Page 76 of Such Sharp Teeth

I reach over and we link pinkies.

“This is legally binding,” she says.

“Oh, I know.”

I hop out of the car, and we blow each other kisses. It’s only after she drives away that I realize Scarlett’s car isn’t in the driveway.

She’s not back yet.

She should be back.

I take my phone out and call her.

No answer.

I call again.

Still nothing.

Mom should be in the air by now, but I try her anyway.

“Rory, hi.”

“Hi. Did your flight get delayed or something? Scarlett’s not back yet and I was—”

“Scarlett was having some pains on the way to the airport, so I took her to the hospital.”

There’s a sharp, concerning sound, and I realize that, reckless in my distress, I’ve cracked my phone screen with my razor of a thumbnail, my grip too tight.

“Actually, baby, could you come and bring a change of clothes for her? Sorry. I have to go. Please come.”

She hangs up.

I run inside, up the stairs to Scarlett’s room, the sound of my footsteps echoing through the quiet house. I open Scarlett’s drawers and pull out a black tunic and a pair of maternity leggings, some underwear, a bra. I grab my bag and shove the clothes inside. I’m scrambling, not paying attention, and I trip on my way down the steps.

I land on my feet at the bottom, but the impact makes the house cry out. Frames fall from the walls. One of Scarlett’s taxidermy birds hangs loose off its mount, and I nearly lunge for it, an ugly instinct taking over, eclipsing me for a moment. I force myself out the door and to my car. I force myself to forget how close I just was to devouring a stuffed dead bird. I force myself to ignore the bloom of hunger. I wipe the saliva from my chin and go.

—

The drive to the hospital is torture. There are so many things that could be wrong, that could go wrong. And no one even bothered to call me.

When I walk into the emergency room, my memory flares. I get snippets of the last time I was here, when they discovered what they thought was minimal damage.

Looking at me, you’d never know what prowls beneath my skin.

I can smell blood. There’s so much blood here. It blurs my vision. Makes me weak.

I call my mother, keeping the phone away from my ear to spare my cartilage from the shattered screen. She picks up right away.

“I’m here,” I say. “Where are you?”

“Miss.” A nurse behind reception calls to me. “Miss?”

“We’re in the maternity ward. She’s okay.”

“She’s okay?”

“It’s the . . . I actually don’t know where we are,” she says. “I’m sure if you ask someone—”