Page 5 of My Neighbor Literally Bites

Her mouth twitches—not a smile, an assessment. "Huh."

I should leave. A century of discipline tells me to set down the screwdriver and disappear. Instead I stay, caught by a sixteen-year-old, and find I don't entirely want to go.

"Lily Marlowe," she says, and does not offer her hand. "Since that's the second time you've been here tonight, you should know whose stairs you're trespassing on."

"Alaric."

"I know. The scary neighbor." She studies me. "You're less scary than I thought. That's probably a flaw in my judgment."

"It isn't."

"No?"

"Whatever you think is wrong with this house," I say carefully, "trust the part of you that came down here barefoot to check."

Her arms loosen, a fraction. "So there is something wrong with it."

I don't respond to her statement, it's better she doesn't know.

She watches me the way clever children watch adults who lie gently—not insulted, just filing it away. "You're really quiet for a rich guy. And really calm. And you're not freezing."

"It's a mild night."

"It's forty degrees and you're in shirtsleeves."

There isn't an answer, so I give her none. I lower the screwdriver on the workbench where Hannah will find it and assume it was always hers.

"Your mother shouldn't use the cellar door until it's fixed. Tell her it sticks. Don't tell her I said so."

"Why not?"

"Because she'll want to know why a stranger cares."

Lily turns this over with the suspicion of a girl who has already been lied to by men that smile. Then she nods once—a small, dangerous concession. "Okay, Mr. Blackwood. I won't tell her."

"Good."

"This time."

I climb from the cellar and stop. I can hear Hannah breathing in sleep above. I had braced myself for that moment like I do most nights now, but what I didn't brace for was the lighter, sharper weight of a child, awake, watching me on purpose because some animal sense told her to.

Two of them now. Two heartbeats I have decided, without deciding, to stand between and whatever knelt by that fence. I repeat to myself that I'll still remain distant, but the voice inside calls me a liar.

5

HANNAH

The double doors of the Community Hall open onto the smell of coffee, floor polish, and someone's very confident casserole.

"There," Lily says, steering me in by the elbow. "Now townspeople have seen you, and we won't become the people who live in the haunted house and never come out."

"We've been here three weeks now, Lily."

"Exactly. Any longer and kids start daring each other to knock."

The hall is fuller than I expect for a Wednesday evening. Folding tables line the walls, covered with sign-up sheets, tool catalogs, donated pies, and a handwritten poster that reads ANNUAL HOUSEWARES SALE.

A red-haired woman spots us from behind a table stacked with paint samples and pamphlets. "You're Hannah. Lily, you didn't warn me your mom was coming." She sticks out a hand. "Ruby Bell. I own Briar Glen Hardware store."