Kill Switch

by Penelope Douglas

  There is a reason why all things are as they are.

  I laid on my bed, hearing the trucks and workers still moving about outside, and closed my eyes, feeling my body relax but not my mind.

  The pull of him was everywhere. I remembered so well the feel of teasing each other, laughing through a kiss, the heat of his arms around me, and the way his body craved mine. The way he wanted and the way I’ve always ached for his roughness and danger, his whispers and him.

  The way I always saw Damon Torrance’s raven eyes in my head, even before I knew my ghost was Damon Torrance.

  “Come on,” he says, pulling me through the maze. “You’ll like it.”

  “What is it?”

  I breathed hard, stumbling to keep up as he races through the other side of the maze and beyond the hedges.

  He wants to show me something, but I really just want to stay in the fountain. It’s fun in there—so secret.

  But he’s so happy now, and I’m kind of curious.

  I can’t stop smiling. My belly has flutters in it.

  We run deep into the backyard, our clothes wet and cold as we near the forest line, and I see it right away. I shoot my eyes up, taking in the long trail of wooden boards nailed to the tree trunk, and at the top sits a treehouse disguised above a line of branches and leaves.

  Sort of.

  It doesn’t look completed, but there’s a really big floor and a railing around the outside. It sits between a split in the tree, two trunks locking it in and surrounded by green. You aren’t just in a treehouse. You’re in the tree.

  I let go of his hand. “Wow. You’re so lucky.”

  He stands next to me, looking up at it. “You like it?”

  I nod, not taking my eyes off it.

  I wonder if he did it himself or if someone helped. It didn’t look all fancy like some others I’ve seen, and his dad doesn’t seem like the type to build treehouses, either.

  “You go up first,” he tells me. “In case you slip, I’ll be behind you.”

  I dart my eyes over to him, his dark ones looking at me under black eyelashes. A somersault hits my stomach, and I turn away.

  Why am I nervous all of a sudden? Am I scared? It’s a tall tree, isn’t it?

  “I think my parents might get mad,” I tell him. I’ve never been that high before.

  His face falls a little, and after a moment, he just nods, looking disappointed. “Okay.”

  I feel bad. I want to go up. I want to do things with him. He’s so fun. He’s not calling me ‘chicken’ or getting mad at me or anything.

  I like him.

  “You won’t let me fall?” I ask, making sure.

  He looks down at me, smiling and excited again. He takes my hand and we run for the ladder, him letting me step up first, the boards still looking new and nailed in tight. My heart starts to pound, because if I slip or lose my grip, I’ll fall.

  But I feel him right behind me, and I swallow the lump in my throat and start to climb.

  One step after the other, one at a time, I scale the tree, refusing to look down and keeping my eyes above me on the door in the floor of the treehouse that I can spot through the leaves.

  My tutu brushes against the trunk, the netting getting stuck on the bark, and I tighten my hands on each board as I pull it off and keep going.

  A breeze blows across my legs, chilling my wet clothes even more, and before I can stop myself, I glance down, seeing how high we are. I gasp and wrap my arms around the board in front of me.

  “I’m scared,” I tell him. “It’s high.”

  He climbs up behind me, setting his feet outside of mine and his hands on the boards around me.

  “It’s okay. I have you,” he says. “I promise.”

  I squeeze my fists one time and then start to pull away from the tree a little. I look over my shoulder, meeting his eyes, and he’s right there, staring at me, almost nose to nose.

  Something fills my chest, and he’s so close, it makes me feel so weird. Like something is pulling me.

  I can’t look away, and he holds my eyes, too, and it’s like I can’t stop it. The pull.

  His lips touch mine, and I feel like I’m on a roller coaster.

  It makes me stop breathing as tickles hit me everywhere, and then I pull away.

  I clutch the board tighter, heat rising to my face. “Why did you do that?”

  “I didn’t do it. You did it,” he charges.

