I couldn't stop thinking about Jace for the rest of the day, and his bizarre behavior. I was relieved that it didn't have anything to do with me, but still, it was worrisome. He had looked pretty sick. I wished I would have asked him what was wrong, instead of the generic, easy-to-dodge "Are you okay?" Of course he wasn't okay. What a stupid question.

Simon showed up just after Luke left, as the rest of Jace's friends were leaving. A few of them shouldered past him, shoving him roughly to the side and sniggering in a self-satisfied way when he stumbled. I had half a mind to go after them and give them a taste of what Aline had gotten the other day, but Simon put his hand on my shoulder and shook his head.

"Not worth it," he said with pointed brightness. "Doesn't bother me." But it did. Even if he did manage to shrug it off, I knew that Simon hated to be treated like that. I hated to see him treated like that, too.

"They're asses," I informed him. "How about a Coke, on the house?"

Simon grinned. "Now you're talking, Fray."

Hearing him call me Fray made me think of Jace, and I turned away from Simon before he could see the change in my expression.

I had just ducked behind the counter and started to fill a glass with Coke when the front door banged open with a lot more force than was regular or necessary. I looked up in surprise and almost dropped the glass.

It was Isabelle Lightwood.

Never once had I anticipated to see Isabelle in my mom's diner. Her immaculately straight hair and high heels seemed so out of place here. She looked almost ridiculous in this setting, drawing every eye in the room to her, dominating the place with her mere presence.

Simon looked over at her and his mouth fell open. To his credit, he noticed he was gaping and snapped it shut.

Isabelle's eyes zipped to and fro, searching impatiently, and then zeroed in on me. I stood frozen to the spot as she marched toward me, her heels clacking loudly on the hard floor.

She leaned over the counter and fixed me with a glare. "We need to talk," she said.

Even though I felt like my courage had turned to mush, my voice came out cool and even. "I'm working."

Her eyes narrowed. "It'll only take a minute."

"It'll have to wait," I told her matter-of-factly as I finished filling Simon's Coke and passed it to him across the counter. He clutched it numbly, his eyes glued to Isabelle. He was completely immobilized by the fact that she was just a few feet away from him. I fought the urge to roll my eyes. She hadn't even acknowledged his existence.

"It's about Jace," Isabelle said, not bothering to keep her voice down. I flinched and glanced back toward my mom's office. This wasn't something I wanted her overhearing.

"I want to talk about the night he was attacked," she announced.

"Shhh," I hissed, casting a panicked look around the diner to see if anyone had heard. "This is not something you can just go around yelling about, Isabelle!"

"This is important," she insisted.

"Fine. Make it quick."

"Not here," she said, as if I were stupid for thinking otherwise. "Don't you have anywhere in this little dump where you can have some privacy?"

I ground my teeth together and wondered what she would do if I snatched Simon's Coke and overturned it on her head. But I was trying to kick that nasty habit of dumping beverages on customers, so I restrained myself.

"Yes," I said at last. "Come on." Before I'd even finished speaking, she had joined me behind the counter as if she had always known I wouldn't refuse her. I headed toward the storage room, but as I reached for the doorknob I heard a bang from inside. My mom was in there, or Timothy, maybe even Mona. None of them would be happy to see that I was bringing a non-employee into the storage room.

I backed away and headed for the back door instead. I'd been avoiding the alley behind the diner as much as possible lately, namely because of the bad memories I now associated with it, but I didn't know where else I could talk to Isabelle without interruption.

I stepped out first and then spun to face her, crossing my arms and adopting what I hoped was a defiant stance. "Well?" I said.

She fixed me with a glare that did not help me retain my bravery. "I told you to stay away from Jace," she said.

"Did you? I don't recall," I lied.

"Yes, I did," she snapped. "And you haven't listened."

"He's the one that keeps seeking me out," I answered testily. Once upon a time, this would have been true, but not anymore. Our last few interactions had been because I'd gone out in search of him, not the other way around. But I didn't dare tell Isabelle that.

