Second Thoughts (30 page)

He sat down at the kitchen table as if it was any other day, as if he hadn't just done the thing that would kill him by morning.

And sitting across from him was Daniel Astor.

D
ANIEL
A
STOR HAD
made Mark Penrose do it. Had Thought him to it.

The whole story was there in a series of images, a silent movie for me to decipher. There were Mark and Dan in a heated argument. There was Dan hugging a younger and thinner, and sobbing, Carter, hugging him like he was the most precious thing in the world. There was Mark in a new-agey apothecary I actually recognized, a local place, still in business, chatting familiarly with the owner and carrying a bag out to the car. There was Dan smiling and chatting with the same woman. There was Carter again, younger still, talking to Dan and nodding, rapt at whatever his uncle was saying. There was, interestingly, Mark Penrose sobbing over his wife's grave. It was snowy and on a few nearby stones I saw wreaths. I wondered if it was Christmas.

I stopped there. I'd watch the vision again later, really study it, but I needed some time to recover, to keep myself from completely breaking down. My migraine problem was officially cured, but that didn't stop my head from throbbing for different reasons. Shock. Anger. Fear.

Daniel Astor was a murderer.

Carter's hero,
my
uncle, was a murderer.

Just thinking the words made me want to retch. I'd dined with him, talked with him, granted him influence over my future, given him the
opportunity to ingratiate himself with my
family,
and, if I was being honest, let the idea of him worm more than a little ways into my heart. I had even entertained the idea that I might someday be ready to join the Perceptum. And that was only about
me.
He was practically like
Carter's
second father.

This would
ruin
Carter. Ruin him. I didn't know how I could ever tell him what I saw, nor even if I should. And I knew now what had happened with my vision. It was no impending accident, no fortuitous shifting of fate, nothing we thwarted or changed or managed to evade at all. With this final, damning piece of evidence, it all made perfect sense.

Daniel Astor had an idea to kill me.

And to use Carter to do it.

This explained why I could never read any details and why the vision seemed to come and go—it was just an idea. A very real idea, but not a definite one. Carter had been exactly right when he'd said it was our
potential
fate. Before now, before I'd discovered this very ugly secret, I wouldn't have known why, precisely, he'd want me dead. At first, it was probably because of Jill. Perhaps the moment I first had the vision was when he learned her gift was gone. Maybe killing me had been one potential way of dealing with what I'd done.

But now? Now I knew the
potential
was even greater than it had been before. It was probably closer to inevitable, and would likely hinge on what
I
did.

But why involve Carter? It seemed cruel. I already knew he was cruel, but he
loved
Carter. Maybe it was convenient. I'm sure he could easily have poisoned Mark Penrose himself, but it was neater not to get his hands dirty. To make it look like something Mark had done, if the question ever arose. To make it
be
something Mark had done, I realized. That was why touching
Dan
had never produced a vision. He
was ultimately, but
indirectly,
responsible. I wondered what he'd made Mark
Think
the poison was.

I wondered what he'd make Carter
Think
happened to me.

Daniel Astor was a murderer, past and future, and I didn't know why or what to do. One thing was certain though—I couldn't do anything if I was dead.

A
LL THE WAY
across the street I repeated the mantra
I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry, I will NOT…
and it worked. For a few minutes anyway. Carter's watch was in my bag, wrapped in a silk scarf to protect it and so I wouldn't have to touch it again.

I went in the back door, just in case. I'd calmed down and cleaned myself up to the point that I looked not
good,
but not like I'd just had a major breakdown or uncovered a murder. The refrain in my head was helping me stay that way and the dim back rooms of Penrose Books would help disguise me further. Plus if I couldn't hold it together, I didn't want to be standing in front of the whole school. There was even a chance my roommate was here, and I really didn't want to see her like this.

Instead, I saw Carter. And Melinda and Jeff.

The entire family was there.

