“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything. It’s down the hall.”
Analise stared at the wall, eyes closed, hand on her forehead.
Her mother was alone at the table when Celia returned to the kitchen. She held a mug of coffee in both hands and pretended to read the paper.
“How long? You and Arthur, I mean,” Suzanne said.
Slowly, Celia took a seat and tried to catch her mother’s gaze, but Suzanne wasn’t looking up.
“Not long,” she said. It wasn’t her mother’s business. It wasn’t anyone’s business. She resented the need to defend this. If he had been anyone else, some stranger she could have invited over for dinner, Suzanne would have been ecstatic.
“I know you’re both consenting adults, and I shouldn’t say anything, but … but it’s very strange. He’s known you since you were young.”
“I know,” Celia said, looking away. She hadn’t realized how securely she’d locked her old life away, that it took effort to dredge up those memories now. That it was like she’d died and become someone else. “After I went away, though … I came back, and everything was different. Everything.” That was all she could think to say. Her only explanation.
Finally, Suzanne looked up. She was smiling. “I still see the little girl in braids and a white dress. I’m sorry, I always will.” She quickly brushed away tears.
Celia’s throat closed up. God, now Suzanne had her doing it. If she opened her mouth, she might burst. So she came around the table to Suzanne, knelt by her, and gathered her into a hug. Suzanne needed it, and it didn’t cost Celia anything.
“He’s the only person who sees me for what I am, Mom,” Celia whispered. Suzanne squeezed harder.
Someone cleared her throat.
Analise stood in the kitchen, her gaze on her feet. She wore the T-shirt and sweatpants borrowed from Celia and carried a wadded-up mess of blue fabric in her hands—her costume and mask.
“Oh!” Suzanne said, recognition dawning. “Oh my—can I get you some coffee? Analise, isn’t it?”
Analise nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Celia pulled out a chair and made her friend sit. “You decided to get out of bed.”
“Had to sometime.”
“Without the mask.”
“I don’t think I can do that anymore.” She dropped the costume on the table and grimaced at it.
She’s going to give it up, Celia realized. The idea of it seemed wrong, out of alignment with the rest of the universe. She couldn’t give it up; she was the next generation the Hawk was talking about. Wasn’t she?
“Celia, you knew all along, didn’t you? That Typhoon, and she—”
“Yeah,” Celia said.
Handing Analise a cup of coffee, Suzanne said, “I have to ask: How on earth did you two meet?”
“By accident,” Celia said. “It turns out I have a knack for recognizing supers without their masks. God knows how that happened.”
Analise gripped her mug with both hands, as if it were an anchor. “Are you going to hand me over to the cops?”
“No,” Suzanne said. “I might think about talking you into turning yourself in. But not right now. Not until everyone calms down.”
“You’ve done this for how long, and you never killed anyone in all that time,” Analise said, low and tired, so unlike her. “And here I am—”
“Oh, I’ve killed,” Suzanne said. “We all have.”
“Bad guys, sure.” As if that made a difference. “In self-defense. What am I going to do?”
“You’re going to wait here,” Suzanne said calmly. “We’re going to let things settle and make sure you get a fair hearing.”