"I don't care if he's the one finding you. Find a way for him to leave you alone," she said, like this should be a simple thing.

I sighed. "Do you still think I'm the one that attacked him?"

Her eyes remained hard. "Of course I do. Anyone would have to be stupid not to see it."

Something in me snapped.

"Well, that sucks," I said bitterly. "You can join the rest of the club that has elected me as Top Suspect in a Senseless Crime. It seems to be getting bigger every day. Do you know how it feels to have everyone looking at you like you're some kind of monster? Like they're afraid you're going to pull a knife on them if they get too close? If I hadn't called that ambulance, Jace might be dead right now. Does anyone remember that part? Of course not. Not even Jace does.

"It was one of the worst nights of my life," I ranted on, oblivious to the fact that Isabelle's eyes were getting wider and wider with each passing second. "Have you ever gone to take out the garbage, only to find someone you know on the brink of death by the Dumpster? He was right there, Isabelle," I said, pointing savagely to the mouth of the alley where Jace had collapsed. The bloodstain had long since been washed away by rain, but Isabelle flinched as if it was still a fresh, scarlet splatter on the gray stone.

"I found him," I said, "and I didn't have time to call my mom or any other adult for help. I just had to contact the police and tell them someone was dying here. I went to the hospital with him, I sat there all night, waiting to see if he was going to make it. And you know what happened when I went in to see him? He called me ugly." My voice was rising, sounding a little hysterical. I was probably starting to frighten her, but I didn't care. All I could feel was the rage and bitterness and hopelessness that had been building up inside of me for weeks, pouring out in one big tidal wave.

"And now," I went on, pacing back and forth, "I had to go and punch Aline Penhallow, and just about got thrown in the slammer for it. Now the cops think that I have reckless tendencies and that if I get mad enough, I have the potential to hurt someone. They don't believe me when I say I didn't do it. And you know what? Very few people do. And it's people like you"—I stabbed my finger at her—"that spread rumors about it and make people believe that I'm the culprit. So go ahead, Isabelle. Tell everyone that I stabbed Jace. Try to bully me into staying away from him. It doesn't matter anyway. If I don't figure out who's behind this for real, I'm going to be arrested."

Finally, the rest of my steam puttered off, and I stood there breathing hard, realizing that I'd just gone off on a crazy tangent in front of Isabelle Lightwood, who would now probably spread rumors of my insanity to the rest of the school.

I forced myself to peek at her face, trying to gauge her reaction. I was expecting one of those "Are you crazy?" looks, but I couldn't read her expression.

Then she turned abruptly and walked toward the mouth of the alley. I wondered if she was afraid I was going to viciously attack her and was getting the hell out of here, but then she stopped and looked down at the ground, her eyes raking everything as if looking for something.

"You found him here?" Her voice was quieter and more subdued than I'd ever heard it.

I pushed my fingers through my hair. "Yeah." My tone matched hers. I was feeling a little embarrassed about how upset I'd just gotten.

Isabelle let out a long, shaky breath. She turned back to me, and I was stunned to see tears in her eyes. She scrubbed them with her hands, looking furious with herself, but they were there all the same. "You talk about that night being hard," she said, her voice suddenly harsh and full of surprising bitterness. "You don't even know. Who is Jace to you anyway? Nothing. To me, he's like my brother. When I got the call that he'd been hurt, maybe fatally, I almost couldn't handle it. Imagine how it felt when I heard that my brother had gotten hurt because he'd wandered off from my party, where I hadn't been keeping an eye on him. It's my fault. And none of my friends will even say it to my face. They tiptoe around it and say that I can't be held responsible for Jace's actions. But I know the truth."

She glared at the alley wall, her hands fists, and for the first time, Isabelle seemed less like a robot and more like a human to me.

