Thicker Than Water

by Brigid Kemmerer

  But while we’re cruising along in the silence, I realize that I am aware of him, beyond just the fact that we’re sitting in the car together. It’s like a tiny hum in the back of my head, so quiet that I wouldn’t notice it unless we were in almost complete silence, like this.

  My hands lose the death grip on my biceps as I try to identify that feeling, but it’s like a tiny metal ball that’s been dropped on a hardwood floor. It rolls fast and it’s hard to catch.

  “Relax,” he says.

  My eyes flick his way. I’m still not entirely sure I want to talk to him again.

  But that’s all he says. Relax. The word itself has power. I’m taking a deep breath, and my shoulders relax before I’m aware of it.

  “Stop,” I say. “Stop making me do things.”

  “I’m not,” he says. His voice is quieter now. Repentant? “I’m just trying to put you more at ease.”

  “I think you screwed your chances when you tried to tell me I killed my mother.” My cheeks still feel damp.

  He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but then he takes off his sunglasses and runs a hand through his hair. “Tommy, I—” He stops and winces. “Tom. Others are drawn to our ability. Our minds are drawn to strong emotion. We thrive on it. Feed on it, in a way. Left unchecked, empaths can find themselves seeking more powerful emotions. Catching someone’s eye turns to true attraction. Attraction turns to infatuation, which turns to romance, and maybe even love.” He snaps his fingers. “It can be quick. The course of a month. A week. A day.”

  I don’t say anything. My eyes fix on the windshield and refuse to look away.

  But I’m listening.

  He must know it, because he keeps talking.

  “We can get ourselves in trouble. Sometimes we end up chasing the emotions without considering the people behind them. Imagine your friend, Liam.”

  My voice is tight. “He wasn’t my friend.”

  “He could have been. He could have been a lot more. And I’d bet, if you’d let him keep going, that you would have woken up tomorrow morning and he would have been hopelessly devoted to you.”

  I think about Liam’s hand on my waist, how he would have gone a lot further if I’d let him. “But I’m not gay.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s all about the power of his mind and the depths to which you’ll let him feel. It’s possible to lose yourself in someone else’s feelings.” He pauses. “The way you kept provoking the police . . . I thought you were riding the energy of it. I thought you were cocky. I thought you knew.”

  “I don’t understand any of this.”

  He’s quiet for another long minute. “Sometimes, when we feel strongly about something, we instinctively push harder, trying to take the emotion to the next level. We look for the next limit, especially if feelings are changing. It can be unconscious. What we are—it’s a double-edged sword. Amazing power, but in the wrong moment, we can actually love someone to death.”

  His voice is careful now. My fingers are clenched on the seat cushion. In a way, I don’t want him to keep talking—but I do. Sweat collects on my temples.

  “Your mother had a new husband,” he says quietly.

  “Stop.”

  “She loved you, but that love was turning away.”

  “It was okay.” My voice is shaking. I don’t want the vision of her death to come back. “I was okay.”

  “There’s usually a triggering event for that kind of power. For me, it happened in Afghanistan. I saw a guy step on an IED. He was blown apart.”

  “Jesus.” I’m horrified. He is too. Maybe he’s feeding me the emotion or maybe I’m feeling it, but a sickening coil has gripped my chest.

  JB shakes his head. “I knew what I was, but I couldn’t wall my mind up against that kind of onslaught.”

  I don’t want to imagine it. “Nothing happened to me.” I swallow. “I didn’t have a triggering event.”

  “New home, new stepfather . . .” He shrugs.

  “It was okay,” I say again. “Stan . . . I liked Stan.”

  “This has nothing to do with liking anyone, little brother. You loved your mother, and you still—”

  “Shut up.” My heart punches me in the ribs, over and over again. “Do you hear me? Shut up.”

  “It’s the pursuit of the emotion that matters.”

  My voice is a whisper. “Stop talking.”

  “You’re hearing me. I know you’re hearing me. What spurred it? Did you and your mother have a fight?”

