a box with a grille on it abovethe door to the cafe crackles and begins to shout: "Good afternoon! It's another beautiful day . . ."

"I think I'll have a gin and tonic," I say.

"Your attention please, here are two announcements," continues the box. "Ice cream is now on sale for your enjoyment. The flavor of the day is truffle and banana. Here is a warning. There is a possibility of light showers later in the day. Thank you for your attention."

Tammy pulls a face. "It's been doing that every ten minutes since we arrived. I wish it'd shut up."

"I asked at the counter," Janis says apologetically. "They say they can't shut it off—it's everywhere in this sector."

"Yes? What is this sector, anyway? I don't remember it." I bury my nose in the menu immediately in case I've just made a faux pas.

"I'm not sure. It appeared yesterday, so I thought we should go look at it."

"Consider it looked at," says Bernice. Who is dark and slightly plump and wears a perpetual expression of mild disgust: I think I've seen her at Church, but that's about it. "Mine's a mango lassi."

A zombie, male, wearing a dark suit and a long, white apron, shuffles out of the cafe. "Are you ready to order?" he asks in a high, nasal voice.

"Yes, please." Janis rattles off a list of drinks, and the waitron retreats indoors again. The drinks are mostly alcohol-free: I seem to be one of the odd ones out. Oops , I think. "Tammy and El and I have been meeting up every Saturday for the past few weeks," she adds in my direction. "We tell our husbands we're a sewing circle. It's a good excuse to gossip and drink, and none of them would know a real sewing circle if one bit him on the toe, so . . ."

"What is a sewing circle?" asks Bernice.

El reaches diffidently into a huge bag and pulls out a thing that looks like an airlock cover made of cloth. There are pins stuck in it, and colored thread. "Something like we all get together to do embroidery. Like this." She pulls a needle out and manages to stab herself in the ball of one thumb with it. "I'm not very good yet," she adds mournfully.

"Count me out of the sewing," I say. "But the drinks and gossip are another matter."

"That's what she said you'd say." Tammy flashes me an apologetic smile. "Besides, I was wondering if you knew what had happened to Mick."

Oops again . "I'm not sure. I asked Dr. Hanta about him, and she said it was under discussion , whatever that means. I know Cass is still in the hospital."

"Ah, right." Tammy leans back. "Ten dollars says they both retire from the experiment within a week."

I shiver. There's only one way in or out of a MASucker, for reason of security—to let the flight crew barricade the door if the civilization on the other side of it collapses. "I'm not sure how likely that is," I say. "But Dr. Hanta has a way of straightening things out. I'm sure she'll be able to do something for Cass, and I know Mick hasn't visited her since . . . well."

"What about Fiore?" asks Janis.

I am getting the distinct feeling that they've invited me here to pump me for information, but what do I care? They're buying the drinks. "I ran into him after the business with Cass," I say. Then the cafe door opens, and the waitron returns with our drinks. I shut up until his back's turned. "He, um, I get the feeling he doesn't approve of us doing anything unpredictable, but at the same time Mick went too far. We solved a problem for him."

"Oh." Janis looks disappointed, and I mentally kick myself. What she's really asking about is what happened in the library the day she was off sick.

"I got talking to Dr. Hanta in hospital," I offer. "She said, uh, well, she doesn't approve of the business with Esther and Phil at all. I got the impression she was yelling at the Bishop about it. They're going to add rules for divorce proceedings to the score system to stop it happening again. And rape, to stop anyone getting ideas from Mick."

"Hmm." Janis looks thoughtful. "If they stick to a strict dark ages re-creation, they'll make rape a serious penalty score, but only if the male gets caught."

"Eh?" Tammy looks indignant. "What good will that do?"

"What good does any of this do?" Janis asks drily. She reaches into her handbag and pulls out a piece of knitting, which she passes to me. "I think this is yours, you left this in the library," she tells me.

I gulp and hastily stuff the Faraday cage lining of my botched experimental carrier into my handbag. "Thanks, I sure did," I babble.

Janis smiles slowly. "It's a bit scratchy, but it catches the light just so."

Wheels within wheels. "It needs a bit more work," I extemporize. "Where did you find it?"

"In the back office. I was just tidying up."

