The Ghost in the Glass House by Carey Wallace Page A

little wriggle.
    Clare sat in the corner of the blue couch. Bram took a seat on it too, splitting the difference: not beside her, but not on the other side, either. Teddy settled into the damaged armchair.
    Up close, it was clear that all the furniture had also suffered in its travels. One side of the ottoman’s gold fringe was shrunken and stiff, probably from a dip in salt water. A water stain spread over the blue cushion between Clare and Bram, and the velvet was smeared with tar and dusted by sand. The low table had sustained several gouges that cut through its deep varnish to the raw wood below. Only Bram’s loveseat seemed to have survived more or less intact.
    â€œWhat will we do about this?” Clare asked, wiping at a smear of tar. “Before we put it back?”
    Denby was the only one still standing. “We’re not putting it back,” he said.
    â€œWe’re not?” Bram said, surprised.
    â€œThey don’t know it’s gone now,” Denby said. “No one will realize until after we’ve left—if they even do then. And who would think of looking here?”
    Bram frowned. Clare’s heart tugged at the lonely fate of the furniture Denby had just consigned forever to the dark cave.
    Denby took his seat on the green and gold ottoman like a king giving the signal that court was now open.
    Bridget sat up. “What should we do now?” she asked.
    Denby’s glance at her carried clear contempt at the suggestion that the small miracle he’d already accomplished demanded any embellishment.
    Bridget was undeterred. “We could play post office,” she said.
    Clare had never played post office, but Bridget had learned it last summer in Nice. The game didn’t have any clear rules, or a winner or loser. One player, the postman, had to leave the group. When the postman returned, the rest of the party announced who among them had to go out to receive their “letter”—a kiss.
    â€œPost office is for kids,” Teddy said.
    â€œNo, it isn’t,” said Bridget.
    â€œIt’s for kids who can’t get anyone to kiss them,” Teddy amended.
    â€œThat’s not true,” Bridget said.
    â€œSure it is,” Teddy said. “How many people have you kissed?”
    â€œPlenty,” Bridget answered. But then her face flickered, uncertain. Clare knew Bridget wasn’t lying. She was wondering if she should have told the truth.
    â€œWhen you weren’t playing post office?” Teddy pressed.
    â€œThat’s none of your business,” Bridget said.
    Clare didn’t know what adventure Denby had had in mind when he dragged the furniture down the cliff, but this clearly wasn’t it. He looked from Bridget to Teddy with unconcealed fury. “I don’t think any of us really care how many boys Bridget has kissed,” he said.
    The triumph that flared in Bridget’s eyes at this was replaced almost instantly by a wounded look.
    Teddy raised his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right,” he said.
    It only took a moment for his gaze to wander from Bridget to Clare. “What about you, Clare?” Teddy asked. “How many people have you kissed?”
    Beside her on the couch, Clare could feel Bram shift.
    She stared at Teddy, her gaze steady, with the unblinking silence that sometimes worked with adults: made them forget unpleasant questions, or replace old questions with new ones.
    Teddy just laughed. “You haven’t kissed anyone,” he said. “Have you?”
    Heat rushed to Clare’s cheeks, but she quickly calculated that it was probably too dark for the others to see. Teddy was right. Until now, she’d never cared if she ever kissed anyone. But neither had anyone else.
    â€œShe didn’t say that,” Bridget snapped.
    Teddy didn’t even glance at his sister. “Tell me I’m wrong, Clare,” he said, his gaze still fixed on Clare.