Deadly Little Secret (21 page)

42

Ben and I spend the next full hour discussing the photo and the phone call I got earlier.

“He’s definitely close.” Ben presses a piece of the photo between two fingers and looks toward the kitchen window, but the blind’s already drawn.

“I think it’s time to call the police,” I say.

Ben shakes his head and presses harder, nearly mangling the piece. “I’ve had it with police.”

“Because of before?” I ask.

“Because of right now.” He drops the photo piece and swivels on his stool to face me. “They gave me a warning.”

“The police?”

He nods. “That Debbie girl told them I’ve been following her.”

“And they believe her?”

Ben shrugs. “I don’t know what they believe, but they started asking me all these questions—where I’ve been at certain times, who I hang around with, and what I do when I’m alone.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“The truth. What else could I tell them?”

“I talked to Debbie,” I say, eager for the truth myself.

Ben nods, seemingly unsurprised.

“She really believes it,” I continue. “She really thinks you want to hurt her.”

“I know. I’ve heard it.”

But, still, he doesn’t deny it.

It’s quiet between us for several moments—just the hum of the refrigerator and the clicking of the second hand from the cat-shaped kitchen clock.

“So, why would she say all that?” I ask, cutting through the silence.

Ben inches in a little closer. His clothes smell like burning leaves. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but you have to trust me.”

“She said you guys are in history class together.”

“And so, what does that prove? I’m not after Debbie.”

“Then who
are
you after?”

“Nobody.” He shakes his head.

“So touch me again.” I slide my hand toward his. “And tell me when all of this is going to end.”

Ben eyes my hand, clearly tempted, but then he swivels away. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s complicated.”

“What is? I mean, we’ve already been through this. You’re not going to hurt me.”

“How do you know?” He runs his fingers through his hair in frustration.

“I
don’t
know,” I sigh. “But if you don’t even try, then why did you bother telling me about your touch powers? Time’s almost up.” I gesture toward the photo. “And that could be me.”

“I know.” His jaw is visibly tense. “But you don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand. Tell me what’s going on inside your head.”

“I’m haunted by her,” he whispers.

“You mean Julie?”

He nods. “I keep seeing her face. I keep seeing her fall off that cliff.”

“It was an accident,” I remind him.

Ben hikes up his sleeves as if he’s suddenly hot, revealing the narrow gash that runs up his forearm.

“Is that where you got your scar?” I ask.

He nods and looks down at it. “It’s like a permanent reminder of what happened. After she fell, I tried to climb down the cliff—to get to her—but I ended up tearing my arm open on a jagged rock.”

“Was that incident the first time you sensed stuff?”

He shakes his head and tugs his sleeves back down. “But before that it was only small stuff. I’d bump someone’s shoulder and know their car would get a flat, or I’d shake someone’s hand and picture what they’d be having for dinner that night. At first I thought it was coincidence, but then it got kind of obvious—I’d be able to predict stuff.”

“Did you ever use that to your advantage?”

“I never wanted to use it, period. Plus, this touching thing . . . it isn’t always predictable. I can’t always sense what I want to. I mean, I can try—I can concentrate really hard. But, like, with you, for example, sometimes I’ll sense danger, and other times I’ll feel something else entirely.”

“Like what?”

He stares at me as if he doesn’t want to say. “I did research on psychometry when the symptoms first started,” he segues. “I needed to know what was happening to me, why I was able to see such vivid details by merely touching someone—like with Julie.”

I look away tempted to remind him that I’m not her. But then I feel it—he swallows my hand up in his. And then he slides off his stool and takes a step forward, so close that my face is level with his chest.

“What are you thinking?” he asks. The cotton of his sweatshirt presses against my cheek with each breath.

“
You tell me,
” I say, noticing how that same breath deepens and becomes rhythmic, as if he’s trying his best to stay in control.

He grips me tighter, and threads his fingers through mine.

“Do you feel anything?” I ask.

He meets my eyes, just watching me for several seconds without saying anything. “You’re a control freak, aren’t you?”

“That’s what you sense?”