My heart seems to be pounding, but nobody else has noticed. Janis looks at me, then looks at El. "What do you think?" she asks.

El looks up from her embroidery, harried. "I think I feel a little sick," she says, and reaches for her pink lemonade. "Church is going to be bad tomorrow."

"Lots of developments," Tammy agrees.

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

Janis nods at me: "Yes, that's right, you've been in hospital all week. Since Tuesday, anyway."

Tammy pulls out a tablet and puts it on the table. "Lots of new stuff in here," she says, tapping the screen. "You'll want to know about it."

"About what?" I ask.

"For starters, it seems our last cohort is in place here."

"But they said there were another fourteen after mine"—I do the math—"so we're six short. At least?"

Tammy taps her tablet. "They've been running multiple sections of YFH-Polity in parallel. We're just one subsector, a parish, they call it. From Monday they're all going to be linked up, so we've got lots of new neighbors."

So far this is what Dr. Hanta told me. "And?"

Janis gives me a long, appraising look. "It's a lot bigger than they told you outside when you were signed up. What does that suggest to you?"

I look at her belly. It's not much of a bump yet. Then, almost involuntarily, my eyes slide sideways. "El, are you, I mean I hope I'm not prying here, but are you by any chance—"

"Pregnant?" El looks at me with her baby-blue eyes and puts one hand on her stomach. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

I try not to wince too obviously. "My period's overdue," says Bernice.

Permanence. "What else are they doing?" I probe.

"There are a lot of new facilities opening up," Tammy explains enthusiastically. "There's a kinematoscope, and a swimming pool and gymnastic coliseum, and a theatre. More shops, too. And City Hall will be open for business."

Bernice cracks before I do. "Whoa. That's a new one on me!"

"I think they're trying to make us comfortable ," says Janis.

"Us?" I ask. "Or them?" My eyes take in bellies around the table, occupied bellies. In fact, mine is the only un –occupied one here. Thanks to Sam.

"Does it make any difference? I'm pretty sure most of us will be too busy changing nappies soon to worry about anything else."

Janis has a tone of voice that she uses when she means to convey the exact opposite of the literal meaning of her words. She's using it now, laying on the sarcasm with a trowel.

I smile brightly. "Then I suppose you think we should lie back and enjoy these wonderful new recreational resources!"

"Reeve," Tammy says warningly, "this is serious."

"Oh, you bet," I agree enthusiastically. "Absolutely!" I finish my drink. "I'm sure you ladies have got lots of important things to be talking about, but I just remembered I haven't finished washing the dishes, and I've got to clear out the garage before my husband gets home." I stand up. "Thanks for the weaving, Janis. See you later?"

The rest of the soi-disant ladies' sewing circle look dubious, but Janis smiles back at me, then winks. "Be seeing you!"

I beat a hasty retreat. I like Janis, but this sewing circle of hers frightens me. She's unhappy here, that much is clear, and I don't think she'll want Dr. Hanta to help her over it. I'm going to have to tell Fiore about Janis, I realize. She needs help. After Church tomorrow?

THE journey to Church the next day is strained and tense. We dress in our Sunday best and call a taxi as usual, but Sam doesn't say anything—he's taken to communicating in grunts—and keeps casting me odd sidelong looks when he thinks I won't notice. I pretend not to see. In truth I'm tense, too, winding myself up for the inevitable and unpleasant conversation with Fiore after the service. Church is packed these days, and we're lucky to get a seat. At least there are other churches in the other parishes (and presumably other instances of Fiore to preach in them), so it's not likely to get any more crowded. "We'll have to leave earlier in future," I tell Sam, and he stares at me.

Fiore walks in and goes to the front, and the music strikes up, a catchy brassy little number by (my netlink tells me) a composer named Brecht. Then Fiore starts the service proper. "Dear congregants, we are gathered here today in unity to recognize our place in the universe, our immutable roles in the great cycle of life, which none shall take from us. Let us praise the designers who have given us this day and all the days before us a role to fulfill! Praise the designers!"

"Praise the designers!" echoes the congregation.

"Dear congregants, let us remember that true meaning and happiness in life can be found through complying with the great design! A round peg in a round hole!"

"A round peg in a round hole!" rolls the response.

