Page 52 of If Looks Could Kill

“Medusa,” he repeated. “The lady who lives here is… Medusa.”

I nodded.

“Snakes for hair,” he said. “Turning men to stone.”

I thought of the eerie statue in her foyer. “I think so. Yes.”

He raked his hand through his hair. “And you’ve seen her? Snakes and all?”

I nodded again. “Snakes and all.”

“But you’re not turned to stone.”

“I suspect,” I told him, “it’s men she particularly likes.” I caught myself. “To petrify.”

Mike threw up his hands. “And who can blame her?”

This stung. “I know you can’t believe me,” I said. “But I’m telling the truth.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “There’s something wrong with her. With Miss Stella. That’s her name.”

“Snakes for hair will do that to you,” observed Mike. “Put you wrong in the head.”

“I mean, something sinister,” I said. “Or, maybe, just terribly sad and lonely. But either way, I believe she’s dangerous.” I reached for the door.

Mike fingered the splintered wood on the door. “Maybe she won’t hurt you, but her rough visitors will.”

“But my friends are inside,” I said. “The longer we talk, the more they’re in danger.”

Mike listened at the door. “It’s quiet in there,” he observed. “Is that a good sign?”

“Or it’s a house full of corpses,” I muttered.

“You said there were two Medusas.” Realization hit him. “Is the other one… Pearl?”

It felt like a violation, to betray her secret. But no part of me could lie to Mike.

“It only just happened to her,” I babbled. “Just this afternoon. The first time ever. She doesn’t know why. She’s terrified.”

“And that’s why you came here? To this other Medusa woman’s house?”

I nodded miserably.

Mike said nothing, but paced back and forth, eyeing me strangely. As if he was trying to make up his mind about something. About me. About whether or not this was the moment he could simply and sensibly walk away from this loony of a Salvation Army Disaster Girl.

“What do we do now?” he asked drily. “Flip a coin?”

“Don’t be vexed with me,” I pleaded. “Just let me go find my friends.”

“And get killed?”

He was truly angry now.

“I don’t know what you want, Mike,” I told him. “I—”

“That’s plain.”

“And cryptic statements like that don’t help any,” I snapped. “I can’t wait any longer.”

He took a step closer. “What I want,” he said, “is for you to wake up tomorrow morning. Alive.” He shook off the snow piling atop his dark hair. “And if I could have it my own way, I’d wake up alive too, knowing you were safe. I’d call that a fine morning.”

There he went again. Courteous. Concerned. Confusing. And, because of me, in peril.

“I never meant to drag you into danger,” I said.

He pulled a large, folded handkerchief from his pocket. “I’ll blindfold myself,” he said. “Hold my hand and lead me in. We’ll go together. All right?”

I couldn’t hide my relief. We had no good option, but this might work, and our chances were better together than apart. “Yes, please,” I confessed. “And… I’m sorry.”

“Sorry, nothing.” He rolled his handkerchief into a band. “It’s never dull, thank the good Lord, when you’re around.”

He knotted the band and tested it over his eyes, then pulled it down.

“And since I don’t know what comes next,” he said, “and since you’re too brave by half and you keep running headfirst into danger—”

Too— “What?”

“And if anything happened to you, I’d never—”

I never knew what he’d never. Not in words.

May God forgive me. I forgot all about my friends.

The next thing I knew, Mike’s cheekbone nestled against mine, with the softest touch. A sigh left his chest, and we breathed together.

Mike O’Keeffe is standing this close to me, I thought. Because he wants to. Wants to be this close to me. Wants to feel my cheek against his own.

Girls raised like I was don’t know what to do at a time like this.

He’s going to kiss me, I thought.

No. Perhaps not. Perhaps he just wanted to stand here this way.

His forehead rested against mine, shielding my face from the snow, then his nose traced a slow line up the length of my nose, over the bridge and down the other side. As if this moment could not be slowed enough.

And all of this, this impossible tenderness, was for me.

I didn’t know how to bear the blissful weight of it. So much caring I hadn’t seen coming. So much feeling I did not believe I could ever deserve.

Something, it seemed, ought to be done.

So I kissed him.

He froze, startled.

This was not a thing I had ever, ever done before.

Not by the hair of Aunt Lorraine’s chinny-chin-chin.

A mouth, even one as beautiful as Mike’s, is a curious thing to kiss.

Unlike, say, a baby’s roly-poly cheek or a poodle’s curly head.

I pulled away, mortified, wondering if I had missed, or done it wrong, or made a shameless ninny of myself.

His eyes were still closed. His features, soft. Almost asleep. Slowly, I backed away.

Before I could take another step, he caught me and pulled me to him. He smiled, a private smile it felt I could take to my grave, then and there, and not feel cheated out of much.

And then Mike kissed me .

Perhaps I had not made a shameless ninny of myself.

Mike kissed me as if he’d been waiting a lifetime to do it, and if he wanted to spend the rest of a lifetime doing it, that would’ve been all right with me.

And so we might have remained, till kingdom come, had not the door burst open and Freyda and Cora come tumbling breathlessly out, dressed in high-waisted ball gowns and lacy shawls from a century ago, pausing only long enough for Cora to administer a “Tchah!” of scorn and Freyda to hurl a “Really, Tabitha?” at me before hurrying away from us and up the street.