“PAWS OFF, BUCKO,” I barked, slapping the Gasman’s hands away from my slice of pie. “You already ate an entire half of the pie. Your pie privileges have been revoked.”
“Paws off?” Total said, looking up from his plate. “I resent that. You’re saying that all pie stealers have paws? Is that it?”
“Chillax,” I told Total. I’d forgotten he was sitting there. “It’s just a turn of phrase.”
“Hmph,” said Total.
“And you,” I said, turning back to Gazzy. “Step. Away. From. The. Pie.”
“Poop,” Gazzy mumbled. “Dylan wouldn’t give me any of his, either. Neither would Nudge. Or Iggy.”
“And what have we learned from this experience?” I asked, raising one eyebrow.
Gazzy shuffled. “Um… everyone but me needs to work on their sharing skills?”
“No,” I said patiently. “We learned that if you eat half a pie, you get your pie privileges taken away. Capiche?”
I am such a good not-mom.
The Gasman started to say something else but was cut off by the sudden appearance of Fang, who had entered the living room like a freaking shadow.
Just like old times.
I glanced at Fang and was startled by how pale he was. His normally inexpressive face looked taut, and his lips were pressed into a thin white line.
“What’s wrong?” I said immediately, getting ready to do a head count. “Is everyone okay?”
Fang hesitated. “Can you come with me?”
I took one last bite of pie, then followed Fang down the hallway, past Nudge’s room, Iggy’s room, Gazzy’s, mine, Dylan’s, and Total’s. (Yes, the dog got his own room.)
Fang opened the door to the guest room and led me inside. His laptop was open and running on the bed, and I saw the page for his blog pulled up on the screen.
“Wait, this is about your blog?” I exclaimed, one part relieved and two parts annoyed that he’d gotten me all worked up for nothing. “From your face, I thought we were gearing up for Armageddon!”
He sat and motioned to the laptop. “Read the comment on top.”
Great. Probably another Fang fan-girl (Fang-irl?) gushing about how incredibly guh-orrrrr-geous he was. I sighed and sat down next to him on the bed.
What? My heart stopped. I couldn’t breathe.
Feeling completely numb—I refused to get my hopes up—I clicked on the image that came with the comment. Fang and I were both silent, waiting with bated breath, as the image loaded.
It was a blurry, grainy photo, maybe taken on an old cell phone. The background was dark and murky, with a couple of blocky shadows that looked a bit like hospital equipment. I ignored that and focused on the foreground, which had better lighting.
Better lighting that revealed a chunk of limp blond ringlets. A clump of dirty white feathers. A small, pale hand—the same hand I’d held a million times throughout the years.
“Oh, my God,” I breathed. “Oh, my God.”
Fang leaned toward the computer screen, gazing at the photo. “So you think it’s really her?” he asked softly. I caught the faint undercurrents of insane, wild, un-Fanglike excitement.
“Yeah,” I squeaked, hardly believing I was saying it. “Yes,” I said louder, looking into his eyes and seeing my own certainty reflected there. “Fang, I think that’s Angel.”
“What?”
It wasn’t Fang who’d spoken. The two of us turned to the doorway to see Nudge and Gazzy staring at us. Gazzy was holding the second pie, and Nudge was carrying two forks. Under different circumstances, I’d have whooped their conniving, thieving little behinds. But right now, all I could do was frantically process plans, ideas, possibilities, while I tried to contain the enormous hopeful smile that was threatening to take over my face.
“Angel,” said Fang. “Angel might be alive.”