Deadly Little Secret (17 page)

“I know, but I really need to talk to you about something.”

“Can it wait until morning?”

I suck in my lips, noticing how my dad’s eyes have reddened, like he’s just as upset as Mom.

“The window in the bathroom is broken,” I say, finally, testing the waters. “It was an accident. Kimmie threw a rock and it—”

“That’s fine,” he says, cutting me off. “I’ll take care of it later.” And with that, he goes back into the living room, where Mom is curled up.

Back in my room, I try calling Kimmie yet again. Still no luck. And so I sit down on the edge of my bed, trying to hold it all together, even though I feel like I’m coming apart.

I grab Ben’s phone number from my jewelry box, scared to death to call him, but I really need to talk to somebody. And maybe he’s all I have right now.

I start to dial his number, but then I hear something outside my window—the sound of an engine revving.

I move to the window to look. Ben cuts his engine, hops off the motorcycle, and makes his way to the front door. But before he gets there, I call out his name, surprising even myself.

He waves when he sees me. The moon casts its light over him—over the sharp angles of his face and his dark gray eyes.

Without saying a word, I stuff the photos into a bag along with the note and the shredded fabric, pull up the screen, and climb outside.

35

Ben suggests that we sit on my front steps, but after everything that’s happened tonight, I really just want to get away.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

I nod, and he studies me for just a second, as though trying to decide. But then he hands me his helmet and tells me to hold on tight.

I wrap my arms around his waist, and we take off down the road. The buzz of his motor awakens my senses, makes me feel more in the moment than ever. I must have driven down this street a million times, but I never noticed the explosion of color—how the neon lights from store signs and buildings illuminate the pavement in bright strips of red, gold, and blue.

We reach a stoplight and Ben glances back at me. Later, he turns and gives me a slight smile. Meanwhile, I have no idea where he’s taking me. I just know that the cool, salty breeze tangling the ends of my hair is beyond intoxicating.

I rest my head against his back and breathe in his sugary scent, trying to calm my nerves—to tell myself that this is okay, that we’re outside, where people can see us, and that my cell phone is charged and in my bag if I need it.

Still, I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve never just taken off out my window, not telling my parents where I was going, or acted on pure instinct, without a set plan in place.

About fifteen minutes later, Ben pulls up in front of Jet Lag, a twenty-four-hour diner famous for serving breakfast at night and dinner in the morning. He extends his hand to help me off his bike, but then pulls away, as if the mere touch of my skin were too intense.

“Sorry,” he says.

I nod, full of questions, but before I can ask even one, he takes a step back and then turns to open the restaurant door for me.

The place is beyond dead—only one solitary couple in a far corner. We take the opposite corner and slide the menus out from between the salt and pepper shakers.

A waitress comes shortly after and plunks a couple of mugs down on the laminated table. “Coffee?” she asks, the pot held high.

We nod, and she fills up the mugs, muttering how we look like we could use it.

I end up ordering a plate full of cinnamon French toast even though I’m anything but hungry.

“And for you?” the waitress asks Ben.

“The same,” he says, forgoing the menu completely, since it’s obvious we both want to be left alone.

“You felt something just now, didn’t you?” I ask, as soon as she steps away.

Ben pours sugar into his mug and stirs. “I always feel something with you.”

“So, what was it? Why did you pull away?”

“First, you answer my question,” he says, looking right at me. There’s a trace of sweat on his brow. “What happened tonight?”

My mouth drops open in surprise. “What makes you think something happened?”

“Tell me,” he insists.

I wonder how he knows, whether my eagerness to bolt gave me away, or maybe it was something else.

“Can you tell
me
?” I ask. “I mean, if you can really sense stuff the way you say you can.”

“Are you testing me?”

“Maybe.”

Ben reaches across the table and glides his hand over mine. He encircles my fingers and takes a full breath, sending tingles straight down my back. “Did somebody give you something?” he asks finally.

“Something . . . like what?”

“I can see broken glass,” he whispers, squeezing my hand harder, “and a scribble of red—like writing. Did you get a letter or a message?”

I feel my lips tremble; I’m wondering if I should tell him, but I’m suspicious just the same. I mean, if he were the one doing all this, he’d know exactly what happened tonight, and what the message said.

“You have to trust me,” he says, as though reading my mind.

A second later, he closes his eyes and grips my hand even harder—so hard I have to pull away.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his eyes wide, like he has surprised even himself.

Before I can answer, the waitress comes to deliver our plates—thick wedges of French toast with pitchers full of syrup on the side.

“I’m sorry,” he continues, referring to my hand. “Sometimes it’s hard to control myself.”

I nod, thinking about Julie—and how he supposedly couldn’t control himself with her, either.

“What can I say to make you trust me?” he asks.

I cut a piece of my French toast, considering the question and what it would take to trust anyone right now. “Touch me again,” I say, meeting his eyes, “and tell me something other than what’s going on right now— something from my past, maybe. Are you able to do that?”

He nods and searches the restaurant, maybe to see if anyone is listening in. Meanwhile, I reach across the table, my palm open and waiting.

