by Amy Murray
“You see him, don’t you. James?”
My chest shook with unshed tears. “Mostly.”
“Have you seen anyone else?”
I sat silent for a long moment.
“Colin,” I said as I faced him. Mack’s head lifted, and his eyes narrowed. “But I didn’t see his face. It was too dark.”
Mack took a deep breath, scrubbed his hand through his red hair, and squeezed his eyes closed. “Anyone else?”
“Thomas.”
Mack stilled. “You saw Thomas Bellingham?” He flipped through the folder in his hand and pulled out another picture. “This guy?”
I stared at the image of Tommy. His face was full and soft. He was dressed in a dark suit and tie, with a newsboy hat slung low over his forehead. I took a breath and looked at Mack. He was staring at me with questions in his eyes.
“Yes, why?”
“He was the last person known to have been in possession of the diamond before it disappeared. No one’s figured out how he was able to get a hold of the necklace, or even where he went with it. It’s like he disappeared in the wind and the necklace with him.”
“Thomas didn’t disappear.” I put my hand on his photo. “He was murdered.”
Mack circled the table with a restless walk. “Did you see it?”
I nodded. “He was shot right in front of me.”
“You’re sure it was Thomas?”
I looked down at his picture. “Positive.”
Mack pursed his lips, his thoughts somewhere else. “Do you know who shot him?”
“No, I only saw him from a distance.”
Mack finished gathering his things and tucked them under his arm.
“What am I supposed to do now?” I asked.
Mack stilled. “Let me worry about that. In the meantime, you should keep your distance from James.”
My spine pricked with irritation. “Why?”
“Because he’s a part of your drift, and he’ll act as a catalyst. You’ll be more likely to drift in his presence because of that.”
“I’ve drifted in your presence, too. Does that mean I should stay away from you?”
“I didn’t say you could only drift in his presence. Just that you’re more likely to.”
“You can’t make me stay away from him.”
“Listen, if you drift and relive your death, it’s over. I can’t stress that enough. You will not come back. Ever. And you two being together—” He paused, and after a prolonged second, he averted his eyes. “It’s only going to make it worse.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Of that, I am absolutely sure. I’ve seen it happen.”
Tension pulsed against me, and Mack’s words spread thickly through my thoughts.
“Look,” he said. “I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just trying to be honest so you understand the gravity of your situation. Drifting is dangerous. You saw what it did to your mother.”
“There have to be exceptions. You told me drifting is rare. How many deaths could you have seen?”
“I haven’t been in this job that long, but in that time, two out of the three people I’ve worked with who could drift have died.” He gave a sigh and shifted on his feet.
“My mother,” I said without thinking, and Mack nodded. “Who was the second?”
Mack pursed his lips until they turned white. “My partner, my mentor. He died last month.”
“I’m sorry,” I said automatically.
Mack lifted his shoulders and rubbed his neck with his hand. “He knew it was coming. He’d prepared me.”
I looked at Mack and felt the weight of his words. “What do you mean he knew it was coming?”
“There were signs. His drifts took him more regularly, and they became more violent, and when he would come back, his nose would bleed like he’d been punched.”
I thought of my mother, and the way her nose bled the very last day I spent with her. Had she known death was coming? Had she wanted to end her life on her own terms before her drift could take her?
“My partner had just died when I first suspected you were drifting, and I made a promise to do whatever it took to protect you from this. I don’t want to see your drift kill you, and if that means telling you the truth—that James will certainly make your situation worse—then so be it.”
I shook my head, wanting to deny everything Mack had said. “I can’t cut him out of my life. I won’t.”
Mack dropped his gaze and opened the front door. Just before he left, he turned back and said, “Be smart about this. Please.”
And with that he left, leaving me alone and confused.
Chapter Eight
I sat at the breakfast bar in our apartment with a forgotten glass of orange juice in my hand. I’d been in a daze since last night, unable to process Mack’s version of my reality. None of it seemed possible, not on any practical level, but at the same time, it made perfect sense. What else could explain what was happening to me—to James?
“Are you going to drink that or stare at it?” Gracie asked with a limp smile as she sat next to me with a cup of coffee.
“Sorry. I’m a little out of it.”
Gracie toyed with the handle on her mug. “That’s understandable. What did Mack say after I left?”
I’d spoken with Gracie less than a day ago, but so much had happened since then it felt like it’d been ages. I thought back over my conversation with Mack and realized there wasn’t a lot I could tell her.
Stalling, I stood and poured my juice into the sink. “The man he took into custody isn’t talking, so he didn’t have anything new to tell me. I think he just wanted to check in on me.” Not wanting to lie to her any more than I had to, I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. “I’m going to class.”
She glanced at the clock. “It’s seven in the morning.”
“I’ve got some studying I need to catch up on beforehand.”
She bit her thumbnail, a nervous habit she had when trying to find the most agreeable way to approach something sensitive. “You know I’ve always been able to tell when you’re hiding things from me, right?”