Melinda leaned her back on the counter, talking over her shoulder to her nephew while he laughed. Seeing the two of them together, with all the features that would re-create Mark Penrose's face between them, I couldn't help but cry for them once more. Jeff stood just off to Melinda's side, watching her with an expression that broadcast devotion. They were nothing short of beautiful together, and I loved them all. My mantra crumbled like wet paper.

Carter must have heard me because he turned around. He smiled when he saw me peeking from the shadows of the back room and stepped into the doorway. “Okay,
this
time you're crying.”

It was a sweet joke, and I loved him desperately for it, but all I could do was cry harder. When he realized this had to be serious, he immediately switched gears. “Hey, hey. You're
really
crying. What is it? What can I do?”

“I have to tell you something.”

“Okay. It's okay.” He pulled me to a seat on the dusty floral couch and I buried my face in his chest. I'd glimpsed Melinda hovering in the doorway and Carter's helpless expression, telling her he didn't know if he needed her or not. “Did something happen? Did you and Amy fight again?”

“No, it's not that. I…”

I almost told him. I faltered, the confession on the brink of spilling from my tongue, before huge, racking sobs choked it back.

I couldn't do it. Not yet, and not here. Not while he was at work, in the middle of a bookstore full of students. It was just too terrible. Last year, I'd been a brilliant actress after the
Jillian Incident,
never once crying or slipping up, but I didn't think anyone in the world was a good enough actress for
this
secret.

In between rubbing my back and hugging me tightly enough to stop the shaking, Carter said, “Can you tell me why you're crying?”

“I don't know if I'm making the right decision.”

“There's not a
wrong
decision here, Lainey,” he soothed. He thought I was still talking about the future, when really it was the past crushing me now, sitting on my throat so that I couldn't take a deep breath and squeezing my heart so that it hurt to beat. It was almost like last year, like I could feel Jill on top of me, choking my life away. “Trust me. Wherever you choose, we'll
make
it the right one.”

I stayed there, holding Carter and wishing today had never happened, until I started to calm down. “Deep breaths, there you go. Yoga in, yoga out.” I tried not to laugh at that, afraid it would set me
crying again, but a ridiculous snort-sob escaped and Carter smiled down at me. “Perfect,” he pronounced and I did it again.

I shouldn't have been laughing, or close to it, but that was the thing about life. I'd learned it last year and was relearning it again now. Something happens, something that changes you, changes
everything,
but life still goes on. You feel like the world should stop for the weight of what just happened, but it doesn't. Life doesn't even slow. You laugh again, sometimes even when you shouldn't. You have things you still have to do, like finish your homework and stop putting off choosing a college.

I wasn't sure if I was going to make it there, but I knew where I wanted to go. I even knew what was going to happen the moment I made the decision.

“Carter?” My voice was rough and muffled by his shirt.

“Still here, babe.”

“I want to go to Boston. For real this time.”

I could feel the smile in his lips when they brushed the top of my head. “Perfect,” he repeated. “And see? That wasn't so bad. The world didn't even end.”

But he was wrong. As soon as I said it, and meant it, the vision returned.

Except this time it was complete.

I
was surprisingly used to watching people die. I had no choice. I saw them all the time.

They just weren't usually
me.

More terrible than
knowing
you're going to die, than even knowing someone you love will have a part in it, was watching it happen. A tragic silent movie of the worst possible horrors, starring a heroine unwilling, a hero unwitting, and a villain hidden safely offscreen.

I'd seen how I was going to die. I knew where, I knew how, and thanks to a lucky tidbit of information from Carter, I even knew when.

There was no time stamp on my visions, which would have made this gift/curse of mine so much more useful, but just before I left for curfew, after Carter gave me one final, reluctant kiss goodbye, he said, “Hey, did I tell you my uncle's coming to graduation this year? It's supposed to be a surprise, but I figured he wouldn't mind if I told you.”

Actually, he probably would.

