Drift

by Amy Murray

  He opened and closed his mouth before running a hand through his hair. “This girl…” He pointed to the painting. “I’ve drawn her for over a year now.”

  He looked confused, like the words were difficult to express. James shoved at the sleeves of his sweater. The scars that branded his hands wove up and around his forearms. Places on his wrists and the underside of one arm were discolored and uneven, even though the skin had healed.

  He turned toward the portrait. “When I first saw you—that night at the bar—it was like seeing a ghost.” Tension billowed between us. “I never thought there was a chance you could exist.”

  “And now that you know?” My heart thundered in my chest, beating so loud I was sure James would hear.

  His hand lifted and hesitated before he brushed the hair from my shoulder to expose the skin at my neck. “I’m still figuring that out.”

  He studied my face in a way that made me self-conscious. His dark eyes roved over every feature, every plane, every bit of skin, with an intensity that laid me bare. Vulnerable.

  I stepped away to shift his focus, unable to hold up under his scrutiny. Two other portraits I hadn’t seen hung to the right of the first. Both were of me, but they were different. Softer. Less frightening. I stepped closer to the last and pointed to the necklace that I wore. The pear-shaped stone was yellow and hung just below my collarbone. A swirl of white diamonds encrusted the top most portion of the jewel before they branched off and attached to a delicate chain.

  “What made you paint this?”

  James stepped next to me, our shoulders close enough I could feel his warmth.

  “I don’t know. It seemed important at the time.”

  So, there we stood, staring at the portraits, neither looking at the other. His fingertips brushed mine—an accident I was sure, but that didn’t stop my body from responding. I tensed and tried to still my quaking limbs, but when his hand touched mine again, I reached for him. A second later, our fingers threaded together, and a shiver shot through me.

  I closed my eyes, hoping to calm my wild heart, but instead, I saw an image of James’s body, lifeless on the concrete. I heard a scream, my scream, echo under a black sky, and I saw my hands soaked in blood. I pulled away and stepped back to put distance between us.

  “It’s happening again, isn’t it?” James looked at me with apprehension. He couldn’t know what it was, but he knew enough.

  Everything I thought I understood, everything I thought I knew, was fading. This thing that was wrong with me, this sickness I’d inherited—it didn’t make sense anymore. The undeniable attraction that pulled us together, my visions, his paintings…what if it was something different altogether?

  When time bends, and you’re everywhere at once, you’ll understand where I am and where I’ve gone. My mother’s words, which I’d disregarded at the time, came back to me with sudden clarity. Is this what she had meant?

  “What do you see when you close your eyes?” James’s voice distracted me from my thoughts.

  I shook my head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  He glanced at his paintings before the barest hint of a smile tilted the corner of his mouth. “Try me.”

  The door jingled, and a couple walked inside. Their excited conversation and loud smiles made the gallery feel small. “Can we get out of here? Go for a walk or something?” I asked him. He glanced at the couple, now headed in our direction, and nodded without question.

  The air outside was damp, and the cold was biting. The tall oaks that bordered the street created a canopy of leaves that blocked the night sky and sheltered us from sound. The few shops that lined the street were void of activity, their lights out and their parking lots empty.

  I chewed at my bottom lip and worried over what to say, but James, walking with slow, measured steps, didn’t seem worried at all. A brisk wind blew, and leaves, brown and dry, scraped across the concrete.

  “When I was twelve,” I began, “I could’ve sworn there was a ghost that lived in my room. I felt it against the wall, to the left of my dresser. I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was there.”

  James didn’t respond. He just bowed his head and waited for me to continue.

  “One night, my friend Sissy was over. I didn’t do that often. I had family problems that kept people away, but Sissy didn’t seem to mind. We were up late one night telling scary stories when I decided to tell her mine. I told her about that spot in my room. I told her that no matter how bad things got at home, I could sit there, and everything felt better.” I shook my head at the memory. “She called me crazy. I hated it when people called me crazy.” James still didn’t respond. He didn’t even so much as look in my direction. “I tried to convince her I wasn’t, so I went into more detail. I told her I thought the ghost was a boy—that he was there to help me.”