  “I did not.”

  God, I’m so embarrassed.

  I glance back at him, trying to see if he’s mad, but he looks just as embarrassed as me.

  I didn’t kiss him, did I? It was him.

  Or both of us. Ughhhh…

  He nudges me. “Hurry. Come on.”

  And although I’m still mortified, I breathe easier knowing he still wants to go up in the tree.

  Cool. Let’s just forget about it then.

  I climb to the top and stop, waiting for him to catch up behind me and push open the door. He does, and it flies up and tips over, hitting the floor.

  I smile, relieved. I scurry the rest of the way and crawl up onto the floor of the treehouse, pulling myself to a standing position.

  I rise, the wind blowing against me and the leaves of the tree rustling all around.

  “Whoa,” I breathe out.

  It’s like another world.

  I turn in a circle, the space kind of an odd-shaped circle but so big, and I can see out over some of the trees, finding the clock tower in town and the roofs of some of the estates in the area.

  I point, smiling. “I see the ocean!”

  Through the branches, out beyond the forest, lays the silver water spanning all the way to the horizon, and I tip my head back, looking up into the clutter of leaves over our heads and the branches within reach in case we want to climb farther.

  He’s so lucky. This is the best. I wish I had this at my house. I’d never leave.

  He lets me take it all in as he puts his hands in his pockets and walks around me. I scan the treehouse floor, seeing a lantern, a sleeping bag, some drawings, and empty chip bags, and soda cans.

  I look at him. “Why do you hide in the fountain when you have this place?”

  “Because they know about this place.”

  He’s quick to answer, so he must know from experience. How often does he hide? Is he always alone when he does? He shouldn’t always be alone.

  I walk to the railing facing Damon’s house and see some of the party going on, but I’m too far away to recognize anyone or hear any of the music.

  He comes up to my side. “Why are you named Winter?”

  “It’s a poem by Walter de la Mare,” I tell him, still taking in the vast scenery as I recite part of it. “‘Thick draws the dark, And spark by spark, The frost-fires kindle, and soon, Over that sea of frozen foam, Floats the white moon.’”

  I have the whole thing memorized, but he’s probably not interested in hearing it. Any of my classmates who ask aren’t interested, either.

  “It describes winter,” I explain. “My mom said the poem made a cold and bitter season seem pretty. She said the beauty in life is what we live for, and it’s everywhere. You just have to look closer.”

  He just stares out beyond the railing, looking thoughtful.

  “I’m not sure why she named me that, but I like it,” I add.

  He sits down, dangling his legs over the sides, and props his arms up over the wooden board nailed across to keep people from falling, and I hesitate for about three seconds before I join. I plant myself down next to him, hang my legs over the side and laugh at the butterflies taking off in my stomach.

  I peer over the side, my head feeling a little dizzy, so I draw back.

  We sit there, quiet, and observing the view, but I notice my head ache and start to rub at my hair.

  “It hurts,” I say out loud, shifting my bun. “My scalp…”

  It always happens when my hair is in a tight style all day. It feels so good to l
et it out.

  I pull out a barrette—the only other one in my hair that I didn’t leave in the fountain—and start pulling out the pins in my bun.

  “Can you help me?” I ask. “Make sure they’re all out?”

  He reaches behind and feels my hair, pulling out a few more pins, and then he helps me unwrap the twist, my hair coming down. I slide my hands underneath it, rubbing my scalp and sighing, because it feels so good.

  I look over at him, and he’s just looking at me, his eyes moving over my face.

  My skin under my costume starts to get too warm.

  He turns away and lets out a breath as he stares ahead. “I might kiss you again when we’re older,” he says. “Just so you know.”

  My mouth falls open a little, and I want to make some sound in disgust, just in case he’s kidding or teasing me, but…

  Is he telling the truth?

  I fold my lips between my teeth to keep from smiling. I don’t know why I want to smile, but I can’t help it.