"Let us also give thanks for the happiness that has come to Mrs. Reeve Brown, who is now most certainly a round peg in a round hole, and for the solace and comfort that members of our congregation's away team have brought to Mrs. Cassandra Green, now recovering in hospital! Happiness, comfort, and solace!"

"Happiness, comfort, and solace!"

I shake my head, happy but confused. I can't figure it out, why is Fiore holding me of all people up as an example to the rest of the congregation? I glance round and see Jen, a couple of aisles away, staring snake eyes at me.

"It is our duty to care for our neighbors, to help them conform to the ways of our society, to join with them in their joy and their sorrow, their acceptance and their forgiveness. If your neighbors need you, go unto them and give them the benefit of your generosity. We are all neighbors, and those of us who are not in need this week may be amongthe neediest next week. Guide and care for them, and chide them when it is appropriate . . ."

I begin to zone out. Fiore's voice is hypnotic, his tone rising and falling in a measured cadence. It's warm and stuffy in Church with the doors shut, and it seems Fiore isn't going to divert from his sermon to condemn a sinner this week. For which I should be grateful—Fiore could have decided to wreck my score for what I did last week. Despite the warmth, I find myself shivering. He's shown more forbearance than I expected. Should I follow his example, and instead of telling him about Janis, try to set her straight myself?

". . . For remember, you are your brother's keepers, and by the behavior of your brethren shall you be judged. Voyage without end, amen!"

"Voyage without end!" echoes the chorus. "Amen!"

We stand, and there's another sing-along, clap-along number—this time in a language I don't understand, about marching and freedom and bread according to the psalm book—and then the priest and his attendants leave the front, and the service is over.

I'm a bit disappointed, but also relieved as we file out of the Church into the bright daylight, where a buffet is waiting for us. Sam is even quieter than usual, but right now I don't care. I snag a glass of wine and a plate with a wheatmeal and fungus confection on it and wander over to the vicinity of our cohort.

"Decided to settle down, have we?" asks a voice at my left shoulder. I manage to suppress a frown of distaste. It's Jen, of course.

"I care for my neighbors," I say, squeezing every gram of sincerity I can muster into it; then I make myself smile at her.

She beams back at me, of course. "Me too!" She trills, then glances round. "I'm glad Fiore was merciful today, though. I gather some of us might have been in for a rough ride!"

Sly little bitch. "I've no idea what you're talking about," I begin, but it's impossible to go on because the Church bells have begun to ring. Normally they clang in a vague semblance of rhythm, but now they're jarring and clattering as if something's caught up among them. People are turning and looking up at the tower. "That's odd."

"Yes, it is." Jen sniffs dismissively and begins to turn toward a nearby knot of males.

"I haven't finished with you."

"In your dreams, darling." A broad grin, and she slips away.

Irritated, I look up at the tower. The door below it is ajar. Odd , I think. It's not strictly my business, but what if something's come loose? I ought to get help. I deposit my glass and plate with a passing waitron and walk toward the door, taking care to stay off the grass in my high heels.

The clashing and clattering of disturbed bells is getting louder, and there's something dark on the front step, under the door. As I make my way to it I look down and an unpleasantly familiar stink infiltrates my nostrils, bringing tears to my eyes. I turn round, and yell, "Over here! Help!" Then I push the door open.

The bell tower is a tall space illuminated by small windows just below the base of the spire. The daylight spilling down from them casts long shadows across the beams and the bells that dangle from them, jostling and clashing above the whitewashed floor, staining the spreading pool of dark liquid. Spreading black, the gray of shadows, and a pale pendulum swinging across the floor. It takes a second for my eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness, and another second before I understand what they're showing me.

Mick, of all people, is the one playing the endless atonal carillon that summoned me. It is immediately obvious that his mastery of music is involuntary. He hangs from a bell-rope by the ankles, his head tracing an endless pendulous circuit across the floor in twin tracks of blood. Someone has taped his arms to his body, gagged him, and rammed hypodermic needles into each ear. The cannulae drip steadily, emptying what's left of his blood supply from his purple and congested head. Loops and whorls and spirals of blood have trickled in a delicate filigree, but some unevenness in the ground leads the runnels to flow toward a pool on the inside of the door.

