by Clara Kensie
Valerie looked over her shoulder. “He must have gone on his coffee break,” she said in the cutest Southern accent I’d ever heard. “I’ll go get him.” She disappeared into the back office.
I couldn’t wait for the manager. I could find Jillian and Logan’s room on my own. I lifted the fog and filtered through the visions until the one I needed came to me. I saw Jillian hand a few bucks to the stocky middle-aged man behind the desk—Lyle Berri, my visions told me—and he handed her a key dangling from a diamond-shaped tag. Printed on that tag was the closed-eyelid symbol. And underneath that: a number.
“Room 160,” I said.
Then I started running.
I ran from the lobby, back outside and down the corridor of white doors, vaguely aware of Tristan rushing after me. Room 101, 118, 124. Why did this motel have to be so big? 132, 146...160. There it was. At the end.
I raised my hand to knock on it at the same time Tristan skidded to a halt a few feet behind me. “Tessa.”
The door was open. Just an inch.
That wasn’t right. My family had always kept the doors locked, double-locked, when we were on the run.
I felt it then, through the fog. Fear. Jillian and Logan were scared. Something had frightened them. I could feel their fear, feel their panic, bleeding through the fog, seeping into me.
A vision showed them rushing out the door and down the corridor, then disappearing completely.
We had been so close. So close. My heart hurt, like someone had taken it in their fist and squeezed it dry.
“They’re gone, Tristan,” I said. “We were too late.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Let’s look inside their room,” Tristan said as he held me close against his chest. “Maybe you’ll see what made them run away again.”
Inhaling disappointment instead of oxygen, my muscles replaced by rocks, I pushed open the door to room 160 and went inside.
The television screen was shattered. The drawers in the cheap dresser were half-open. Something had happened to scare them, to startle them enough to shatter that TV and leave in a rush. But although they’d fled in a hurry, they’d made sure to leave nothing personal behind. The drawers: empty. The mattresses: sheetless. Except for a lamp that lay in pieces on the worn carpet, whatever they had touched—a menu, a map, perhaps a newspaper—they had taken with them to burn. “They’re doing everything our parents taught us,” I said. Our parents had taught us too well.
A groan came from the bathroom.
Jillian? Logan?
It couldn’t be them. But please, please...
Tristan and I darted to the bathroom. The door wouldn’t budge, so he shoulder-charged it. It splintered, and when he pushed it open, I was blinded by silver.
No. Just a plastic silver-plated name tag, reflecting the light from over the sink. Not a knife pivoting on its point. A name tag. But that name tag was attached to the green sweater-vest of a stocky man crumpled on the grimy floor. The man groaned again, blood trickling from a deep gash on his forehead, and reached for us with stubby fingers.
Tristan dropped to the man’s side. “Tessa,” he said, “call an ambulance.”
The silver name tag flashed again, catching the light, reflecting on the walls. It glittered and glimmered, sparkled and glowed.
“Tessa!” Tristan’s sharp voice made the silver light shatter and disappear. “Call 911.” He was applying pressure to the cut on the man’s head with a washcloth. I shook my head to clear it, and with shaky fingers, used my cell phone to call for help.
The man stirred, his name tag falling off as he struggled to sit up. Lyle Berri, General Manager, it read, and as I watched, it glimmered, just once, like a wink.
“Those two kids,” the man moaned. “The lamp flew off the table and hit me on the head. All by itself. Did they do that? Did they make that happen?”
“No, sir,” Tristan said soothingly. “You don’t remember that right. You tripped and hit your head.” Jillian and Logan attacked this man, he said to me silently.
“No,” I said aloud. “They would never—”
Then the fog lifted, and showed me that they did.
* * *
She asks Logan to go back to the lobby of this shabby Tennessee motel—it’s Tennessee, right? They’re in Tennessee?—to get some food from the vending machines. As soon as he leaves, she breaks down again. She’s been crying all week, ever since they went to Nebraska and Gavin’s mother told them he’d died of a brain aneurysm over two years ago, the night her family left town.