  He puts his hand down next to mine on the floor of the treehouse, and my heart beats so loud.

  Is he gonna hold it?

  “Winter!”

  A shout pierces the air, and I jump.

  Searching the ground, I see my father and mother storm up toward the treehouse, their gazes fixed on us.

  “Why would you run off without telling your mom where you were going?” he barks.

  “Dad,” I breathe out, suddenly scared I did something wrong.

  Why is he here? He wasn’t here earlier. He looks upset.

  “Come down, honey,” my mom calls, smoothing her clothes. “It’s time to leave.”

  “You shut up,” Dad says. “She and Arion are not to come here again. You’ll be lucky if I don’t sue you for custody.”

  Custody? Why is he mad at her?

  “What’s going on?” I look up at Damon.

  Did we do something wrong?

  He shakes his head, scooting back and pulling me with him. “I don’t know.”

  We move out of sight and stand up, feeling the floor vibrate under us like someone is coming up the ladder.

  He’s rigid next to me, but he looks just as confused. I should’ve told my mom where I was going, but she was with Mr. Torrance, and it just happened.

  Is that why he’s mad?

  My father comes up through the door in the floor, his lips tight, and his suit wrinkled.

  He stands up, scowling at us both.

  “Get away from her,” he orders Damon.

  Damon and I exchange looks, both of us scared.

  My father charges over, and Damon steps in front of me.

  “Did he hurt you?” my dad asks.

  But Damon just shakes his head. “I didn’t.”

  It sounds like a plea. Why is my father so worried?

  “Move.” He pushes Damon out of the way.

  My dad grabs my hand and pulls me. I stumble, letting out a cry.

  “You don’t speak to him, and you are never allowed back at this house,” he growls. “If Mom brings you, you tell me. Do you understand?”

  “But I want her to come back,” Damon says. “Please.”

  “What did we do?” I ask my dad.

  He just ignores me, flexing his jaw and squeezing my hand as he yanks me toward the door.

  I look back at Damon but stumble when Dad nudges me toward the hole in the floor. I spin back around, looking down to the ground far below and shake my head. My knees shake, and I feel like I’m going to pee my pants.

  “I’m scared,” I start to cry.

  I can’t see the steps going down like I could coming up.

  “Now!” he snaps.

  I jump.

  Shaking and tears streaming, I crouch down by the hole, knowing I’m going to slip. My foot will slip. I know it. I won’t be able to see the steps underneath me.

  But Damon rushes over and takes my hand, pulling me away from the hole and putting himself in front of me again.

  “Leave her alone!” he fights. “I’ll help her! I’ll do it!”

  My father charges for him, Damon steps back, digging into my foot, and I cry out.

  “Just get out of here!” Damon yells. “I’ll bring her down!”

  He backs up more, scared, and I’m stumbling, step after step, and we’re falling back, and I can’t catch myself.

  “You little shit…” my dad growls.

  “Just leave her alone!” Damon cries out.

  I look back, see us heading straight for the railing, and he’s not paying attention.

  “Damon!” I beg.

  He falls into me, our weight snapping the small wooden beam, and I fall backward, crying out and grappling for anything.

  “Ah, oh, my God!” I hear my mother scream from below.

  I catch the edge of the floor, losing my grip and spilling over, but a hand catches me, and I suck in air, bile rising up my throat as my legs dangle.

  I look up, tears filling my eyes as Damon lies on his stomach, struggling to keep hold of me, but I feel so heavy, like I’m being pulled down. My father comes down and grabs for me, but Damon and I can’t hold, and I flail, slipping out of his fingers. His eyes meet mine, time freezes for a split second as we stare at each other, knowing I’m gone.

  I slip, scream, and fall, his face the last thing I see before I see nothing at all.

  I blinked my eyes awake, sweat coating my brow as warmth spilled through my bedroom window. The memory—the panic—still raced through my body as if I went over that treehouse edge yesterday.