  I blew a breath through my lips and pushed my hands farther into my coat. “The next day at school, it was everywhere. She’d told everyone I was insane. That I was just like my mother.”

  He stopped walking and faced me. “Are you?”

  I bit hard at my cheek and tasted blood. “Crazy, or like my mother?” James didn’t answer. “If you’d asked this afternoon, the answer would’ve been yes. To both.”

  “And if I asked you now?”

  I shrugged, and my body splintered in several directions at once. “I’m not sure.” I twisted my fingers until my knuckles ached. “The thing is, if I told you what I saw when I closed my eyes, I know what you’d think. Hearing it from Sissy was one thing, but you—”

  James’s hands ran up my arms and gripped my shoulders, and in the space of a breath, we were within an inch of each other. His forehead dropped against mine, and he squeezed his eyes closed.

  “If you only knew”—his head dropped until we were cheek to cheek, his breath at my ear—“how long I’ve wished you were real. I’ve drawn hundreds of pictures of you—wishing, hoping.” He pulled away just enough to look in my eyes. “If you’re crazy, then I think you’re in good company.”

  I couldn’t help the way my hands, tentative at first, touched his stomach and slid up to his shoulders. My fingers grasped the hair at his neck, and his response was immediate. He bent so that his arms wrapped around my middle, and in one sweeping motion, he straightened and crushed my body to his. He leaned forward an inch at a time, and I closed my eyes waiting for what I knew would be a moment that forever altered my life.

  Chapter Five

  For a torturous second, his breath was a whisper against my lips. Everything inside me screamed, and just when I thought he was going to kiss me, he pulled away. His back grew stiff and his shoulders tightened.

  “James Kingsley?” A man’s voice startled me. He wasn’t much taller than me and had a wiry gait. “The woman inside told me you’d left.”

  “She was right.” James turned his back to the man and grasped my hand. Pulling me to his side, led me back in the direction of the gallery.

  “If I could just have a minute,” he said, his footsteps falling in sync with ours.

  “I don’t think so.” James’s stride lengthened. He kept his attention on the walk ahead, but his body was tense as if preparing for a fight.

  “Keep walking,” James said to me.

  “It’s just a few questions, and you can get on with your night,” the man said.

  James shook his head, and nervous, I glanced behind me to see that the man had slowed to a stop. When I thought he’d given up, another man stepped from the shadows ahead of us. He was larger than the first—thicker—and he didn’t move. It was the stillness that had alarm bells ringing.

  We paused, and fear pricked the skin at my neck. James’s gaze shifted between the man at our back and the one now approaching from the front.

  “What’s going on, James?” I asked, my voice betraying my fright.

  “We need to run.”

  He didn’t waste another second. With my hand in his firm grasp, he turned to the right
and ran. I wasn’t expecting the sudden movement and stumbled. James slowed long enough for me to catch my footing before he pulled me into a sprint across the street. I glanced back and wished I hadn’t. Both men were in pursuit.

  “They’re following us,” I breathed.

  “Come on,” he said and picked up his pace.

  We hooked a sharp left and ran down a side street. Taking another right, James ducked between two buildings.

  “Shit,” he breathed as we neared the end of the alleyway.

  We skidded to a stop, and James slammed his hands against the brick wall that blocked our exit. Blood pumped in my ears, and panic gripped my insides as the nightmare that was my vision became a startling reality.

  “This isn’t happening.” A strangled scream slithered inside my throat. “It’s not real. None of this is real.” My voice broke over the last as I frantically searched for another escape.

  James caught me to his chest and pressed his hand against my lips. “Shh. Listen, you have to promise me something.”

  His words were too familiar, and they caused a violent reaction. I shook my head until I pulled myself free from his grasp. Tears welled in my eyes, and I gasped. “I can’t do this again. I can’t watch this happen again.”