I could have told her that it wasn't her fault. I could have fed her assurances and pity, but that wasn't what she wanted. She'd gotten enough of that already.

I said bluntly, "You're right. It is kind of your fault."

Her head snapped around and she looked at me in shock. I guess, despite her complaints, she hadn't actually expected anyone to blame her.

"It's as simple as that. If you had been watching, it never would have happened." I shrugged. "But everyone makes mistakes. Sometimes it's a matter of luck. He could have just as easily made it to this diner without getting jumped. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And besides, it's not like it's your job to keep him out of trouble."

Isabelle watched me closely. She no longer looked hostile—just guarded. "So you don't believe someone was trying to…kill him? On purpose?" she asked, and she suddenly sounded vulnerable, like she was depending on what I was about to say next. She wanted me to tell her that Jace was going to be fine, that he was safe now; despite Alec saying otherwise, a part of her did fear the possibility that someone was still after him, that someone still wanted him gone.

It would have comforted her if I told her that it had been a freak accident. But she didn't want false assurances. I could tell that much.

"I don't know," I said honestly. "Anything could have happened."

Isabelle turned away and went back to staring at the spot where Jace had lain. "He could have died," she said softly. Her shoulders were tense. "You sure you didn't do it?"

"Yes," I said without missing a beat, keeping my voice solemn and controlled. "I swear I didn't."

She exhaled, long and slow, and, to my astonishment, said, "I believe you."

"You do?" I sputtered.

"Don't sound so surprised," she snapped, regaining some of that old Isabelle spark. "Can't a girl have a change of heart?"

I was almost speechless. We'd both just done a lot of yelling at each other, and yet some of the animosity between us seemed to have melted away. Maybe getting some of those thoughts and feelings off our chests had sort of brought us closer together.

Or maybe not.

"I still think you should stay away from Jace," Isabelle added, doing her best to sound hard and intimidating, though she still had smears of mascara under her eyes from where a few tears had trailed down her face, slightly marring the effect.

"Why?" I couldn't resist asking.

"Alec thinks someone is after Jace." Isabelle made a face, expressing her doubt in his theory. "If he's somehow right, then the people around him could end up getting hurt, too. It's for your own safety."

I'd planned on saying something along the lines of, I'd be delighted to stay away, but instead two very different words popped out of my mouth. "I can't."

Her eyes widened briefly, maybe at the shock of being defied. "Why not?" she demanded.

Should I tell her about Sebastian asking for my help? Or Alec? Had her brother told her that he'd talked to me? Somehow, I doubted it. It didn't seem like something that Isabelle would take kindly to. And I didn't see why I had to go spreading my affiliation with Sebastian around. Odds were, he didn't want anyone to know that he'd asked me to help him. It would probably be best to leave the two of them out of my answer.

"Remember when I told you the police suspect me of being the culprit?" I said. "I need to get Jace to remember something about that night to get me off the hook."

"As if we haven't already tried to get him to remember everything," Isabelle scoffed. "You aren't going to get anywhere."

I'd heard this, and thought it myself, enough times that I didn't have to hear it from her, too. "I have to get back to work." I turned away from her and headed toward the back door. "Nice having this…chat with you."

"Don't get too twisted up in this mess, Clary," Isabelle called after me. "You could both put each other in a lot of danger." I wasn't sure, but I thought I heard genuine worry in her voice.

I slipped back into the diner without another word.

When I got back to the dining area, I felt Simon staring at me. I didn't look at him as I grabbed an order from Chef Timothy's window, ignoring his scary glare, and headed toward one of the tables.

"Hold on," Simon protested, stopping me with a hand on my shoulder as I tried to walk past. "You're not even going to say anything?"

"About what?" I said innocently.

"About what, she says," he muttered. "About Isabelle Lightwood dragging you out into the alley to talk to you?" His brow furrowed. "Seems like that whole family is getting pretty chummy with you lately."