  My throat is closing up. “I don’t remember. She was asleep.”

  “You remember, Tommy.”

  I squirm in my seat. My head is buzzing. “Stop calling me that!”

  “She should have told you,” he says quietly. “You could have protected yourself. You could have seen the signs.”

  “Stop.” I’m practically wheezing. “Please. Stop.”

  “Did you have a fight? Fighting can bring on aggression, which can bring on fear, which can turn to—”

  “I didn’t kill my mother!” I shout at him.

  He winces. “I think you don’t know your strength.” He glances at me again. “And I think your brain built a wall to protect you from it. That’s why the truth keeps breaking through. Those visions? They’re yours.”

  “You don’t know any of this! This is all fake. This is all a joke.”

  “It’s not,” he says. “You want proof?”

  “Yes.” I suck in a breath like I’ve been drowning. “No.”

  He pulls the car over to the side of the road. At some point, we’ve found our way into the city. My brain is so scattered I don’t know if he’s brought me to Baltimore or Washington, D.C.

  Once the car is in park, he looks at me hard. “Proof: Look at what you did to your cute little girlfriend last night.”

  I stare at him.

  “I heard the charges,” he says.

  “I didn’t do any of that. I didn’t break into her house.”

  “I’d bet you’ve done a lot of things you don’t remember doing.”

  I think of waking in the middle of the night. Walking down the hallway. Finding her body.

  I think about the deadbolt, the lack of clues.

  I swallow.

  “Think about it,” he says. “Really think about it.”

  I didn’t hurt my mother. I didn’t hurt Charlotte.

  But I think about our relationship so far, the way we’ve come together over the last few weeks. Every time we’re close, I feel as though I can’t get enough of her. It takes all of my self-control to keep from pressing down on the accelerator until we’re going a hundred miles per hour, leaving clothes in our wake.

  Innocent little Charlotte, climbing in my lap in the car, jerking the shirt over her head.

  Sweet Charlotte, watching my lips or tracking my movements.

  Her indrawn breath when I said, Don’t make me pick you up and put you in the chair. The excitement that coursed through me when I thought about doing it anyway.

  “I was a gentleman,” I whisper.

  “I know,” he says. “And I think that was the whole problem.”

  And with that, my brother gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THOMAS

  I follow him. What else am I going to do, sit in the car?

  We’re in a gritty part of the city. This has to be Washington, D.C. I don’t know every back corner of Baltimore, of course, but this doesn’t have the feel of my home city. The architecture is vaguely different, maybe. No putrid stench from the harbor here.

  There are plenty of disgusting odors to make up for it. JB is walking down an alley lined with dumpsters, and I hustle to catch up to him. Rotting food makes my stomach turn, mixing with a burned grease odor that tells me we’re near several less-than-healthy restaurants. A rat skitters behind a box when we approach. Two men, one black and one white, are having a conversation up ahead, and they stop talking and glare at us. The w
hite guy takes a long draw from a cigarette. His eyes track us suspiciously.

  Again, I’m reminded of the disparity between me and Charlotte being mirrored here in reverse. JB is confident, no sign of hesitation. For the most part, I grew up in Baltimore City and I have no qualms about walking the streets, but there are still areas where I won’t go.

  This alley feels like an area where I shouldn’t go. I don’t like the way they’re watching us. A promise of violence hangs in the air.

  “What are we doing?” I ask under my breath.

  “Show and tell.”

  “What?”

  “What do you feel?”

  “I feel . . .” I swallow. “I feel like we shouldn’t be here.”

  “Why?”

  He sounds like a teacher. I don’t mind. I feel like I need one. “Because they don’t want us here.”

  “You’re right. Do you think they’ll hurt us?”

  “I have no idea.”

  He gives me a look. “Yes, you do. Pay attention.”

  The white guy takes another draw from his cigarette, then leans close to the other man to say something. The black guy nods and ducks back through a door.