That college professor they’d contacted from Twelve Lakes had died of a brain aneurysm, too. There was no way that was a coincidence. Dennis Connelly had killed them both. It was obvious.
Gavin. Smart, shy, beautiful Gavin. No one else thought he was beautiful, but she did. Dennis Connelly had killed Gavin, sweet Gavin who wrote her poetry and quoted Chaucer and Shakespeare, simply because her family had escaped. Did he kill him out of vengeance? Or had he questioned him first, torturing him, hoping to get information about her family?
And then Gavin’s mom told them that someone had stopped by just a couple weeks ago, a very polite man in a black jacket, looking for them.
So now they knew: Dennis Connelly was still hunting them. Even though he’d already killed Mom and Dad and Tessa, he was still after them.
When Gavin’s mom told them that she was going to call the man in the black jacket as he’d instructed, they’d fled. They destroyed the rusty red pickup, bought a different car, and zigzagged around the country for days, stopping only for gas and food, until Logan saw the giant sign with closed eyelids on this motel in Tennessee. After ensuring the old motel had no security cameras, he’d insisted they get a room and sleep for a few hours before hitting the road again.
How can she sleep, when Gavin is dead, and Mom and Dad and Tessa are dead, and Dennis Connelly is still after them?
* * *
He rushes back to the room after making a run to the vending machine in the lobby, gripping a sheet of paper. “Jillian—”
“Don’t start,” she says with a sniffle. She’s on one of the beds, rotating the heart charm around the gold bracelet that Gavin had given her, and going through Tessa’s getaway bag again. “I told you, I’m not getting rid of these things. It’s all we have left of them.”
“We have to go. Now. Dennis Connelly knows we’re here.”
Her eyes grow large. At her silent command, the chain on the door slides itself into the lock. “How do you know?”
Shaking his head, he peeks out the window from behind the curtain. “The guy in the green vest at the registration desk. He was watching us.”
“But why do you think—”
The paper in his hand flicks itself over to her. “I saw this on the counter.”
She gasps. Two black and white photos, side by side: one of Jillian. One of Logan.
“Connelly must’ve known we would come here,” he says, “so he sent that Lyle guy to act as manager and wait for us. Same way he sent Tristan Walker to wait for us in Twelve Lakes. The same way he sent someone to Gavin’s house in Nebraska. Connelly’s probably on his way here right now.”
With a wave of his fingers, the washcloths fly out of the bathroom. They hadn’t been here long; they hadn’t touched much so there wasn’t much to burn. Just a map of the city and a few washcloths. He decides to take the bed linens and pillowcases as well. Can’t be too safe. They’ll burn everything later.
Jillian hoists both her and Tessa’s bags over her shoulder. He gives the room a quick glance. No sign that they’d ever been there. They open the door, and that man with the green sweater-vest is leaning against the wall outside their room, obviously watching it.
Every muscle in his body goes rigid. “Get out of the way,” he says. His fists
clench. He will fight this guy if he has to.
Jillian whimpers. The dresser drawers start trembling, the television screen shatters, the lamp vibrates. “Hey!” the man shouts, and when he charges inside, she squeals. The lamp flies off the table, slamming with full force into his head. The man groans and falls to his knees, then, clutching his head, collapses to the floor.
Jillian stares at him in horror, hands clamped over her mouth. “I didn’t mean—”
He puts his hands to his knees. Think. Think. The guy’s not dead, he’s still alive, struggling to get up. They need to stop him from following them. He drags the man into the bathroom and slams the door shut, using his PK to jam the doorknob so it won’t turn.
Then he and Jillian grab all the getaway bags and flee.
* * *
I chased Jillian and Logan’s visions as they ran from the motel room, down the aisle, and into the parking lot. Their images were fading, but I tore after them anyway, raising the fog higher and higher. What kind of car were they driving? Which direction did they go?
