Divine Evil

cast that had already been signed by her family, friends, and most of the staff on the third floor.
    She would be going back to Philadelphia within the week. But she would never dance professionally again.
    No amount of arguing or pleading with Dr. Su had changed his prognosis. With care and therapy, Lisa wouldwalk without a limp, even dance—within limits. But her knee would never stand up to the rigors of ballet.
    Clare sat in her car at the curb in front of her house and stared at the sculpture taking shape in the drive. A woman reaching for the stars and gaining them.
    Oh, fuck.
    She looked down at her hands, slowly opening, then closing them, turning them over. How would she feel if she could never sculpt again? Could never hold a mallet or a torch or a chisel?
    Empty. Dead. Destroyed.
    Lisa had lain in that bed, her eyes filled with pain, her voice strong.
    “I think I knew all along,” she'd said. “Somehow it's easier being sure than wondering. Hoping.”
    But no, Clare thought as she slammed out of the car. It was never easier to lose hope. She stopped under the sculpture, staring up at it in the waning light. It was only a hint of a shape, long, slender, graceful arms lifted high, fingers spread. Reaching. But she saw it completed, and the features of the face were Lisa's.
    She could do that, Clare thought. She could give the statue Lisa's face, and her grace and her courage. And maybe it wouldn't be such a small thing. Casting her eyes back to the ground, she walked into the house.
    The phone was ringing, but she ignored it. She didn't want to talk to anyone, not yet. Without bothering with the lights, she moved through the kitchen to the living room and thought about escaping into sleep.
    “I've been waiting for you.”
    Ernie rose, a shadow in the shadows, and stood waiting.
    After the first jolt, she steadied, facing him adult to child. “People usually wait outside until they're invited in.” She reached over to turn on the lamp.
    “Don't.” He moved quickly, covering her hand with his. She found it sweaty cold. “We don't need the light.”
    Her annoyance was laced with the beginnings of fear. She reminded herself that the windows were open and a few good screams would bring neighbors. And he was a kid. She slid her hand from under his. Sexually frustrated, mixed up, but still a kid.
    Not a murderer. She wouldn't believe that. Didn't dare.
    “All right, Ernie.” She moved casually and put the couch between them. “What's this about?”
    “You were supposed to be the one. The way you looked at me.”
    “I looked at you the way a friend would. That's all.”
    “You were supposed to be the one,” he insisted. She was his hope. Maybe his last. “But you went with Rafferty. You let him have you.”
    The pity that had been creeping into her heart iced over. “My relationship with Cam isn't open for discussion. It's my business.”
    “No. You were mine.”
    “Ernie.” Patience, she told herself. Patience and logic. “I'm ten years older than you, and we've only known each other a couple of months. We both know that I never did anything to make you think I was offering more than friendship.”
    He shook his head slowly, continually, his eyes dark and fixed on hers. “You were sent. I thought you were sent.” A whine came into his voice, the music of youth, and softened her.
    “Sent? Ernie, you know that's not true. You've built something that never existed out of your imagination.”
    “I saw the statue. The statue you made. The high priest. Baphomet.”
    Shaken, she took a step back in denial. “What are you talking about? Did you steal it?”
    “No, others did. Others know what you know. You've seen. So have I.”
    “Seen what?”
    “I belong. There's nothing I can do now. I belong. Don't you see? Can't you understand?”
    “No.” She laid a hand on the back of the couch. “I can't. But I'd like to. I'd like to help you.”
    “It was supposed to make me feel good. It was supposed to give me anything I wanted.”
    The whining turned to tears, but she couldn't make herself step forward and comfort him. “Ernie, let me call your parents.”
    “What the hell for?” Tears turned to rage. “What do they know? What do they care? They think they can make everything all right by making me go to a psychiatrist. All right for them, maybe. I hate them, I hate them both.”
    “You don't mean that.”
    He pressed his hands to his ears, as if to block out her words and his own.