  I’m paying attention to the remaining man, trying to sort through what I’m feeling. He’s middle-aged with graying hair, but he’s built like a hard life got him here. Tattoos crawl down one arm. Lines surround his mouth as he inhales the smoke from his cigarette. His eyes flick to me, and then to my brother. They stay on JB—probably smart. I’m not the threat here.

  As we approach, he stubs out his cigarette on the wall. I let my eyes unfocus and try to force my mind to . . . do something. I’m not entirely sure what. This is like playing one of those cheap kids’ games, with the plastic maze and the tiny ball. As soon as I lock on something, it slips out of the space.

  Then, almost by accident, I get the little ball into the slot. Suspicion, check. Fear, check.

  Deception. Check.

  “Hey,” says JB. “I’m looking for Mark Duplessy.”

  The man flicks the stubbed cigarette at JB’s feet. “I don’t know him.”

  He’s lying. I feel it so strongly, as if the lie lodges in my brain and leaves a residue there. My heartbeat skyrockets and I want to shake JB’s arm.

  I don’t. He knows it, too. I have no doubt.

  JB says, “Maybe we can try again. I’m looking for Mark Duplessy.”

  “Look, asshole, I said I don’t know him.”

  Do you think they’ll hurt us? Pay attention.

  No. This man won’t hurt us. If anything, he’s going to run. If I could take his pulse, it would beat mine in a race. He’s feeling a little confident, though, like he has an ace up his sleeve.

  JB reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. I can’t tell what it is from here, but it looks like a mug shot with a bunch of other text on the page.

  He doesn’t look away from the man. “Funny. You look just like him.”

  The air shifts. The man bolts. He shoves the door open so quickly that it bounces back against the frame before JB follows.

  “Come on, Tommy!” he shouts.

  I only knew it a moment before he ran, but I knew it. I knew it.

  I’m giddy, but I follow. Down a few concrete steps, and then through another door. We burst into a dank restaurant kitchen.

  And we’re immediately surrounded.

  We skid to a stop. All the breath leaves my lungs in a rush. Four men and two women block our path. The man we saw earlier has a gun, and it’s pointed right at JB. The tension in this room is so strong I’m worried it’s going to rattle me apart. A fryer sizzles somewhere to our left, and the heat down here is enough to knock me out.

  Mark Duplessy is beyond the group, near another doorway. “Fuck you, assholes,” he says. Then he shoves through the swinging door with bravado.

  The man with the gun shakes it, gesturing toward the back. “Y’all better get out the way you came.”

  I would feel so much better about this whole interaction if this guy didn’t have a gun pointed at us. He’s confident. Protective, but not angry. Definitely not afraid.

  “I can’t leave,” says JB. “I have a court order to reclaim Mark Duplessy. So if you’ll just step aside—”

  The man cocks the hammer. “Get out.”

  JB grabs his wrist and throws a punch. His movement is so fast, I lose track of it. The gun skitters to the floor, and the man goes down. I feel like I missed a moment of time again. I need a replay button.

  “Don’t just stand there!” JB shouts at me. “Go after Duplessy!”

  I run for the swinging door before I can rethink this. Maybe he’s making me do it somehow. I push through, and I’m standing in a small restaurant. Small tables, torn vinyl seats. A few people are eating, and they look up in surprise as I burst out of the door. No one here is a threat to us. There’s no sign of Duplessy.

  Then a woman at one of the tables points to the door. “He ran out.”

  Her companion shushes her, but that’s all I need to hear.

  Do I go after him? Do I wait for JB? I can’t catch my breath. I don’t know what I’m doing.

  If I find this guy, what am I supposed to do? JB is armed. I’m not.

  Then JB is through the swinging door. Swearing erupts behind him.

  He’s rushed, but not bothered. “Kid, you’re supposed to be chasing him.”

  “I didn’t—what happ—?”

  “Come on.” He pushes through the front door into the sunlight.

  I’m only a second behind him, but he’s running down the sidewalk before I even get there. I have no idea how he spotted his mark, because the streets are crowded with pedestrians, but there, a good twenty feet ahead of him, runs the man we’re chasing.