I raised the fog again. So many cars had driven through this lot; minivans and sedans and rumbly old delivery trucks. If I could just see the car my siblings hopped into. Please. Just a glimpse.
Something grabbed me, yanked me, and a siren blared, sending the fog back in with a whoosh.
I was standing in the middle of the parking lot of the Forty Winks motel, Tristan was gripping the collar of my jacket, and the only moving vehicle was a red and white ambulance. It pulled to a stop in front of room 160.
“You ran right in front of that ambulance,” Tristan shouted, frantic. “I was yelling for you to stop. Didn’t you hear me?”
“Logan saw their photos on the registration desk,” I blurted, the words tumbling over each other. “They panicked. That’s why they attacked the manager and ran. And they know Gavin’s dead. They already went to Nebraska. Gavin’s mom told them someone’s looking for them.”
Tristan stood shocked for a moment, then pulled me into his arms. “Can you lift the fog, very slowly, very carefully, and see what kind of car they were driving? I’ll have the APR put out an all-points-bulletin. But you have to be careful. Don’t lift the fog too high.”
I lifted the fog as high as I dared, but there were no more visions. Just the glowering, gleeful Nightmare Eyes above, and the weedy, crumbling parking lot at my feet. Beyond the parking lot was the street, and beyond that were businesses and houses and roads, and then more roads. North, south, east, west—it didn’t matter which way they went. All the streets in Tennessee, all the roads in the country, went in one direction: away from me.
Chapter Fifteen
Tristan and I returned from our failed trip to Tennessee, stumbling into the Connellys’ house after nightfall. Tristan had called his parents from the plane to tell them what happened, and the moment I stepped inside, Deirdre pulled me into a too-tight hug. “You ran in front of a speeding ambulance? Honey, what were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking,” I mumbled into her chest. “I was looking for Jillian and Logan.” I stayed in her arms for a few moments before pulling away. It felt good to be hugged like that.
I missed having a mother.
Deirdre gave Tristan a hug too, then scolded him. “This is exactly why I told you to let the APR handle the case. Leaving class and taking Tessa out of school was bad enough, but she could have been killed, Tristan.”
He hung his head. “I know. You’re right. If anything had happened to her, it would’ve been my fault.”
“Tristan, I lifted the fog too high,” I said. “I didn’t hear you shouting for me to stop. It wasn’t your fault.”
He shook his head anyway. “I promised I would keep you safe, and instead I almost got you killed.”
Dennis came in, phone in hand. “I just hung up with Kellan. I asked him why he didn’t know Jillian and Logan went to Nebraska.”
“And?” I asked.
“He did know about it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Gavin’s mother called him right after they ran off. Kellan never reported it. It happened almost a week ago, but he said he’s been too busy to file the report.”
I felt like I’d been punched in the chest. “Who cares about filing a report? He should have called us the second he heard from Gavin’s mom.”
Tristan cursed under his breath. “He just didn’t want anyone to know he screwed up.”
“The good thing is,” Dennis said, “I convinced him to take on an additional investigator, someone who’ll be dedicated full-time to your case.”
“Me?” Tristan asked, hope in his voice for the first time in hours.
“I suggested it,” Dennis said, “but Kellan won’t work with you. Sorry, Tristan.”
That wasn’t fair. Tristan already had the dedication and desire. If he also had the resources of the APR, we’d find Jillian and Logan in no time.
“Who is it, then?” I asked Dennis. “You?” Tristan would have been best, but Dennis would be a close second.
“Sorry, honey.” He put his hand over his heart. “A full-time investigation would be too much for me.”
Deirdre nodded. “That’s right.”
“Kellan’s selecting the new agent tomorrow,” he said. “He said to meet him at the APR at four o’clock.”