I'm simultaneously appalled, dumbstruck with admiration for the artistic technique on display, terrified that whoever did it might still be lurking at the scene, and utterly nauseated at my satisfaction at Mick'send. So I do the only sensible and socially expedient thing I can think of, and scream my lungs out.

The first fellow to arrive on the scene—a couple of seconds after I get started—isn't much use: He takes one look at the impromptu chandelier, then doubles over and adds his lunch to the puddle. But the second on the scene turns out to be Martin, one of the volunteer gravediggers. "Reeve? Are you all right?"

I nod and manage to take a sobbing breath. I feel unstable, and my vision is watery. "Look." I point. "Better get the . . . the . . . Fiore. He'll know what to do."

"I'll call the police." Martin walks around the pool of blood and vomit carefully and picks up the telephone handset that's fastened to the wall by the vestry entrance. "Hello? Operator?" He jiggles the switch on top of the handset. "That's odd."

My brain is slowly beginning to work again. "What's odd?"

"The telephone. It's not making any noise. It doesn't work."

I snuffle, wipe my nose on the sleeve of my jacket, and stare at him. "That's very odd." Yes , a quiet corner of my mind reminds me, that's odd, and not in a good way . "Let's go outside."

Andrew—the guy who's throwing up—has just about finished, and is down to making choking, sobbing noises. Martin pulls him up by one arm, and we walk outside together. There's a growing crowd on the porch, curious to know what's going on. "Someone call the police," Martin shouts. "Get the Reverend if you can find him!" People are pushing past him to look inside the doorway, yelling in disbelief and coming back out again.

Somebody is sending us, the congregation, a message, aren't they? I stumble but make it down onto the grass. Sam's there, looking concerned. "You were with me during the service," I hiss. "You were next to me the whole time. You know where I was."

"Yes?" He looks puzzled. So do I. I'm not sure why I'm doing this, but . . .

"I spoke to Jen briefly, then heard the bells and went to see. Then I screamed. I was only inside for a second on my own. Wasn't I?"

Sam gets it: His shoulders tense suddenly. "How bad is it?"

"Mick." I gasp quietly, then run out of words. I can't continue just now because I had to look; I saw how his killer fastened him to the bell-rope by his ankles, cutting him and running the thick rope through the meaty gap between the bone and the thick tendon. I'm half-afraid that when they cut him down, they'll discover he was raped first, while paralyzed, before his killer strung him up to drain like a slab of flesh. A moment later I'm leaning on Sam's shoulder, sobbing. He doesn't pull away, but holds me in silence while all around us the crowd throbs and chatters. I've seen many horrible things in my life, but there was a judicial deliberation implicit in what was done to Mick—a hideous moral statement, blindly confident in its own righteousness. I know exactly who did it, even though I spent the entire service next to Sam; because for hours on end I lay awake and fantasized about doing that to Mick, the night we took Cass away.

"WELL, Mrs. Brown, how fascinating to see you here! Always in the thick of things, I see."

His Excellency smiles like a skeleton, jaw agape at some private joke. Sam shuffles next to me but holds his peace. You do not talk back to the Bishop, especially when it's clear that his humor is a mercurial thing, a butterfly floating above a blast furnace of rage at the intrusion that has spoiled his Sunday.

Fiore clears his throat. "She is not a suspect," he says stiffly.

"What?" Yourdon's head whips round like a snake's. The police zombies around us tense as if nervous, hands going to the batons at their belts.

It's been half an hour since I opened the door, and the cops have surrounded the churchyard. They're not letting people go until Yourdon says so. He's clearly in a foul mood. Cold-blooded murder isn't something our community has had to deal with so far, and if we're to stay in the spirit of the experiment, we must remember that to the ancients it was as grievous a crime as identity theft or relational corruption. It's at this point that the deficiencies of our little parish become apparent. Wehave no real chief of police, no trained investigators. And so the Bishop is forced to tend his flock in person.

"I saw her arrive with her husband, she was present throughout the service, and numerous witnesses saw her approach the door and go inside, then heard her scream. She was alone inside for all of ten seconds, and if you think she could have committed the offense in that space of time . . ."

"I'll ask for you to second-guess me when I can't be bothered to make up my own mind." Yourdon's cheek twitches, then he switches his attention to Martin so abruptly I feel my knees weaken. An invisible pressure has come off my skull. "You. What did you see?"