  That was the first time I recalled so many details my eight-year-old mind had buried away. He was so different. Rika was right.

  I sat up in bed, wiping my eyes but still tired.

  Tired of worry and hate and anger.

  But also tired of feeling like I always lost.

  That was my dilemma with Damon. That accident wasn’t his fault. I knew now that my father wasn’t upset with me or Damon that day. He’d discovered my mother and Mr. Torrance together and lost his temper.

  Everything got out of hand, and Damon got scared. We were just kids. He didn’t mean to push me over. I knew that now.

  But still…

  I just never seemed to come out of anything with him unscathed, did I? In body or in mind.

  Rising from the bed, I left my room, the house still silent as I walked down the stairs and into the ballroom. I fell asleep so early I missed dinner last night, and I needed some coffee, but I needed to stretch. I started my playlist and walked over to the wall, moving the curtain aside and lifting the first window to breathe in some fresh air.

  But as I did, I stopped, hearing the rush of water outside.

  A lot of water, and not like rain.

  I thought he got rid of the fountain.

  I couldn’t hear the workers anymore—no trucks or machinery. Did they bust a pipe or something? What was that sound?

  Leaving the ballroom, I walked toward the front door, punching in the code Crane had given me and disarming the house.

  I opened the door, the sound of water filling the air as I stepped outside.

  Inching across the driveway in my bare feet, I held out my hands and went slow, careful for any equipment or cars.

  But as I walked, I felt the draft and spray of what felt like waterfalls, and then suddenly, the pavement changed to something else under my toes, and I stopped. Dipping my foot out a little more, I felt water spill onto my feet and a granite floor underneath—no bowl or pool where the fountain was collecting. Simply a massive slab of ground. Maybe with drains?

  I stepped in, my heart pounding as I held out my fingers, grazing the towers of water around me.

  My mouth went dry, trying to puzzle this together. What was this?

  I stepped on a spout, the water spraying everywhere and splashing me, and I sucked in a breath, getting a little wet.

  But I kept going, tracing the spouts with my toes as I walked and finding a path. I kept my arms out at my
sides, my fingers tracing the water and where it created walls and turns, coming to dead ends and veering around corners. The water shot up well above my head, and as I rounded the paths, finding little alcoves and hiding places, my sleep shorts and top stuck to my body and my hair grew cold and wet down my back.

  I closed my eyes, my throat swelling as I mapped the water, gauging the huge circle and all the spouts inside creating this intricate wonderland of nooks and avenues, and I…

  Oh, my God.

  Tears pooled, realizing. He hadn’t taken away the fountain. He’d replaced it.

  My eyes stung.

  It was a fountain maze.

  I stood there in the center, towers of water shooting up and spilling around me as the tears started to fall. Hiding me in a world within a world.

  Just like his fountain growing up.

  Just like the treehouse.

  Damon, what did you do?

  My head fell back, and everything crumbled. My heart, my head, my hate, and my grudge, and I just wanted to see him. To feel him and put his forehead to mine and feel him breathe. To have him pick me up and hold me in here, where the water and the walls were high enough to hide us.

  I loved him. I still loved him.

  Goddamn him.

  I cried, the music inside the ballroom drifting out through the window, and I ran my hand through my hair, everything inside just wanting out. I was tired of stopping myself. Of spending more time resenting than getting on with it.

  I wanted to fight and scream and laugh and smile and kiss and taste and wrap my arms around him more than I could stomach never feeling him again.

  I closed my eyes, starting to spin as Lana Del Rey’s “Dark Paradise” drifted out of the ballroom through the open window, and I swept my leg, arched my back, and shot up on the ball of my foot, dancing and twirling as the music filled me up and took me over. My arms sliced through the water, splashing and whipping the spray, and I danced and danced and danced, running my hand over my stomach, my drenched hair flying around me and sticking to my face and body.

  To dive and fall.