* * *
I couldn’t pay much attention in school the next day. Not because I was busy keeping the fog balanced against the visions, or pretending that Nathan and Winter’s scornful glares weren’t bothering me. Well, I was busy doing that, but I also couldn’t pay attention because after school, I was going to the APR to meet the new investigator assigned to my case. I couldn’t concentrate on anything else.
When I got home, I gave Marmalade a quick cuddle before Dennis drove me to the APR. Tristan was waiting for us, having left class early for the occasion.
“Tessa, do you want to visit your parents first?” Dennis asked as we walked to the elevator that would take us down to the investigation offices. “I’m sure your mother would like to see you. The warden told me she asked if you received her birthday card.”
Tristan shook his head, and I shook mine. “I just want to meet the new investigator.” I had the ballet shoe and sheet music with me. Same with Brinda’s drawings. I didn’t want to give them up, but the investigator would need them.
John Kellan marched toward us as we waited for the elevator, scowling behind his beard, his red Lead Investigator badge swinging from a lanyard around his neck.
“How could you not have told us that Jillian and Logan went to Nebraska?” I demanded. “We might have found them by now.”
“I was getting to it,” Kellan said. “I have over a dozen cases and I’m understaffed. Filing reports is not my main priority.”
Dennis frowned at him. “John, just introduce Tessa to the new investigator. Then you can get back to your eleven other cases.”
“With pleasure.” Instead of turning to the elevator, Kellan pivoted on his heel. “This way. He’s in the Lab.”
“The Lab?” Tristan said through tight lips. “Those guys aren’t trained in investigations.”
Kellan snorted without turning around. He led us to the end of the hallway and into the bright, glass-walled Lab, which looked more like a lounge than an industrial science laboratory.
I’d been here once before, while Tristan and I were staying in the Underground. The round tables, comfortable chairs, and plate glass windows gave the place a sense of receptive openness, but beyond the windows were tall trees, and surrounding the trees was an electrified fence.
One-way mirrors lined one interior wall, and they caught the light from the windows and reflected into the Lab, making everything luminous. Several APR employees wearing green Lab badges sat at the tables, interviewing potential psionic subjects. Cole
Gallagher was interviewing a boisterous, brown-haired woman as she gazed into a wide bowl of water and described the visions she saw in it. Mirroring her confident expression, he gave us a nod as we passed him.
“This way,” Kellan said, and we followed him into one of the offices lining the perimeter of the Lab. The sign on the door read Technokinetics. I’d been in this office before too, when Tristan asked an elderly bow-tied man to recharge my cell phone.
“I already tried with the Techno guys, Kellan,” Tristan said. “I had Craig Schultz hack into the Amtrak computers.”
“I know,” Kellan said, opening the door. “That’s what gave me the idea. Craig can hack, but I found you someone even better. Miss Carson, meet your new, dedicated, full-time investigator. Aaron Jacobs.”
Surrounded by piles of circuit boards, cords and various electronics, a scrawny guy sat at the back of the room. He faced three computer monitors, the images on them flashing as his fingers clickety-clacked over a keyboard. Without stopping, he stole a glance at us over his shoulder. Young, no more than three years older than me, with black hair parted down the middle and sorely in need of a trim, and dark brown eyes behind glasses that were much too big for his face. He turned bright red at our scrutiny and returned to the monitors.
“Hey, Aaron,” Tristan greeted him, then flashed to me, Super-smart guy. Graduated from Heron University when he was fifteen. But he knows nothing about investigations. I can do better on my own than he can here.
Then why would Kellan pick him?
Aaron’s mom is the executive director. I bet Kellan’s doing this to suck up to her after messing up so badly in Nebraska.
Dennis rubbed his chin. “Why Aaron?” he asked Kellan. “He doesn’t have the necessary training to be an investigator.”
“He doesn’t need it,” Kellan said. “Aaron is a cyber-mind. He’s basically facial-recognition software in human form, except a thousand times faster. He’ll scan webcams and security cameras to find the targets.”