"It's all Jace talk," I said, keeping my tone as light as I could. "Trying to figure out what happened and all."

"I don't understand why everyone thinks you know all the details," he said, shaking his head. "It's not like you were there when he was stabbed. You just found him, right?"

I shrugged. "I'm their only other clue, since Jace doesn't remember anything. Can't blame them for trying."

Simon continued to frown as I made my way over to one of the tables. I wasn't going to tell him about what had just transpired between Isabelle and me; it had been private, something shared between two girls that I didn't think Simon would understand. It wouldn't kill him if I kept this one conversation from him.

After work, my mom finally cornered me.

She waited until we were home. As usual, we took the taxi ride in silence. I could sense something on the horizon, and as we let ourselves into the apartment, I was already resigned to a good long lecture.

My mom stood near the front door as I took my coat off and hung it in the closet, placing my shoes neatly beneath it. I avoided looking at her as I headed toward our tiny kitchen to get a glass of water.

"Clary," my mom said quietly. "We need to talk."

I sighed softly to myself. "Yeah, I guess we do."

"Why did you hit that girl?"

It seemed like so long ago. I half wished my mom would have a reaction like Magnus Bane's, and applaud me for my boldness. But that was never going to happen.

"I told you," I said. "At the police station. She said terrible things, Mom. And I just snapped. I'm sorry."

I fully expected her to lose her calm face and go into explosive mode, start ranting about how dangerous and reckless it had been to punch someone within feet of police officers. And for once, I would duck my head and take everything she had to say without speaking a word of argument, because it was completely true. It was definitely one of the stupidest moments of my life. Maybe the cops were right—maybe I was prone to reckless anger.

Instead of screaming, though, my mom drew in a long, weary breath, shutting her eyes as if the sight of me pained her. "Don't apologize," she said, her quiet voice startling me more than a yell would have. "I'm the one that's sorry, Clary. This wouldn't have happened if I had been more open with you."

My hands automatically curled into fists, my fingernails biting into my palms. "What are you talking about?" Of course I knew. But I had to hear it from her. I didn't want to, but I had to.

"We should sit down." She gestured to the couch and gave me an almost pleading look.

"I think I'll stand," I said, even though my aching legs begged me to relieve them for a while. I felt too restless to sit down; I wanted to feel in control of the situation, which was quickly veering into places I wasn't experienced with.

My mom nodded, and I saw her shoulders rise and fall as she took another breath. "You said the girl at the diner taunted you about your father," she said softly, her eyes never leaving mine.

"Yes." My throat felt tight.

"I should have told you before. I didn't want you to…" She trailed off and ran her hands through her long hair, looking flustered.

"Tell me what?" My voice was deceptively even.

"Just before you were born," she said, "there was an accident."

"An accident," I repeated. Was she going to tell me that my father had died? Maybe that would be preferable.

"He was under a lot of strain," she said, choosing her words carefully. "Your father, I mean. His boss was threatening to fire him, and he had a new family to provide for. You came earlier than we planned," she admitted. "We weren't…" A blush colored her cheeks. "We weren't technically married when we found out about you."

I stared at her, astonished. My parents hadn't even been married when they had me? Why was I just finding out about this now? Then again, there was a lot about my family that I didn't know.

My mom continued before I could remember how to speak. "He promised he would marry me. He needed to raise enough money—he was going to buy us a house. He wanted to give you everything in the world." Her eyes were faraway now, and I wasn't sure she was still aware that I was there. "He stretched himself too far," she said softly. "He worked a job in the day, and another at night. Even before all of that, he wasn't always quite right in the head. He had medication that helped him think more clearly, and brought him to normalcy. But there were times when he wouldn't take the medicine, or his prescription would run out…

"One night," her voice dropped lower, raw with suppressed pain, and I almost couldn't bear to listen to the rest. "He stumbled home in the middle of his shift. We were living in a tiny apartment then, and he hated it. He hated that we weren't living in a big house like he'd always wanted. He wasn't supposed to be home yet. I came out of the bedroom to see what was wrong. He was drunk, and had just been fired from his night job. I knew right away that he hadn't taken his medication. Either his prescription had run out, or he'd skipped it on accident, or on purpose...

