by Melissa Marr
He swings his arm out and up, and I realize that he has a crowbar in his hand.
I try to dodge him, with some success, but in the next moment, the crowbar hits my shoulder. My phone falls as I duck and grab the Maglite under the seat of the truck. It’s not as long as a crowbar, but it’s heavy and extends my reach. I just need to get away from him, hopefully knock him down long enough for help to arrive.
The passenger window shatters as my attacker begins swinging wildly.
I twist my body, putting more of my weight on my uninjured leg. I swing blindly with my flashlight, cursing the lack of streetlights and the blood dripping from my forehead.
“You’re not worthy,” he says.
I feel bones shatter. He hits my cheek, my nose, and my mouth; the pain is excruciating. I can taste blood.
The added pain from the blow to my face makes me a lot less than steady.
“You’re complicating the message,” he says.
I hit the ground, and try to struggle to my feet, but I’m trapped between him and the truck. I roll to the side, as he swings again. I try to block it and feel the heavy metal bar hit my forearm, breaking it. I notice gloves on his hands, covering his skin.
A moment later, I feel it hit my head.
The vision recedes. It’s not because I pulled away from Nate, but because he died. Again. I know that the killer is a man, that his skin was hidden under gloves, that his hair is brown. I try to concentrate on that instead of the feeling of dying, of Nate dying. This time was different from the others. I didn’t feel the same sense of being two people at once that I did the first few times. I’m not sure if it’s because I chose to do it or the trauma is somewhat lessened by the frequency with which I’ve been in Nate’s death. Either way, I was only-Nate in this one, as opposed to earlier visions where I kept separating myself from the person who was dying.
It’s also the first time I’m not shaking and freezing. I’m still cold, and I shiver, but I’m not feeling like I was doused in ice water. Maybe accepting the visions was enough to decrease the side effects—or maybe it just gets easier with practice.
Nate—the real, alive Nate—is still kneeling in front of me, staring at my face, and I don’t try to hide the fact that I’m crying again. The brutality of Nate’s death was worse this time.
“He’s angry at you,” I whisper.
In a low voice, I tell him the entirety of what I saw. He remains silent as I talk, not interrupting even as my voice breaks. It’s not until I reach the part about him remembering our conversations during the attack that I notice that he’s caught my hand in his and is holding on to me tightly. I look at our entwined fingers, and he follows my gaze with his own.
“Why not now? I’m touching you,” Nate asks. “Why don’t you see my death again?”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure. Maybe if nothing changes I don’t see it.” I pause, frustration filling me. “I didn’t get a rule book or anything. Searching online hasn’t revealed any answers, and . . . I don’t know. It’s all guesses right now.”
He nods, and I can see by the way his face is scrunched up that he’s processing everything. After a few moments, he asks, “So let’s test it. If I make a promise, if I decide to change something else, will it change?”
Nate sounds excited as he talks, as if seeing his death repeatedly is good somehow. He starts to pull his hand away, but I clutch it tightly.
“I need a minute,” I admit. It hurts to be caught in someone’s death. I fill him in on the cold and the shaking, and he hugs me. Then, he nods and sits back on his heels so he’s farther away from me.
“He’s from here. Maybe not Jessup, but from North Carolina. Maybe South Carolina. He doesn’t sound like Grace or anyone from outside the South.” I’m still trying to piece together details, doing what people with prosopagnosia do in the real world. It helped me focus when I was inside Nate’s death this time, and it’s helping me to think about something other than the horror of being beaten to death. “His voice is male, but I couldn’t see his skin. Clothes are normal. Hair was brown, I think.”
“Were there any words on the hoodie?” Nate asks. His arm is stretched out so our hands are still clasped. He watches me so intently that I want to run.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Did it feel like I knew him?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I would know that. Maybe?” I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
After a moment, Nate leans forward and kisses my cheek. It’s sudden and ridiculously exciting—and weird. I could almost believe it didn’t happen because he’s gone as soon as it happens, and I lift my hand to touch my face as if there will be proof on my skin.
He’s still holding my hand and watching me when he says, “I believe you. I just thought you should know.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry that it happened.”
“It?” I repeat.
There are so many things that could be “it” that I’m not sure what else to say. The kiss? The accident? The vision?
“I’m sorry that you have these visions, but you’re going to save my life.” He squeezes my hand this time. “I’ll thank you later too, but thank you.”
I swallow and look away. I don’t want him to thank me. I want him to like me . . . and believe in me. At least, I have the second part, and that’s more important. I smile. “Why do you believe me?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Instinct? Trust? I just do.”
“Thank you.” I release his hand reluctantly. I would rather keep hold of it, but it feels more intimate than is safe. I shake my head at how awkward this whole crushing on him is, and in a moment more impulsive than my confession of visions, I say, “I like you. I know it’s not . . . a good idea, but I do. So after today you can’t kiss me or hold me while I sleep if we’re going to make it as friends. It confuses thi—”
His lips are suddenly on mine, and his hand rests gently along my cheek. It’s not the sort of passionate kiss that leads to losing sense or clothing, but this is Nate. Nate is kissing me, and I can’t stop myself from leaning in closer. I don’t want to stop myself. He’s kneeling against the edge of the sofa, and I’m tilting forward to reach him. As soon as I curl my hand around the back of his neck, his kiss grows less tentative.