Martin clears his throat, and is stuttering into an account of finding me screaming before a corpse when a cop walks up to Fiore for a brief, mumbled conversation.

Yourdon glares at his subordinate. "Will you stop that?"

Fiore shuffles. "I have new information, Your Excellency."

"Yes? Well, out with it! I haven't got all day."

Fiore—the bumptious, supercilious buffoon of a priest who likes nothing more than to lord it over his congregation—wilts like a punctured aerostat. "A preliminary forensic examination appears to have revealed DNA traces left by the killer."

Yourdon snorts. "Why did we wait to commission a squad of detectives? Come on, don't waste my time."

Fiore takes a sheet of paper from the cop. "PCR amplification in accordance with—no, skip that—determines that the fingerprint on file is congruent with, uh, myself. And nobody else in YFH-Polity."

Yourdon looks furious. "Are you telling me that you strung him up to bleed out?"

To his credit, Fiore holds his ground. "No, Your Excellency, I'm telling you that the murderer is playing with us."

I lean against Sam, feeling nauseous. But that was my fantasy, wasn't it? About how to deal with Mick. And I never told anyone about it. Which means, I must be the killer! Except I didn't do it. What's going on?

"That's it." Yourdon claps his hands together. "Action this day—you, Reverend Fiore, will coordinate with Dr. Hanta to select, train, and augment a chief police constable. Who in turn will be empowered and authorized to induct four citizens into the police force at the rank of sergeant. You will also discuss with me at a later date the selection of a judge, procedures for arraigning criminals before a jury, and the appointment of an executioner." He glares at the priest. "Then you will, I trust, return your chapel to the pristine condition it was in before I entrusted it to you—and see to the pastoral care of your flock, many of whom are in dire need of direction!"

The Bishop turns on his heel and sweeps back toward his long black limousine, trailed by a trio of police zombies bearing primitive but effective automatic weapons. I sag against Sam's arm, but he keeps me upright. Fiore waits until the Bishop slams his door shut, then takes a deep breath and shakes his head lugubriously. "No good will come of this," he grumbles in our direction—us, the proximate witnesses, and the zombies who discreetly hem us in. "Police: dismissed. Citizens, you should attend to the state of your consciences. At least one of you knows exactly what happened here today, before the service, and staying silent will not be to your benefit."

The police zombies begin to disperse, followed by a gaggle of curious parishioners. I approach Fiore cautiously. I'm very disturbed, and I'm not sure this is the right time, but . . .

"Yes, what is it, my child?" He narrows his eyes and composes his face in a smile of benediction.

"Father, I, I wonder if I can have a word with you?" I ask hesitantly.

"Of course." He glances at a police zombie. "Go to the vestry, fetch a mop and bucket and cleaning materials, and begin cleaning up the floor of the bell tower."

"It's about . . ." I trail off. My conscience really is pricking me, but I'm not sure how to continue. I feel eyes on me from across the yard, curious eyes wondering what I'm saying.

"Do you know who did it?" Fiore demands.

"No, I wanted to talk to you about Janis, she's been very strange lately—"

"Do you think Janis killed him?" Bushy elevated eyebrows frame dark eyes that stare down his patrician nose at me, a nose that doesn't belong to the same face as those wattles of fatty tissue around his throat. "Do you?"

"Uh, no—"

"Some other time, then," he says, and before I realize I'm dismissed, he's calling out to another police zombie, "You! You, I say! Go to the undertaker depot and bring a coffin to the bell tower—" And a moment later he's walking away from me, cassock flapping around his boots.

"Come on," says Sam. "Let's go home right now." He takes me by the arm.

I screw up my eyes to keep from crying. "Let's."

He leads me across the car park toward the waiting queue of taxis. "What did you try to tell Fiore?" he asks quietly.

"Nothing." If he wants to know so badly, he can talk to me the rest of the time, when I'm lonely.

"I don't believe you." He's silent for a minute as we get into a taxi.

"Then don't believe me." The taxi pulls away from the curb without asking us where we want to go. The zombies know us all by sight.

"Reeve." I look at him. He stares at me, his expression serious.

"What?"

"Please don't make me hate you."

"Too late," I say bitterly. And right then, for exactly that moment, it's true.