"He wasn't thinking clearly. He grabbed me and shook me; he said a lot of things, though I didn't understand most of it, except for the last part." I thought I saw a shiver run through her. "He drew me close, and he whispered right in my ear: 'They broke me, Jocelyn'." She wrapped her arms around herself, staring past me into space. "I'm still not sure what he meant by 'they.' He once admitted to me that he heard voices sometimes, though I've never known whether he said it as a joke, or whether it was true."

I wanted to step forward and comfort her, but I couldn't move. I was frozen, listening to every word that she said.

"He pushed me away, took something from our bedroom, and left," she said softly. "When he was gone, I ran into the bedroom to see what he'd taken. I found a shoebox lying open on the floor—the one where he kept his pistol in case of emergencies." I flinched, but if my mom noticed, she didn't show it. "The next day, I found out that he had shot seven people, killing three of them. He was put on trial, and I saw pictures of him on the news, in the paper. His face was always impassive, as if he couldn't care less what happened to him.

"The trial went on for months. He was urged by his attorney to plead insanity; it was clear, to me, at least, that he had not been in his right mind when he'd done it. He decided to forego the defense, for reasons I'll never understand. And then you were born, and he was offered the opportunity to have us visit, so that he could meet you." She paused, her throat convulsing as she swallowed hard.

"Let me guess," I whispered. "He didn't want to meet me."

My mom closed her eyes for a few moments before slowly opening them again. "He was found guilty, and received a life sentence in prison. I never saw him again."

Shakily, I lowered myself down onto the couch, putting my face in my hands.

"I'm so sorry, Clary," my mom whispered, her voice trembling with tears. "I didn't think you could handle hearing that before. But now I know you're strong enough. I'm sorry that it happened, and that he couldn't stick around to be here for you—"

"He didn't even want to see me," I said quietly, staring at the floor. "He went to all that work, trying to make a life for us, and he didn't even want to meet his own daughter."

"I think he was ashamed," my mom said, sounding desperate to reassure me. "He didn't want you to know your father as a murderer, a prisoner. He was so ashamed of himself, Clary."

Slowly, the shocked, numb feeling inside of me started to melt away, and to my mild surprise, quivering rage took its place. Not at my mom, but at my father, the man I'd never met and probably never would, who had done something horrible to people he probably hadn't known. He had taken the lives of three people, people who'd had families and friends and jobs, who were gone now, taken long before they should have been, because of my father.

He had my mom. He had me. Wasn't that enough for him? Couldn't he have fought for us? Didn't he want the life he'd been working toward for so long?

No. I guess not.

Just as suddenly as it came, the fury drained away. I stood, my knees feeling as if they were made of liquid, and said in a monotone, "I'm going to bed."

"Clary." My mom reached for me, but I cringed away. "Please." The pain in her eyes was too much to look at.

"I just need to be alone," I said, backing away until I reached the hall. Then I turned and made a break for my room. I closed the door and locked it, leaning against it and trying to take deep, calming breaths.

But I couldn't calm down. All I could think of was my mom's face when she talked about my father, the image of the empty shoebox that had once held a gun lying in her bedroom, her horror and grief when she realized she would be raising a baby alone, and she wouldn't see her child's father again.

My feeble composure cracked, and tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. I slid down the door until I sat against it, pulling my knees against my chest. My tears made dark little dots on my jeans, and my shoulders shook with the force of my soundless sobs.

Ruh-roh! Valentine is, as always, eeevil! But next chapter stars Clary and Jace...

Did anyone else get Clockwork Princess? I'm reading it right now, and I'm freaking out, man!

Thanks so much for reading and reviewing!