I don’t ever want to let him go, but only a few moments later, he pulls away.
His hand still rests carefully on my cheek, and his whispered words are breathy against my lips as he says, “It might not be a good idea, but I’ve wanted to kiss you for years. If today’s the only chance, I’ll take it.”
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but no words come. He presses his lips to mine for a split second, and then he’s pulling back. With the sort of lithe grace that makes him beautiful to watch, he seems to go from kneeling to standing in one fluid movement.
“I’m going to see what’s in the fridge for lunch. Your mom said there were a few options, and you didn’t eat break—”
“Wait!”
He shakes his head. “No. Give me a few minutes, okay? You told me about my death, and then”—he motions between us—“that’s not my area, Eva. I don’t do relationships or dating. That doesn’t mean I don’t want you. It just means I care about you enough to keep my hands to myself.”
I blink up at him like he’s started speaking a foreign language. It’s possible he did because it sounded like he just said he wants me but won’t touch me because he likes me. It may be the stupidest thing he’s ever told me.
Despite his idiocy or maybe because of it, I’m at a complete loss for words. I want to yell at him, but I don’t know where to start. He stands there in the middle of the room, looking every bit as uncomfortable as I feel, and we simply stare at each other in silence until I say, “I think there’s quinoa-stuffed peppers.”
“Keen what?”
“Not keen what. It’s keen-wah.” I repeat the word, sounding out the two syllables. “Quinoa is like a
grain, kind of like rice, but LeeAnn says it’s healthier than gluten foods like pasta.” I realize I’m babbling. He’s staring at me with somewhat wide eyes now, but I keep talking. “There are peppers stuffed with what looks like something between seeds and sprouts. That’s quinoa.”
“Right. Peppers full of seeds,” he says slowly. “Sounds good. I’ll heat them.”
He walks away, and I am left alone on my sofa feeling silly for discussing grains when there are so many more important topics to discuss, but he’s the one who just banned those subjects. I hear the fridge open and close, then cupboards as he presumably looks for plates, and then I hear the microwave open and close. After a few minutes of listening to him bang around in my kitchen, I decide to follow him.
As quietly as I’m able, I get up on my crutches and hobble toward the kitchen. When I reach the doorway, I see him staring into the microwave the way my father stares at the news ticker on the bottom of the television when he doesn’t have his contacts in his eyes—like he can’t quite see it, but if he concentrates hard enough, the picture will be less vague.
I know Nate hears my approach. Crutches aren’t designed for stealth. He doesn’t turn away from the microwave though, so I’m left looking at his back. It’s not a bad view, but it is awkward to stand here with only the whir of the microwave in the space where words should be.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you.” He turns to face me immediately after he says it.
I’m tempted to slap him. When we were kids, I would’ve hit him for being daft, but we’re in a different place now so I simply say, “I disagree, but”—I shrug one shoulder because it’s the best I can do while standing on crutches—“you’ve decided to make this weirder than it has to be, so I’m at a loss.”
He tenses. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We’re friends, Nate, and I’ve crushed on you since middle school.” My cheeks burn a little as I say it, but I’m over being subtle. Maybe it’s the threat of a killer who seems focused on me; maybe it’s a fearlessness because of the accident; maybe it’s seeing Nate die one too many times. I don’t know. All I do know is that I’m not going to ignore the things I think or want anymore. I shake my head. “I may not be your closest friend anymore—”
“You still are,” he interjects.
“That’s pitiful, you know,” I mutter before returning to my point. My voice starts to get louder as I speak, but he’s the only one here so it’s not like I’m going to attract an audience. “Whether I’m your closest friend or not, we were close for years. I almost died, and right now, it looks like someone is out to get you because of me. If that doesn’t entitle me to say how I feel, then nothing does.”
The microwaves dings, but he doesn’t turn away from me.
“I spent the better part of the past year with Robert. During that time, he wanted Amy, and I wanted you . . . just like the year before when I wasn’t dating him. I’ve never stopped wanting you. Ever. Now, you walk into my life and act like we’ve never stopped talking. Then you kiss me and tell me you think about me that way too. I’m not going to ignore that. You can’t ask me to either. I’m sick of ignoring things, and”—I stomp closer to him and poke him in the chest with my index finger—“I’m sick of being ignored because you have some sort of childhood trauma that makes you shove me away.”
I’m all but yelling at him by the time I’m done, but he still doesn’t react.
He doesn’t speak at all. He simply turns and opens the microwave. Silently, he removes the plate of quinoa-stuffed peppers and, plate in hand, steps around me. He stays mute as he pulls out my chair and pours me a glass of lemonade.
