She sits perfectly still.

They can't record you when you're perfectly still. But I can't be still forever. Not yet, anyway.

Back up, on her feet, she churns around the apartment. And everywhere might be another camera or another place where they can see inside and watch and wait and they'll get you Sara they'll get you and you won't know who they are and you'll never see them coming.

She stands, flipping the radio dial. Music. Music might confuse them. The words are there, white on black: ... If the illusion is real, let them give you a ride ... She turns it back off.

She makes precise, calculated movements. Everything she does will be recorded forever, a.n.a.lyzed, scrutinized. No use collapsing into a gelatinous ma.s.s in the center of the room and screaming for them to stop, to go away, to leave her alone. Because they don't go and they don't ever leave her alone, and collapsing and screaming has never worked before.

She s.n.a.t.c.hes a bottle of vodka from the freezer, her lips sticking to the frosty gla.s.s as she takes a swig. Her breathing is still too fast.

She flips on the television. A music video. Men holding newspapers all step back behind columns, disappearing.

She pushes a couple of random channel numbers. News.

"...but the President is standing behind his "Star Wars" Strategic Defense Initiative. In Chicago news, police are investigating a murder that appears to be the work of the infamous "Baby Doll Killer" in California. Few details have been released regarding the body found here, but it is known that the killer bound the victim with handcuffs and bled her dry before leaving her in an alley with a doll in a fairy-tale-themed dress..."

She hits the power b.u.t.ton. The room goes dark, except for the heat lamp's red glow.

Clicks. Whirs. Silence. A ring.

She paced the kitchen. Another ring.

"Come on, come on."

Another. He answered.

"Hi, Miguel. It's Sara." She took a long drag from her cigarette.

"How are you, Sara?"

"I'm ..." She sighed. "I'm a little stressed out. My lizard died, Miguel. He died, and now it's just like everyone else. They leave, they die, and I'm alone. I'm just alone again-"

"Sara! It's okay. All right? It's okay. But you gotta talk slower because I'm not so good with the English to listen so fast on the phone, all right?"

"Yeah, okay. Sorry."

"You never tell me you have a lizard."

"Yeah. Renfield. I sort of inherited him."

"I know how that feels, to lose a pet, lose a friend. I got a lot of friends, they move away. Or they die. And then I am alone. It is always very sad."

"Yeah, yeah. Sad. And alone. That's it."

The words were there in front of her, white on red this time.

Killer! Murderer!

"But, you know," he said. "Pets. They die. It is very natural."

She cried a little. "Uh, no. I don't think it's so natural. I killed him. I killed my lizard, Miguel." Silence. "I didn't mean to. But I did." She sniffed. "I'm just, you know, I'm busy. And I didn't have time to pick out those worms for him, so I just dumped the jar in there, and there were all these bugs crawling around and I thought he'd be all right like that. But then yesterday I looked again and found he was dead. He was dead in his water dish, Miguel. I didn't give him water and I made him die. I made him die of thirst and he never did anything bad to anyone and I made him die of thirst." She took another drag. "And I did other bad stuff, too. I'm a killer, Miguel. And I don't have any friends any more because everyone can see what I really am-"

A real murderer. And not just of some pathetic animal. One who shoots a running kid in the back to save her drugs.

"Sara. Calm down. You gonna be okay."

Calm down. Calm. Down.

A candle was nestled among the countless gram and eight-ball baggies on the counter. Not countless. Five ounces worth of grams and eights. She lit the candle. "Talk to me, Miguel. Help me forget this s.h.i.t. Please?"

"What should I talk about?"

"Just ... how about you? Tell me about your life."

Next to the candle was a piece of foil folded over a few times. And a baggie of heroin she'd gotten from a new guy- "Weasel"- at the club. It looked like brown cocaine. "Where are you from, Miguel?"

"Juarez. It's a border town in Mexico."

She'd never inject heroin, of course. But smoking it made coming down from c.o.ke totally bearable. And it was cheaper than Benny's downers.

"How did you get here, then?"

She had a little gla.s.s tube to chase the smoke. She could do it right now. Calm. Down. It would help the paranoia. It always helped with the paranoia. That was all this was: paranoia from too much c.o.ke too fast.

Miguel gave her a quiet laugh under his breath. "My father, he used to smuggle people across the border for money. When I grow up, I help him do it. Then one day, I decide to smuggle myself here. I got some family in Chicago, and they help me get a green card."

"Really? That's really cool. I like to think of you crossing the border in the middle of the night, starting a new life and all that."

The c.o.ke bugs were out in force, doing military maneuvers, all jazzed up on their Bolivian marching powder. A little smoke might calm them right back down ...

But it was hard to do on the phone.

"Yeah. The green card was the hardest part. But-"

She moaned. She opened her mouth to speak but the pain in her chest was suddenly stronger, as if someone were standing on it. She gasped for air like a freshly caught fish.

"Sara? What's that? What's wrong?"

"My ... my chest hurts, Miguel." Her voice was shaky and punctuated with gasps. "It must be a cramp or something. I'm sorry, but I can't really talk right now."

"What's your address there? Sara? Sara! What's your address there?"

"Oh, Sara!" Mummy said. "How wonderful!"

"Happy birthday, Mummy," Sara said. "I didn't get to see you on your birthday last year because you had something else going on by the time I got home from school, so I got up early this morning to make sure I'd see you."