  “Abby, listen, there isn’t time.”

  A clatter of footsteps stole my attention. James was right, there wasn’t time. The two men rounded the corner and slowed to a stop. We were trapped.

  “If you tell us where it is, we’ll leave you alone.” The wiry man’s voice was calm, his breath hardly labored as he approached.

  James shook his head with confusion. “Tell you where what is?” he asked as he stood in front of me.

  The man pulled a folded paper from his pocket and threw it at James. It floated to the ground at our feet. Against a glossy backdrop were several portraits, one of which I recognized. It had been hanging in the gallery this evening.

  “You’re James Kingsley, yes?” The thick man asked. “And you painted that portrait?”

  James didn’t respond. He stood frozen, like he hadn’t heard the question.

  “Where’s the necklace?” The wiry man asked as he pointed to the fallen paper. “The one from the painting.”

  “The necklace?” James looked between the two men. “Are you serious?”

  “We want to know where it is, and we want you to tell us. Now.” The thick man’s breath was coming in exhausted gasps.

  “The necklace doesn’t exist. It’s a drawing. I made it up.”

  The two men looked at each other and nodded simultaneously. As if knowing what was coming, James grabbed me by the arms and threw me to the side. “Get out of here,” he yelled.

  I landed on my bottom with my back against the wall. I’d listened to James the last time, and as a result, I’d sat in a hole while he was murdered. I couldn’t—no, I wouldn’t—do it again.

  A thin hand grabbed me by the neck, and the smell of sweat and aggression assaulted my nose. As he pulled me to my feet, a scream tore at my throat and blood pooled in my cheeks. I twisted in his arms and slammed my heel onto his foot, but instead of loosening his grip, he doubled forward, folded me into his middle, and tightened his arms.

  With a fistful of my hair, the man pulled me upright in time to see James sidestep the thick man. He swung his fist wide and connected with the man’s jaw, but instead of letting him fall, James caught him by the head and forced the man’s face into the upward lift of his knee. Something crunched, and the man crumpled to the floor. James spared less than a second to make sure he didn’t get up again before he turned.

  “James!” I screamed. He ran toward me, his eyes wild, but the rage dimmed and burned out as he stuttered to a stop a second later.

  Slowly, his hands lifted, palms out in a gesture of surrender. From the corner of my eye, I saw the wiry man’s arm rise. In his hand, now stretched in front of me, was a gun, menacing and black, and in front of the barrel was James. I stared at his finger poised on the trigger, and an inevitable ending became clear. James was going to die, and this time, I had a front row seat.

  “Tell me, did you make her up, too?” The man pulled me tight against his body. He was breathing heavily through his nose, the sound too loud at my ear. I twisted my head away, hating the way his breath grated against my skin.

  “I don’t know what to tell you.” James’s voice was calm and quiet. “It’s not real. Now please, let her go.”

  The man turned his face into my neck and inhaled. I leaned away and swallowed the bile rising in my throat.

  “What’s your name, love?” he asked, his words hot against my ear.

  “Abigail,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “Abigail, Abigail—Abby.” His voice was strangely vacant of emotion. “Why don’t you tell me? Where’s the necklace?”

  James’s eyes were glued to the man at my back. He was moving ever so slightly from foot to foot, and his fingers twitched at his side. When I didn’t respond, the man tightened his grip in my hair and gave my head a shake.

  “I’ve never seen it before,” I whimpered.

  He released me so fast I staggered a step. I looked up in time to see his hand slice through the air. The man struck my cheek in an open-handed slap that left my skin feeling as if it had been peeled from my face. I screamed in response and blinked against the automatic tears that formed. James barreled forward and had the man on the ground a second later.

  “Go!” James yelled through gritted teeth.

  He straddled the man and rammed his elbow into his face. The air inside my lungs evaporated, and I stood in paralyzed horror. Anger like I’d never seen radiated from James in waves, releasing a violence that was both terrifying and beautiful.