Then, he walks out of the kitchen as if I haven’t just laid my heart out in front of him.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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DAY 14: “THE PLAN”
Grace
WHEN I ARRIVE AT Eva’s house, my mother walks me to the door and waits while Nate opens it and ushers us into the quiet of the Tilling home. They exchange words as if he’s an adult, which seems a bit ludicrous considering his reputation around school. The boy might not drink liquor like it’s water these days, but he’s still slept with more girls than even the best gossips probably know. Back in Philadelphia when I was trying out my rule-breaking persona, he’d have been a temptation. Either my mother trusts me a lot more than I thought or she’s clueless about Nate’s history. I’m not going to ask her which. Instead, I lean in and kiss her cheek. “It’s fine, Mom. We’ll be here with the doors locked, police driving by, and a security system. We’re safe here.” I shoot an innocent look at Nate. “Eva did order a case of wine and the strippers, right?”
He opens his mouth, closes it, and scowls at me.
My mother laughs.
“I’m not sure I’m getting paid enough to deal with both of you,” Nate mutters.
“I’ll be by to pick you up at six,” my mom says, and then she tells Nate, “Don’t let them out of the house.”
He nods, and she leaves. I see her pause on the porch until the door is locked. After a half wave, she walks away—and I slump against the door for a moment. I know she’s worried, but I feel like she’s overreacting. From the tidbits I overheard and the news reports, it sounds like both Micki Adams and Amy Crowne were out at night or early morning when they were killed. I know the killer seems likely to be Jessupite, but I’m not the sort of girl who spends any time with the locals—at least not alone. Eva is my only close friend, and she’s very obviously not the killer.
I’m not as convinced as she is that Robert is innocent. When the detective asked if he could kill Amy to make amends for cheating on Eva, I thought it seemed crazy, but I think a lot of things here seem crazy. And sometimes, I think Robert and his friends are the kings of all that’s crazy. Still, I know that Eva understands them in a way I don’t, and if she thinks Robert is unable to do these awful things, I mostly trust her. I still wouldn’t go anywhere alone with him, but I’m not about to start pursuing him with pitchforks or whatever they use in lynch mobs in Jessup these days.
“She’s in the kitchen,” Nate says, and then he walks away, leaving me standing in the foyer. I think he’s actually surlier than usual. I wasn’t sure such a state was even possible, and after the way that Eva and Nate seemed to be getting along, I’m a little shocked.
When I go into the kitchen, I find Eva staring blankly at a stuffed pepper; she doesn’t look any happier than Nate does.
“Eva?”
She looks up and gives me a small smile. “Hey.”
“Are you okay?”
“No. Nate and I”—she turns to stare at the empty doorway; Nate hasn’t followed me—“had a difference of opinion.”
I pull out a chair and sit beside her. “About?”
She looks a little lost for a moment, her gaze drifting to the doorway again. “Apparently, our little man-slut has thought I was worth the time for years, but he’s decided for both of us that nothing can happen.”
“I’m sorry.” I reach out, but then remember her belief that being touched evokes death visions, so I don’t touch her hand. Instead, I let my hand rest near her, so she can take it if she needs.
“He held me while I slept, you know? He listens, and he says all the right things.” She huffs and mutters, “Except when he tells me that kissing me was a mistake.”
“Kissing you?”
“Today.” She gestures toward the living room where, presumably, the kiss happened. The doorway is still empty, but the source of her frustration is somewhere in the house. She shoves her plate away and lowers her head to the table before saying, “I have lousy taste in boys.”
She looks past me then, and I follow her gaze to see Nate.
“I’m going upstairs,” Eva announces.
At that, she presses her lips together and holds out a hand for her crutches.
“I cou
ld carry you,” he starts.
“No.”
Mutely, Nate hands her crutches to her.
When Eva and I reach her room, she sits on her bed, and after I put her crutches on the floor, I sit next to her.
“I don’t want to fight with him,” she whispers.
For a moment, she’s so tense that I can actually see her muscles clench. Then, she shakes her head and says, “Will you hand me my laptop?”
She pulls up her notes, and she lets me read her thoughts on the flowers and on her death visions. It’s creepy to read about my death and about Nate’s death alongside details about people who actually died. She has a few details about the killer though, and it’s the first time I’ve hoped she really could see deaths.
We start to try to figure who the killer’s next victims will be, but I don’t know any logical way to narrow in on who’s the most vulnerable. “What do the three of you have in common?”
“We’re all girls who are finishing our junior year at Jessup,” Eva says. “That leaves a lot of possible victims though.”
“You and Amy both dated Robert,” I add.
“Micki didn’t. Neither did Nate.” She frowns. “Or you. You were both future victims.”
“If Nate is really a victim, the girl part of the similarity is out too,” I point out reluctantly.
She grows quiet for a moment, but then, she shakes her head. “Right. So what do we know?”
“That the killer sent you a message. I hate to say it, but the one thing everyone has in common is you. Somehow everyone is tied to you.”
“Micki and I weren’t close, though. You, Nate, Amy, I see a connection there, but Micki doesn’t fit.” Eva lets out a small noise of frustration. “If it’s girls, Nate doesn’t fit. If it’s people who . . . get around, you and Micki don’t fit.”
“Maybe not here, but before I moved here . . .” I leave the words unsaid, but Eva knows about my stupid choices in Philadelphia. “Maybe someone knows that?”
“Micki was a virgin. So that pattern doesn’t fit.”