I could have guessed anyway, but it was helpful to have confirmation. Since the beginning of the year, even if it was unspoken, I'd
known the deadline for my answer—join the Perceptum or not—coincided with graduation.

Now I was pretty sure I wouldn't even make it
to
graduation.

The thing I couldn't figure out was
why.
I mean, the fact that I knew the secret of Mark Penrose was probably good enough reason for Senator Astor to decide once and for all to eliminate me too, but I didn't think that was it. He didn't know I knew, and I'd decided not to tell. Not yet. My gift would have told me the moment I touched Carter whether just the
knowledge
of his father's murder would lead to mine. But it didn't.

The vision hadn't returned until I'd definitively chosen Boston.

What was so important about Boston? And why was the vision complete this time? I couldn't understand the nuances of what I'd done or hadn't done that brought me to this. Maybe because knowing what I knew, I was also certain I'd
never
join the Perceptum. That made some sense. If that was it, I wondered a little why my refusal to work for the Perceptum hadn't maintained the vision all along. Maybe before now I hadn't believed it enough. Maybe Senator Astor didn't.

Ultimately, though, whatever it was, the
why
didn't matter. I didn't understand this compulsion, why he'd want to kill anyone, including me, and I might never. All that mattered was this:

I was going to die, and I had a plan to save myself.

I had a lot of work to do before graduation and not a lot of time.

S
OME OF THAT
work was to make things right with my best friend. I was angry at her, and at myself, but most of all, I missed her. But I'd never been in a fight like this before and I had no idea how to end it.

So I did it by accident. I came into our room to find my once perpetually happy roommate sobbing at her desk.

“Hey,” I said gently, rushing over and ignoring the fact that we weren't speaking. Her head was down, face buried in her folded arms,
and her body shook with crying. I brushed my fingers through her soft curls without thinking. It always made me feel better when Carter did that to me. “What's the matter?”

She stiffened when I touched her but then only sobbed harder before finally wailing, “I hate Iowa!”

Er. Iowa? It wasn't the answer I expected for her level of sorrow. I'd barely ever thought about Iowa, let alone generated any emotion over it, but I'd go with it. This was probably the most we'd said to each other in weeks. “What has Iowa done to make you hate it so much you're crying?” I probably should have known the answer.

“Caleb is going to Iowa for college.
Iowa!
Where the population ratio is forty cornstalks to one. I thought…I thought he'd go to UMass.”

I thought he would too. They'd been recruiting him for the baseball team and his brother was there. The main campus wasn't that far from Northbrook, actually. But more importantly, it was only a few hours from Boston. Iowa, on the other hand…well, I wasn't even sure there were daily flights to Iowa. I hadn't realized he was seriously considering it.

Once Amy started talking, she didn't want to stop. Her eyes were swollen and red, ringed by pools of mascara, and her clothes truly did not fit. She'd lost even more weight without my noticing. I stepped back and sat quietly on my bed to listen while she moved as she rambled, pulling at her hair and kicking pillows. “It's my fault, I know it. If it weren't for, just,
everything,
he wouldn't have…he wouldn't…I mean, Iowa. I-oh-wa. It's nowhere. It's, it's a freaking
red
state—”

“Actually, I think it's a swing—”

“—and I don't understand how he could
go
there. Without me,” she added very, very softly before she slumped onto her own bed.

She paused long enough for me to ask, “Why
is
he going there?”

“Full scholarship.” Her voice was barely louder than before and she tossed one of her smaller pillows up and down over her head.

“And baseball?” She nodded and her pillow thumped into the wall. “Well…that sounds hard to turn down.”

She sighed. “I think…I think I should just break up with him.”

“What?”

“It's, just, it'll hurt less now, I think. Be easier. Iowa is so far and I…I can't even deal with him being around a freaking eighth grader while I'm
here.
I don't think I can do it, long distance, and I don't want to wait until summer.”