Flemming looked worried. “What do you think this will accomplish?”
I shrugged, feeling giddy. “Don’t know. Don’t care. It’s just nice to be doing something.”
I wasn’t supposed to be here. I really wasn’t supposed to be here. As in, this wasn’t the way my life was supposed to go. Even just a few years ago, as a child of yuppies my life had been pretty much laid out for me: a decent degree from a decent university, a decent job—maybe in radio, but probably something nine to five, like sales. Marriage, children, tract housing on the prairie and a golden retriever playing fetch in the backyard. What all the other girls were doing.
Then the attack, and the wolf came, and nothing could ever, ever be normal again. There’d never be a golden retriever in the backyard—dogs hated me now. They could tell what I was.
Still, none of that explained how I got into these situations. Was I too young to retire? Get a nice, quiet job in accounting somewhere?
On full moon nights, keeping human form became painful, then it became impossible. Wolf had to be free, she had to be released, and if she had to rip her way out, she would. So much easier to let it slide, let it happen.
I couldn’t do that, not tonight. Had to stay human as long as I possibly could, had to be in control, know what was happening. I’d had practice at this. I sat still, kept still, breathed slowly. Just a little while longer, girl.
I had a couple of tricks I used to keep the Wolf at bay. Humming Bach while thinking of broccoli. My humming was becoming more frantic, and still my stomach churned. The thin line between human and beast was growing thinner. When it disappeared, I’d be gone.
I had to stay on my side of the line. I imagined the line growing thicker. I had to keep it in place.
“T.J., I wish you could help me.”
I remembered him holding me, when I started to lose it. Keep it together, he’d whisper. That’s a girl.
Keep it together.
The line remained drawn. I was still human. I took a deep breath, fitting into my skin a little more firmly.
Stockton returned in less than half an hour, more quickly than I expected despite his promise. He must really have been worried about missing something. He carried two big shopping bags. I pictured him running through the store, throwing things into a cart, and flinging his credit card at the poor checkout clerk.
“I talked to your producer. Ozzie, that’s his name? He didn’t believe me, so he said to call him back and get you on the phone.”
Of course Ozzie didn’t believe him, and I didn’t blame him. I’d avoided TV like the plague. I was so glad I had smart friends.
“Do it,” I said.
Duke, still off to the side, showed me an ugly snarl. “You can’t think this will help you. The world will still see you as you really are.”
“That’s what I’m hoping,” I muttered.
Flemming turned to Stockton. “I’m having second thoughts. I’m not sure we should go through with it.”
“Oh, no,” the reporter said. “You were the one who called me, you were the one who arranged this whole thing. I want my story—it’s out of your hands.”
“Stand aside, Doctor,” Duke said. “Let the man work. She can’t possibly say anything that will save her from what’s coming. Let her incriminate herself.”
Stockton called Ozzie on the land line—no mobile reception in the basement. He managed to get the phone cord to stretch halfway across the room, and the handset barely fit through the tray slot.
Ozzie launched right in. “Kitty, what’s going on, what’s wrong?”
“You’ll see it soon enough,” I said with a sigh. “Did Stockton bring you up to date?”
“Yeah—he says you’re televising the show. But it’s not Friday, we haven’t announced anything—”
“Just set it up, Ozzie. Make it legal. Secure the rights, grant the license to the network, whatever you have to do.”
“Are you okay?”
“No. But don’t worry about me. I’ll get through it.” I hoped. I really, really hoped. “Call Ben O’Farrell for me, will you? Use his cell number.”
“Sure. Put that reporter back on.”