"I know how busy you are with all your advanced placement cla.s.ses this year, Sara," Mummy said. "You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble. Pink and white streamers across the doorway! And this banner over the refrigerator!" She ran her fingers across the banner as if trying to convince herself she was not dreaming. "I know you're working hard to get into college right now ... Oh! A cake? You got me a cake? Look at all the roses on that cake! I've never seen anything like it!"

"I remembered how you said you loved them when you were a kid," Sara said. "I had the bakery make them all around the cake so the whole thing looked like a big pile of roses. Oh, and here's a card, too."

"It's lovely, Sara," Mummy said, giving Sara a hug. She tore open the envelope and read the card. "Oh, you're just so sweet." Sara felt warm and relaxed, and so proud of herself for arranging all this. Mummy narrowed her eyes mischievously. "Let's have a piece."

"Okay," Sara said. She reached into the drawer to get a knife.

"Wait!" Mummy said, opening the cabinet. "Wait just a minute!" She dug around in the cabinet and produced a box of birthday candles, handing them to Sara. "Here. You do it."

Sara set the knife next the plates she had put by the cake, opening the box and sliding a few candles into the icing. Mummy handed her a book of matches, and Sara lit the candles. Mummy nodded enthusiastically, her eyes wide.

Sara sighed and cleared her throat, then rushed through the words. "Happy-birthday-to-you, happy-birthday-to-you, happy birthday, dear Mummy, happy-birthday-to-you." Mummy blew out the candles and cut the cake, producing first a giant wedge and then a tiny sliver.

"You might as well get something for all your effort, Sara," Mummy said, handing her the plate with the huge piece and taking a tiny bite from the piece she'd cut for herself. She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "Yum! It's divine, Sara. Just divine."

Sara dug into her piece. It was that dry white bakery cake that Mummy loved. Sara got up to get herself a gla.s.s of water. Mummy got up, too, taking the remaining portion of the cake to the pantry and dumping it in the garbage along with the envelope from the card. She shook her head. "It's just so good, I can't have it around here, of course. I'd eat it all up!" She closed the pantry door again. "Say, do you know what would be fun for us to do today? Lunch! At Lucinda's."

"Today? Oh, Mummy, I can't today. I've got school."

"You can miss school. It's my birthday!"

"I can't miss today, Mummy. I've got a lot going on. How about if we go there for an early dinner this afternoon?"

"No," Mummy said, shaking her head. "No, Sara. We can't do an early dinner. The crowd is totally different and I don't like the evening staff. We have to do lunch."

"But, Mummy, I can't skip school today. Angie and I have a project due."

Her mother looked away, watching her own feet as she walked to the doorway and began taking down the streamers, carefully peeling the tape away from the doorframe. She bundled them all up together and cradled them in her arms as she opened the pantry door again, stuffing them into the garbage. She closed the pantry door and turned to the banner, picking at the tape that held it to the refrigerator.

"Mummy?"

The banner came loose. Mummy folded it hastily and turned back toward the pantry door, peering down at it as she twisted its ends.

"Mummy? I'll still see you after school, okay?"

"Don't bother, Sara. I know how important your friends are. You just have a lovely day. Thank you for the card."

CHAPTER 14.

Escape EMPTY STREET. SHE hunts. Darkened, lifeless buildings. No blood.

The whole city is like a ghost town. No victims. No other vampires.

If it's a ghost town, maybe I'm a ghost, immaterial. No pain then, being a ghost. But no pleasure, either. And no power.

A tiny sound! Maybe a key turning.

A door opens, just a crack. A vampire emerges, empty and starving, just like her. He takes her hand, leads her inside.

She joins him in the coffin, starving, but at least not alone. His arm falls across her as he closes the lid.

The graduation gown sleeve soaked up some of the Bombay Sapphire she'd spilled. There was no tonic water in the house but she'd found a plastic lime half full of juice.

Same d.a.m.ned pink floral wallpaper she'd hated as a little kid. This room always looked like puke. Same white wicker furniture, same everything.

The ice was all melted.

Sara raised her gla.s.s in salute.

The phone rang. Sara took the tumbler into Mummy and Daddy's room to answer.

"Sara? It's Angie. Where are you?"

"You called me, dear."

"You know what I mean. We've been waiting for you."

"I'll be there. I'm just not quite ready yet."

"You don't sound like you're going anywhere. Can you even stand up?"

"Yeah. I can ... I can stand up. I'll be there."

"Will you? Because we've spent all night at this one party, waiting for you. If you're not here in ten minutes, we're gonna go someplace else."

"I'm fine. I'll be fine. I'll see you there."

"Yeah, right. I don't think so. Thanks a lot, Sara. Our last night with everyone from high school!"

"No! Don't go without me, Angie. I'll be there. I'll be there. Please! Hey, why don't you two just come here? You could come over here and hang out with me, and then I wouldn't have to-"

Angie hung up. Sara put the phone down, turning. She took a few quick steps, making it into Mummy's bathroom before she threw up, but the lid was down. Vomit coated the seat cover, the bath mat, the shower curtain. She blinked and lightly slapped her face, trying to focus before unhooking the curtain and collecting the cover and rug. Mummy would never forgive this.

She made it downstairs to the washing machine and dumped the load in with a little soap. The machine started. She lay down on the floor for a little rest.