  “Holy shit,” I say.

  Then the restaurant door is flung wide, and the man with the gun is coming after me.

  I run like hell.

  This is totally not how I expected my afternoon to go. I really didn’t think my day could get more surreal.

  My brother is fast as shit. I’m not slow, but I feel like it. I’m guessing he does this a lot. Adrenaline pushes me faster. I keep waiting for shots to explode behind me, but they don’t. It doesn’t feel like anyone is chasing me.

  I chance a glance back, and I’m right. The man from the restaurant didn’t pursue me.

  Horns blare from the road. Mark Duplessy is bolting into traffic, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a city bus. Then he heads down another alley and disappears from sight.

  JB is equally fearless. He cuts a similar path through traffic and doesn’t hesitate as cars miss him.

  I’m not that badass—or that insane. I wait for a gap and run after them.

  This alley is deserted, a dark tunnel of heat between two buildings, but I hear a shout farther down. I run to catch up. I turn a corner just in time to see JB slam the man against a wall. He’s got one of Mark’s arms twisted up and behind his back, but the other man is taller and he struggles. Maybe something has shifted in me, but emotions come to me in waves now.

  The most powerful ones can’t be ignored. Fury. Fear. Anger. Others have less of an impact: Resignation. Regret.

  “Get my gun,” says JB. His voice is tight and thready.

  My eyes widen. “Me?”

  “No, him. I want him to get my gun.” He shoves the man against the wall again before he can get leverage. “Come on, Tommy.”

  I stop hesitating, and I put my hand on the butt of the gun and pull it out of the holster.

  Until this moment, I’ve never held a firearm. It’s heavier than I expected, a solid weight of metal in my hand. My index finger hovers near the trigger, but now that it’s against my palm, I’m almost afraid to have it in my grip. It’s not like holding a knife or a hammer. This thing is specifically designed to kill people. In a weird way, I suddenly feel more powerful.

  I’m not sure this is a good feeling.

  “Shoot him,” says JB.r />
  The fear in the alley triples. I’m not sure if it’s Mark’s or it’s mine. I almost drop the gun. “What?”

  “Shoot him.”

  Mark redoubles his struggles. “Fuck you! You fucking dirty bastard! You—”

  “Shut up.” JB does something that makes him grunt in pain.

  Something flickers in me. My finger shifts before I can stop it. The surprise has worn off, and the only fear left is in the man pinned against the wall.

  JB was right. There’s power in the emotion. I want more of it.

  I don’t even know this guy. I don’t want to hurt him. But this fear . . . I wish I knew how to cock the hammer of the gun, because I think the sound would do interesting things.

  This is heady. I’m scaring myself.

  “In the head or in the leg?” I hear myself saying. My voice is even. Confident. Unafraid.

  Fear explodes like starbursts behind my eyes. Mark tries to throw JB off. The man starts screaming. Crying for help.

  Metal rattles. JB has handcuffs, and he’s slapping them against Mark’s wrists efficiently. “Shut up,” he says again, exasperated. “No one is going to shoot you.” He pulls on Mark’s arm and drags him away from the wall.

  Then he puts out a hand to me. “Give it back.”

  My breathing feels too quick, but I’m so charged I think I could run a marathon right now. “What just happened?”

  “We’ll talk about it in the car. Give it back, so we can get this guy out of here.”

  “I’m going to report you assholes,” Mark says. “I’m going to get your license pulled—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” JB gives him a shove. “Tom. The gun.”

  I move to hold it out to him, and he quickly grabs my wrist and turns my hand away. His expression is aggrieved. “Without pointing it at me.”

  “Sorry.” My mouth is dry, but I swallow. I release the gun into his hand, and he shoves it back into the holster, then pulls on Mark’s arm again.

  “Don’t you have to read him his rights?” I say, once we’re walking.

  “I’m not a cop.”

  “No,” snaps Mark. “You’re a dirty fucking bounty hunter—”

  “Shut up,” JB says again. “Before I change my mind about shooting you.”