I smiled to put her off. “Yes, we both know you are my own personal lie detector.”
When she spoke, there was hurt in her voice. “You’re hiding something now. There’s more to what happened Saturday night than you’re letting on, and I’m worried.”
My smile faded, and I fell silent for several moments. “You’re right.” Her eyes lifted and hope sparked to life. “There is more, but I’m not ready to talk about it. I need time.”
As my words sank in, her wide eyes drooped. “You’ve never shut me out. Not when Robert Dunham dumped you senior year, not when you had a crush on your cognitive psych professor last semester—not even when your mom died. But ever since you met James, it’s like we don’t even know each other.”
I dropped my head and stared at my boots, stung by Gracie’s words. “I’m not shutting you out. Or at least, not for the reasons you think I am.” I looked up at Gracie and shrugged. “It’s just that I can’t explain to you what’s going on. Not right now.”
Gracie sagged against the door. “Are you in some kind of trouble with him? You can tell me.”
I stepped back and shook my head. “Please. If I can ask one thing of you, it’s to stop thinking the worst of him. None of this was his fault.”
“From where I’m standing, I can’t see it any other way. You changed when you met him.”
“What if the changes have nothing to do with him?” I asked. “What if it’s me? Have you thought about that?” She didn’t speak, and I grabbed the door handle, ready to leave.
“He was in jail for assault, Abby.” Her voice was soft and matter of fact. “Did you know? Has he told you?”
My hand dropped, and I watched the door swing closed. “What’re you talking about?” I asked as I turned to face her.
“Xander bailed him out over the summer. Told me he beat his father unconsci
ous. He said that if he hadn’t been there, it would’ve been worse. A lot worse. James could’ve killed him.”
My thoughts flashed to Saturday night, and James’s bloody fists came into sharp focus. I’d seen what he was capable of, but it wasn’t without reason. James had been protecting me. “If that’s true, there has to be an explanation. He wouldn’t do something like that without being provoked.”
“So, there’s an excuse for beating your father nearly to death? Are you listening to yourself? He’s twenty-two years old. He could’ve walked away. He could have done a hundred other things that didn’t involve putting the man in the hospital.”
“Maybe. But you don’t know him, not like I do. The James I know wouldn’t hurt someone without a reason. And he’d never hurt me. Never.”
Gracie’s lips pinched. “Then maybe it’s you I don’t know.”
“You have to trust me. James…you’re right, he has changed me. But not in the way you think,” I said, taking a step toward her as my heart wrenched in my chest, all but daring me to tell her the whole truth. “From the moment we met, there was something there. Something deep. Something that spoke to me outside of words. I can’t explain it, but you have to trust that I wouldn’t get involved with him if he wasn’t a good person.”
“A month ago, I would’ve agreed with you. But now? I can’t say the same.” She crossed her arms and sat into her hip.
“I know what I’m doing.”
“For your sake, I hope so, because I don’t want to see you hurt, or worse.”
“You won’t. You’ll just have to trust me for now.”
I could tell she didn’t agree, but she didn’t argue, and when I pulled the door open again, she let me walk through it without a word.
The art history classroom was dark and empty when I arrived, but that didn’t stop me from finding my seat and settling down. Pulling out my notes, I tried to review, but despite my efforts, I couldn’t focus. My mind was spiraling, unable to grasp one worry before another surfaced. I’d learned too much too soon, and I couldn’t process it. Everything Mack had explained, my father’s involvement, my conversation with Gracie, James’s arrest—how was I supposed to handle this and balance my classes?
The lights flicked on, and my gaze darted to the front of the room where James stood with his hand on the switch.
“There you are,” he said as he made his way toward my seat. “You haven’t answered your phone. Where’ve you been?” he asked as he took the seat next to mine. “After what happened Saturday night…” James ran a hand through his black hair before placing it over mine. “I’ve been out of my mind.”
I closed my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “That wasn’t my intention. Things have been—”
The noise in the hall grew, and the desks around us filled as students made their way inside. James waited patiently, but when I finally gained the courage to speak, Professor Stalt took his place at the podium.
“We’ll talk after class,” James said, letting go of my hand.
The next hour crawled by while we watched a slideshow on Italian art during the reign of the Medici family in Florence. I took detailed notes, but I was preoccupied and unable to focus. When the lights flipped on at the end of class, there was a collective groan, though mine had less to do with the bright light than my own angst over facing James.
Would he be angry if I asked him about his father? Should I tell him Mack warned me to stay away from him? What about everything I’d learned about Roselli?
By the time I stood, my stomach was so tied up in knots I wanted to vomit.
“Walk with me,” James said, and I followed him outside. The sky had turned a magnificent blue, and the air had warmed enough to be pleasant. “I know you have another class, but can you tell me what’s wrong before you have to go?”
I kicked an acorn across the pebbled walkway. “With everything that’s wrong, it’d be easier to tell you what was right.”
“Okay,” he said. “How about you start with the most recent thing. Why weren’t you answering your phone this morning?”
