He looked at the ruins, then at the mailbox. Then at the cracked foundation again. Finally, he opened the mailbox to look inside. The door fell off of it, but he found some aging, yellowed papers inside.
Bills. With his family's name on them, Claire guessed. He stared at them, shook his head, and slowly put them back into the box.
She saw it hit him, the same way it had hit all the others--the knowledge that things weren't like they were supposed to be. That time wasn't where it should have been. That everything was wrong.
He staggered and tried to catch himself against the mailbox, and knocked it over into the weeds. Shane frantically tried to pick it up, fix it, make it right, but the post was rotted through, and he finally had to lay it down. Then he sat beside it, holding his head in his hands, shaking.
Claire walked over, very slowly. "Shane," she said. "Shane, I'm so sorry. I didn't know how to tell you. I'm so sorry."
"My house," he whispered. "It's here. It's supposed to be here." He looked up at her, and there were tears swimming in his dark eyes. "Something happened. What happened?"
She felt sick, and she loathed every second of what she knew she was about to do to him. "There was a . . . an accident."
"Where are they?" Shane asked, and looked at the devastation where his life had once been. There was a rusted swing set in the back, bent and broken. "Alyssa. Where's Alyssa? Where's my sister?"
Claire reached out a hand to him. "Get up," she said softly. "I'll take you."
"I want to see my sister! I'm responsible for her!"
"I know. Just . . . trust me, okay? I'll take you."
He wasn't in any shape now to be angry, or even suspicious. He just took her hand, and she pulled him up to his feet and held on, leading him down the street and on. The sun blazed down warm, but the breeze felt colder, bringing winter in short, sharp bursts.
"Where are we going?" Shane asked, but not as if he cared much. "I can't believe . . . It must have happened last night when I--"
"Shane, you saw that. The weeds are waist high. The mailbox was rotted out. There's nothing there." Claire pulled in a deep breath. "It's been years since that happened. It didn't happen overnight."
"You're cracked." He tried to pull free of her, but she held on. "It's not true. I was there yesterday!"
"Listen to me! God, Shane, please! I know you think it was yesterday, but it's been a long time. You've been . . . other places. You just don't remember right now." She swallowed a lump in her throat and tried to go on sounding brave and calm. "You'll be fine. Just . . . trust me."
"Take me to my family."
"I'll take you to Alyssa," she said. "Please. Trust me."
She knew the way.
The graveyard was cold and silent, and the wind felt even more like winter here, even with the sun sparkling off of granite head-stones and white marble mausoleums. The grass was still a little green, but mostly brown.
The headstone read, ALYSSA COLLINS, BELOVED DAUGHTER AND SISTER, and it gave her dates of birth and death.
Shane read it, and his face went white and very still. His eyes seemed strange when he looked at Claire. "It's not true."
"I'm sorry," she said. "But it is."
"It's a sick joke."
"No," she said. "Shane, Alyssa died in the fire. She died three years ago, before you left Morganville with your mom and dad. Before I ever came here. I know you don't remember that, but it happened. You left town, and you came back, and you moved into Michael's house with him and Eve. Then I came and moved in, too." "No," he said, and took a big step back, then another one. He almost ran into another headstone, and braced himself when he staggered. "No, you're lying; this is some sick little game of Monica's, but this is low even for her--"
"Shane, Monica didn't do this, and it's not a game! Shane! Listen!"
"I've listened enough to you!" he yelled, and shoved her so hard she fell and almost cracked her skull on Marvis Johnson's memorial stone. "You stay the hell away from me and my family, you crazy bitch! This is sick! This is fake!"
He tried to push over Alyssa's tombstone. It didn't move. He kicked at it, panting, and Claire lay where she was, watching him, heartsick. She'd thought maybe this would convince him, maybe it would force him to remember . . . but he didn't. He couldn't.
"Please," she whispered. "Please stop, Shane. Stop hurting yourself; I can't stand it."
He collapsed against his sister's tombstone and just sat there, his back to Claire. His shoulders were shaking. She got up and went to kneel beside him. He looked destroyed, just . . . broken. She put her hand on his shoulder.
He didn't hit her, at least. He didn't seem to notice she was still there. He was pale and shaking and sweating, and hunched in on himself as if somebody had punched him really, really hard. "She can't be," he said. "She can't be dead. I just . . . I just saw her. She was making fun of my shirt. My shirt . . ." He looked down at himself, pulled his T-shirt out, and said, "I wasn't wearing this. This isn't even my shirt. This is wrong. This is all wrong."
"I know," Claire said. "I know it feels that way. Shane, please come back with me. Please. I'll show you the room you have in Michael's house. You'll recognize some of the things in there; maybe it'll help. Come on, get up. You can't stay here; it's cold." He didn't move. "Alyssa wouldn't want you to stay here."
"Why didn't she get out?" he asked. "If there was a fire, how did I get out if she didn't? I wouldn't leave her. I wouldn't do that. I couldn't . . . just . . . run--"