“It’s what I observe. You like to have things in order. You like everything all planned out. Am I right?”

My mouth trembles, and I manage a nod.

Meanwhile, Ben edges closer. His leg grazes my thigh. “So, what do you do about things beyond your control?” he asks.

“Like what?”

His hand clenches mine harder, in a tightening pressure that nearly makes me lose my breath. “Like whether or not it’s going to rain tomorrow, or whether I’m going to kiss you right now.”

I open my mouth to speak—to tell him he’ll have to find out for himself—but then he moves in to kiss me anyway.

A moment later, the front door swings open with a bang.

He jumps back and releases my hand.

“Camelia, are you home?” my dad calls.

Ben scurries to grab the pieces of photo. He feeds them inside the envelope, then stashes it up the back of his sweatshirt.

A second later, my parents come into the kitchen. They look back and forth between Ben and me, waiting for some explanation, but I don’t even know what just happened myself.

Ben introduces himself as my lab partner from school.

My mother extends her hand for a shake. Ben eyes it, but he doesn’t move. Her face furrowed, Mom looks at Dad and then at me. At the same moment, Ben quickly shakes her hand— their fingers barely touch—and then tells us he has to go.

43

I can’t sleep.

It’s almost midnight, and I’m lying awake in bed, trying my best to put the events of the night behind me and get a little rest.

But it isn’t working.

After Ben left, my mother sat me down for a talk. And while I thought she’d at least mention Ben’s visit and his weird handshake, his name never even came up.

“Where did you and Dad go tonight?” I asked, noticing how she couldn’t even look at me. Her skin was all blotchy, and her normally kinky curls were slicked back into a tight knot.

After several sips of tea and countless yoga breaths, she finally opened up, telling me how she and Dad went to the hospital today intending to visit Aunt Alexia, but how once there my mother couldn’t even bring herself to step inside.

“I couldn’t face her,” she said. “I couldn’t look her in the eye.”

I scooted in closer to pat her back. “Why is she even in there?”

With a pillow clutched over her middle, my mother told me that Aunt Alexia tried to kill herself again (for the fourth time, to be exact).

“Is she going to be all right?”

Instead of answering, Mom started crying, and so dad scooped her up and carried her off to their bedroom.

And meanwhile I went off to mine.

I roll over in bed, looking for my stuffed polar bear, but it isn’t burrowed under my covers or stashed under my mound of pillows. I let out a sigh and gaze toward the window.

The moon is swollen and stirring tonight—just like me. My body feels bruised, and I can’t seem to stifle this tugging sensation inside me. I pull the covers up to my chin only to find that they make me feel smothered. And so I sit up in bed, wishing I were outside, to feel the velvety night air over my skin and allow its darkness to swallow me whole.

I look toward my bedroom door. My mother is still sobbing—I can hear her in the bedroom across the hall. I can hear my dad, too. He tells her everything will be okay. I wonder if he really believes it.

The moon casts a strip of light across my bed, cutting it in two. Slowly I get up and move to the window. I pull up the screen, and a salty breeze blows through, smelling like the sea, reminding me of Ben.

I grab my cell phone and start to call him, but I’m still not getting a signal, and so, without even thinking, I reach for my jacket and crawl outside, hoping that will make a difference. Finally, the call goes through.

“Camelia?” He answers on the first ring.

Standing at the front of my house, I clutch the phone against my ear, not even knowing what to say.

“Where are you?” he asks, not even asking for explanation.

“Outside,” I reply, trying to be mysterious. The light of the moon illuminates a puddle on the street. “And you?”

“Same,” he whispers.

“For real?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I needed some air.”

My pulse quickens, and my blood stirs. It feels like there’s a fire inside me. I look back toward my bedroom window, unwilling to go in just yet. “Will you come get me?” I ask.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he says, “because I’m already on my way.”

He clicks the phone off. A few minutes later, I hear the sound of his motorcycle from several streets away. It moves closer, getting louder and filling my head with a numbing buzz.

I walk to the edge of the street, finally able to see him. He pulls over, hands me his helmet, and tells me to hop on.

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