Ben takes it and closes his eyes, breathing in and out as if this takes his full concentration—as if he’s trying his hardest not to hurt me again. His palm is warm against my skin. I close my eyes, too, wondering what he feels.

And if his heart is beating as fast as mine.

His fingers graze my hand, as though memorizing the lines of my palm and the skin over my bones. It’s all I can do just to sit here—not to hurtle over the table and kiss him again. I open my eyes to gaze at his mouth. It quivers slightly, like he’s someplace else entirely.

I’m tempted to ask what he sees, but I really don’t want to break this moment.

Or have him let go.

His eyes move beneath the lids, as if he can really sense something, making me feel suddenly self-conscious. Maybe it’s me who has something to hide.

“I can see you as a little girl,” he whispers finally. “At least, I think it’s you—same wavy blond hair, same dark green eyes. You’re wearing a long yellow dress with big purple flowers, and there’s tall grass all around you.”

I nod, remembering the dress. A chill runs up the back of my neck.

“And you’re crying,” he continues. “Are you lost?”

I squeeze his hand, remembering that day in the second grade when I wandered away from the playground at school. My mother, having always kept a tight leash on me, was beyond hysterical when she got the phone call— or so everyone says—but luckily she didn’t have to worry long. No sooner did the school contact her than a teacher’s aide found me, crouching down and crying, worried more about my mother’s reaction than about finding my way back home.

The thing is, I never intended to go very far, just over the rocks and down the hill—just to see if I could and what it would feel like. To sneak away.

Sort of like tonight.

I pull away, not wanting to hear any more. “I believe you,” I whisper, staring right at him. Ben’s eyes are red, making me wonder if in some way he could feel my fear just now.

“How’s the French toast?” the waitress asks, standing over our table.

“A little intense,” I say.

She looks back and forth between the two of us, as though noting our expressions and the sudden flushed appearance of our faces.

“Maybe
I
should try the French toast,” she says, somewhat under her breath.

A nervous giggle escapes me. Ben smiles, too. And a weird, awkward moment passes over us—as if we share a secret. As if we’ve known each other for years.

“It’s easier to sense stuff from the past than it is to project the future,” he says once the waitress leaves.

“I want to tell you about what happened tonight.”

Ben nods, as though eager to hear it. And so I tell him everything, including what happened earlier in the week.

“Maybe we should call the police,” he says.

“And tell them what? That you touch me and see my dead body? That I’m getting weird notes, just like that Debbie girl? I mean, do you honestly think they’ll take any of it seriously?”

“I honestly think it’s worth a try.”

I feel my jaw stiffen, still able to picture my mom on the sofa tonight, tears soaking her face as Dad tries to console her. “My parents have enough problems to deal with right now.”

“Your life
is
in danger,” he reminds me. “Even the notes say that.”

“So, let’s figure it out.” I dump the contents of my bag out on the table. “Does your power work with stuff or just people?”

“Stuff, too, but it’s much harder. It isn’t as intense as skin-to-skin contact—touching something with an actual pulse.”

I nod, feeling my own pulse race, wondering if he notices the heat I feel on my face.

“Plus,” he continues, smiling as if he
does
indeed notice, “it only works when the person has recently handled the object—when I can still feel the vibrations.”

“Can you feel these vibrations?” I ask, sliding my bag, with the photos and the note, across the table.

Ben spends several moments running his fingers over and through the contents of my bag, spending the most time on the photo from tonight. He presses the edges hard, until they crinkle up.

“He’s planning something,” he says, finally looking up at me.

“He?”

“I’m pretty sure.” He reaches for the note and the shreds of pajama fabric, but then shakes his head. “It’s like he thinks you’re ungrateful for something.”

“And that’s why he’s leaving me stuff?”

“He’s leaving you stuff because he wants you to know you’re being watched.”

I glance out the window. “Is he watching me right now?”

“I don’t know. I’d have to touch you again.”

“So, go ahead.”

Ben glances at my hand but then shakes his head. “Maybe I should take a little break.”

I look at the photo, all mangled and bent now. “Because you’re afraid you might hurt me?”

“Because I don’t want to hurt anyone ever again. It’s hard to keep touching people. It takes a lot of restraint, a lot of self-control, to not squeeze too hard or push too deep. It’s like my mind wants to go one way, but my body wants to go another. It’s sort of like sleeping with one eye open.”

“And what happens when both eyes are shut?”

Ben glares at me, unwilling to answer. And maybe he doesn’t have to.

I sink back in my seat, feeling stupid for even asking. “You still blame yourself for what happened with Julie, don’t you?”

“Maybe we should talk about something else.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s an ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’”

“Have you ever talked with anyone about it?”

He shakes his head. “Before you, I barely talked to anyone. And I definitely didn’t touch them.”

I bite my bottom lip, wondering what it’s like to go through life without touching a single soul. “What made you stop homeschooling, then?”

“I wanted to try being normal again.” He looks at his hands, his eyes still red. “But maybe normal isn’t right for me.”

“Will you let
me
touch
you
?”

Before he can answer, I reach my hand across the table. Ben closes his eyes, and I run my fingers over the lines in his palm. His skin is rough and callused beneath my fingertips.