Black Dog Summer by Miranda Sherry Page A

you’re soaking.”
    â€œWas caught in the storm.” Streams of water race down Bryony’s bare legs and puddle on the kitchen tiles.
    â€œNo kidding,” Tyler says, glancing down at the spreading wet patch on his school shirt. “Are you OK?” Bryony doesn’t answer. “You’re shivering like a maniac.”
    â€œI know,” she mumbles through chattering teeth.
    â€œWhat’s up? You look kind of weird.”
    Bryony shakes her head, and her blue-tipped fingers dig into the flesh of her arms.
    â€œGo and get changed. You’re going to catch pneumonia or something.” Tyler frowns. “Are you sure you’re OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
    â€œThere was something . . . weird . . . I dunno . . .” she manages through chattering teeth. “I saw . . .”
    â€œYou’re not making much sense, Bry.”
    â€œIt was . . . There was this mask and I think . . . It was like there was a spell on it.”
    â€œWell, that should be right up your street then, hey? Spells and stuff? Remember how you used to be so obsessed with Harry Potter that you used to try and get us all to call you Hermione?” Tyler grins. “You even wrote ‘Property of Hermione Granger’ on all your schoolbooks, remember?” Mentioning this is usually the perfect way to elicit a blushing scowl and a slap from his sister, but she just continues to stare at him. Her eyes, with their wet spiked lashes, are open very wide. Tyler feels a squeeze of discomfort deep in his stomach. He trots into the scullery, drags a dry towel from the laundry basket, and then places it around his sister’s quaking shoulders. “There. That better?” She nods, wrapping herself up tighter.
    The towel seems to return Bryony to some kind of normality. Her gaze flickers over the kitchen. She notices an opened jar of peanut butter on the counter. Her expression hardens. “Hey . . .” she says. “What are you doing?”
    â€œMaking a sandwich. What, is that a crime now?”
    â€œBut you hate peanut butter.” She glares at Tyler, narrowing her eyes at the blush rising up his neck. “You’re making it for her , aren’t you?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œFor Gigi. You’re making her a sandwich or something.”
    â€œSo? What if I am?”
    â€œWhy bother? It’s not as if she’s going to suddenly talk to you or make you her best friend or anything.”
    â€œShe already has been talking to me; so there.” Tyler turns his back on his little sister, embarrassed at how childish he sounds. He busies himself with cutting a slice of bread and jamming it into the toaster.
    â€œWhat did she say?” Bryony is too curious to maintain the accusation in her tone.
    Tyler shrugs. “Nothing much.” He swirls the knife inside the jar, working it into the stiff peanut butter, and Bryony notices that the veins on his forearm pop up as he does so.
    â€œDid you ask her how come she knows Dad?” she whispers, and he darts a quick look at her.
    â€œNo.”
    Silence.
    â€œWell maybe you should.”
    â€œJa, maybe.” The toaster pings. “Now go and get changed, for heaven’s sake; you look like a drowned rat.”
----
    Gigi finishes the toast, taking bite after mechanical bite until her mouth is left dry and sore. She’s glad that Tyler handed her the plate and then left the room, because for a moment she thought he would stay and watch her eat. Something about the way he looks at her from beneath his blond lashes makes her feel too sharp-edged, too alive. She knows that he’s trying to be kind and make her feel less of a stranger in this large, expensive house, but his attention brings too many memories hurtling to the surface. They close her throat and fill her mouth with bile.
    Gigi darts a look across the bedroom to