Last to Die: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

wondered why, of all the girls in the room,
she
was the one he was looking at. The three princesses were way prettier, and they were sitting closer to him. I’m just the class weirdo, she thought, the girl who always says the wrong thing. The girl with the hole in her head.
So why are you looking at me?
    It made her feel uncomfortable and thrilled at the same time.
    “Ooh look. He’s
staring
at her.” Briana had sidled up to Claire’s table and now bent close to whisper in her ear. “It looks like Mr. Stick Bug has a thing for Ms. Night Crawler.”
    “Leave me alone.”
    “Maybe you’ll have cute little insect babies together.”
    Without a word, Claire picked up her glass of orange juice and splashed it on Briana. Juice splattered her rival’s sparkly jeans and brand-new ballet flats.
    “Did you
see
that?” Briana screamed. “Did you
see
what she just did to me?”
    Ignoring the outraged squeals, Claire stood up and headed for the exit. On her way out, she glimpsed Will Yablonski’s spotty face grinning at her, and he gave her a sly thumbs-up. Now,
there
was another weirdo, just like her. Maybe that’s why Will was always so nice to her. Weirdos had to stick together here at Freak High, where no one could hear you scream.
    The new boy was still staring, too. Teddy-with-no-last-name. She felt his eyes follow her every step.
    *   *   *
    I T WASN’T UNTIL THE next afternoon that she spoke to him. Every Thursday she had stable chores, and today she was grooming Plum Crazy, one of the four Evensong horses. Of all the duties regularly assigned to students, this was one she did not mind at all, even though it meant mucking out stalls and hauling around bales of wood shavings. Horses didn’t complain. They didn’t ask questions. They just watched her with their quiet brown eyes and trusted her not to hurt them. Just as she trusted them not to hurt her, even though Plum Crazy was a thousand pounds of muscle and sharp hooves, and all he had to do was roll over and he could squash her right here in his stall. Chickens scratched and flapped nearby, and Herman the rooster let loose with an annoying screech, but Plum Crazy stood still and serene through it all, nickering in contentment as Claire ran the currycomb across his flank and down his rear. The
rasp, rasp
of the rubber teeth was hypnotically soothing. She was so focused on the task that she did not at first realize someone was standing behind her. Only when she straightened did she suddenly notice Teddy’s face peering at her over the stall door. She was so startled, she almost dropped the currycomb.
    “What are
you
doing here?” she snapped. Not exactly the friendliest of greetings.
    “I’m sorry! I just wanted to … they told me I could …” He glanced over his shoulder, as if hoping someone would rescue him. “I like animals,” he finally said. “Dr. Welliver told me there were horses.”
    “And cows and sheep. And these dumbshit chickens.” She dropped the currycomb in a hanging bucket, where it landed with a loud thump. It was an angry sound, but she wasn’t really angry. She just didn’t like being startled. Teddy was already backing away from the stall door.
    “Hey,” she said, trying to make amends. “You want to pet him? His name’s Plum Crazy.”
    “Does he bite?”
    “Naw, he’s just a big baby.” She gave the horse’s neck a gentle pat. “Aren’t you, Plum?”
    Cautiously Teddy swung open the stall door and stepped inside. As he stroked the horse, Claire retrieved the currycomb and resumed grooming. For a while they did not talk, just shared the stall in silence, inhaling the smells of fresh pine shavings and warm horseflesh.
    “I’m Claire Ward,” she said.
    “I’m Teddy.”
    “Yeah. I heard that at breakfast.”
    He touched Plum’s muzzle, and the horse suddenly tossed its head. Teddy flinched and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Even in the gloom of the stable, she saw how pale he was, and thin, his wrists as delicate as twigs. But his eyes were arresting, wide and long-lashed, and he seemed to be taking in everything at once.
    “How old are you?” she asked.
    “Fourteen.”
    “Really?”
    “Why do you sound surprised?”
    “Because I’m a year younger than you. And you seem so …”
Small
was what she was about to say, but at the last second a kinder word came to mind. “Shy.” She peered at him over the horse’s back. “So do you have a last name?”
    “Detective