I sighed. “Gracie. She and I aren’t seeing eye to eye, and she’s concerned.” I slowed my walk to a stop and waited until James faced me. “About us.”
He was in the middle of a deep breath when his chest hitched and his eyes narrowed. “Why would she be concerned about us?”
I shrugged. “Xander told her some things about you.” I didn’t finish, letting him fill in the blanks.
He rubbed at the back of his neck. “So, that’s why you wouldn’t answer my calls.” His features hardened.
“Not entirely. I’ve been given a lot to think about. Mack, my father…” I clamped my mouth shut, knowing I was dancing around what I really wanted to ask. “Were you arrested for assault?”
He dropped his hands to his hips and gazed at the fountain bubbling to my left. “Is that what all this is about? Something your roommate heard from Xander?”
“Were you?”
He closed his mouth, and after a long pause, nodded his head.
I don’t know why I was shocked. Gracie didn’t gossip lightly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
His dark eyes were flat and emotionless. “I didn’t think it was relevant.”
“Not relevant? You beat your dad unconscious.”
A heartless laugh burst from his lips. “So that’s it? You hear a couple of rumors and condemn me without talking to me first?” He turned his back on me but didn’t walk away.
“Is what she said true?” I asked in a soft voice.
“It must be if Gracie told you.”
“Just answer me,” I said, moving to stand in front of him.
“Yes,” he admitted in a rush of a breath, his eyes hard as coal. “I hit him. I hit him over and over and over again.” We stared at each other, hearts beating louder than words. “He destroyed my family, and he took something—someone—that can’t be replaced.”
He was angry, his body hard and unyielding. Around us, people laughed as they made their way around campus, unaware of the standoff taking place between us. My gaze dropped to his chest. He reached out, and I flinched before his hands traveled up my arms and settled at the tops of my shoulders. His thumbs grazed my neck, and I stood still, unsure if I should pull away or lean into his embrace.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
To my right, another familiar voice called my name. “Abby?” Mack said cautiously.
James bent to better look me in the eyes, ignoring Mack’s approach. “You know me,” he said.
“Let her go, James,” Mack said as he pushed him back. James shrugged Mack’s hand away, but didn’t acknowledge him beyond that.
“What’re you doing here, Mack?” I asked, somewhat confused as to why he was on campus.
“Gracie came by this morning asking questions. We need to talk.” He glanced at James’s hand resting at my neck.
I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, my chest collapsed and my vision clouded. The drift came hard and fast, whisking me away to another time and place.
“Who are you?” I faced the stranger sitting on my sofa. He removed his hat and balanced it on his knee, then he pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket and lit the end. I wanted to protest, but something about his demeanor told me I shouldn’t.
“The question isn’t who I am but rather who, my dear girl, are you?”
A fat shiver ran up my spine. His voice was one I’d never forget. It was burned inside my thoughts like every other memory from that night. The end of his cigar flared red with his long inhale. Blowing a thick cloud of grey smoke, he clamped his cigar between his teeth and smiled.
“How did you get inside my house?”
He smiled again. The sagging skin under his eyes puffed out, making him look momentarily younger. “Your neighbor, a Ms. Hamilton, I believe.” He held up a small silver key. The one I’d given her for emergencies.
“Please, tell me you didn’t hurt her.”
He actually laughed. “Hurt her? No, no, no. Why on earth would I do that? She believed me just fine when I told her I was visiting from out of town and misplaced my key.” He pocketed the little key and tapped his breast pocket. “She simply let me borrow the one you gave her.”
I glanced back at the door and gauged my chances for escape.
“There’s nowhere to go, love, and I’ve been looking for you too long to say good-bye so soon.”
The man tapped a brown paper sack at his side, and the crinkle cut through the quiet of my living room.
“I have a gift for you.” He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. “Come, please, I want to watch you open it.”
Even without knowing what was in that bag, I knew how this night was going to end. A part of me was glad. Glad it was finally over. I was tired of hiding, tired of running, tired of lying about who I was. But most of all, I was tired of living in a world where James didn’t exist.
The man shook his hand, and the paper rattled like a summons. I urged my feet forward, and pulled the package free, but fear kept my hands from doing anything more.
“Go ahead, open it.” His smile was sincere, excited, and ominous.
Unrolling the edge, I imagined all kinds of horrible things inside. I swallowed, and my stomach tightened in preparation.
“Come on, now. I’m sure you can’t wait,” he urged.
I reached inside and pulled out a single shoe. It was black with a two-inch heel. Three rows of crystals would have crisscrossed the instep, but the button on the strap was missing and the crystals dangled from one side.
“Like Cinderella who lost her shoe, my dear girl. Don’t you see? I’m your Prince Charming.” He laughed, big and with bravado, and my heart sank. I’d lost this shoe the night James was murdered, and while I hadn’t looked at it in years, I knew its blood-soaked mate was hidden in the back of my wardrobe. I closed my eyes and relived those last moments—our rough embrace, our final, desperate kiss—before my life ended when James was murdered.