  Movement to my right caught my attention. The thick man James had left crumpled in a forgotten heap lifted his head. His nose was crooked, the bone visible at the break. He stood, and from his side, he pulled a weapon and pointed it at me. I thought about running, but my feet were glued to the ground. At least it wasn’t James. I wouldn’t be able to watch him die. Not again.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to James. Our gazes locked, and the gun went off. My hands flew to my ears, but there was no pain. I turned to the gunman and watched in horror as he fell dead at my feet.

  A single bullet hole had pierced the back of his skull, and a gurgled gasp ripped from my lips. Standing behind the dead man was Mack. I looked to where James stood, his hands covered in blood, and back to Mack, whose gun was still in his hand. At that moment, I didn’t know who was more dangerous.

  My jaw trembled, then my hands, and within a blink my entire body was vibrating with a mix of a hundred emotions. James moved first, and I collapsed in his arms.

  “Just breathe,” he said as he lowered me to the ground. Tears came immediately, along with heaving, gasping breaths.

  “You’re okay now.” He crushed me to his chest, and I buried myself against him. My body was heavy and limp, and then I felt nothing at all.

  My heartbeat thumped in my ears. A crumpled heap lay ten feet in front of me. It was him, and I knew I shouldn’t hope, but I did. I needed to.

  I ran to his side, my footfalls uneven, and fell to my knees.

  “James?” I whispered. My voice sounded broken. “Can you hear me? Wake up. Please, wake up.”

  I reached for his shoulder, rolled him onto his back, and gasped at the sight. I pressed my hands to my mouth. His face was unrecognizable under deep blue and black bruises. An almost inaudible groan escaped his lips, and my heart flipped with relief.

  “Oh thank God,” I breathed. “I’m going to get help. Just hang on. Please, hang on.”

  “Abby?” His voice was weak.

  “Yes, I’m here.” I grabbed his hand and placed it in mine.

  “Listen to me,” he began. “You need to run and hide. If they find you—”

  “I’ll be fine—we’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

  “No.” He clenched his teeth and groaned. “
I put it in your handbag.”

  “What?” I grabbed my purse. “What did you put in here?”

  “Just promise you’ll hide.” His eyes, almost impossible to see under the swelling, were desperate. “Get out of town—tonight. Don’t let them find it.” He coughed, and small drops of blood burst from his lips and stained his chin red. Something was wrong.

  I let go of his hand and pulled the lapels of his dinner coat open. “No,” I cried. “No, no, no!”

  A stream of blood trickled from a bullet wound just over his heart. I pressed my hands against it to staunch the flow, but it was no use. Blood seeped between my fingers at a rate even I knew was fatal.

  “Don’t cry,” he said. “Please, don’t cry.”

  I nodded and clamped my lips together in an effort to keep my sobs silent. His lids grew heavier with every blink, and his breathing slowed.

  “I love you,” he said. His chest rose once, twice, and after the third, his eyes lost focus and turned vacant.

  I shook him. “James?” There wasn’t a response. “James!” A sob escaped, and I fell over him like I’d been punched in the stomach. My fingers grasped at his shirt, and I screamed.

  He couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t be gone.

  I said it over and over, thinking somehow that would make it true, but he didn’t move and he didn’t speak. He was gone. I stared at his face, and with shaking fingers, I touched his cheeks, his chin, his mouth, and then traced those same features with my lips. How could this have happened? Why had this happened?

  I grasped my metal-plated handbag with trembling fingers and lifted the clasp. Wrapping my hand around the only foreign object inside, I pulled it out and recognized the handkerchief immediately. It was white linen and a monogrammed B adorned the corner. I’d seen these handkerchiefs dozens of times; they were James’s favorite. I unfolded the lump of fabric while my breath hitched and heaved.

  In my hand was a necklace. I gripped it by the chain and held it out to better see what James had died to protect. It was a yellow stone, bigger than I could’ve imagined, in the shape of wide pear. The top was encrusted with white diamonds that feathered into a bottleneck shape where the delicate chain attached.