by Clara Kensie
“There’s no other option. I had a plan, but it didn’t work.” I told him about emailing the college professor. “We check every day at school, but he’s never put that red star on his website. Maybe he doesn’t believe us. Or maybe he’s too scared to help.”
“You keep calling him ‘the man,’” he said. “You know his name though. What is it?”
I’d told him everything else. I’d told him volumes. I could tell him two more words. Five syllables. I could say them. I could do it.
I closed my eyes. Took a breath.
Licked my lips, swallowed.
Then I forced myself to say it.
But nothing came out but a little squeak.
Exhaling with a sob, I shook my head. I’d told my parents his name that day eight years ago, and that was the first and last time I’d ever said it. Logically, I knew he couldn’t hear me. My family said his name all the time. But I could not bring myself to force those two words from my vocal cords and out of my mouth, releasing them into the universe.
Saying his name wouldn’t conjure him up and make him suddenly appear. But names were important. Nobody knew that better than me. Names were powerful.
And Dennis Connelly already had too much power over me.
I simply couldn’t, wouldn’t, give him any more.
“You don’t have to say it,” Tristan murmured. He took a notebook and pen from the drawer on his nightstand. “Write it down.”
“Why?”
“I just want to know his name.”
“You can’t look for him!” I cried. “My parents have been looking for information on him for eight years. They’ve never been able to find anything. If you Google him, he’ll know it. He’ll trace it somehow, and he’ll come here. He’s done it before. He’ll kill us, he’ll kill you—”
“I won’t look for him. I just...I need to know the name of the man who is torturing you. Please. I have to know.” His pleading eyes made him look so vulnerable, so helpless. They reminded me of Jillian and Logan eight years ago, when they’d begged our parents to tell them who had sliced me open, who had chased us from our home, who was hunting us. They hadn’t seen his attack. They didn’t even know what he looked like. They needed something solid—something concrete—to fear, rather than a shapeless, nameless shadow.
Tristan needed the same thing.
Maybe if he knew his name, he could share my fear. And perhaps take some of it away.
With trembling fingers, I took the pen from him.
For a moment I considered writing a fake name, just to give him something tangible. But I didn’t want to lie to him anymore. I opened the notebook to a random blank page. In tiny, shaky letters, I wrote:
—and slammed the notebook shut.
“Don’t look until tonight, after I’ve gone home,” I said. “Then you have to burn it. Promise me you’ll burn the page.”
“I promise.”
“Burn the whole notebook.”
“I will.”
“And then you can never say his name out loud.”
He agreed, then opened a drawer on his nightstand and put the notebook inside. “Now I need you to promise me not to leave Twelve Lakes,” he said. “Don’t let your family know you told me anything. If there’s any chance of my mom’s dream coming true, you need to stay here with me.”
I nodded. I never wanted leave Twelve Lakes. I wanted to stay right here, with them and with Tristan, forever.
“Can you think of anything else?” he asked. “Anything at all?”
“You know everything now. No more secrets. No more lies.” My scale of lies was now completely empty on Tristan’s side. I pictured the little weights rolling off the scale in a loud clatter and then disappearing into nothingness. My parents’ side of the scale shot straight down, now that it held all the weight.
Tristan was reluctant to bring me home that night. “But I need to get home. If I’m late, my dad will send out his mobile eye to make sure I’m okay,” I said, then smiled. “I love that I can tell you that now.”
He returned my smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He kissed me with a desperate urgency, as if he thought he’d never see me again. I had to reassure him I was safe until my father saw the man coming. I gave him the same arguments my parents gave me, arguments I never quite believed.
By the look in his eyes, I knew he didn’t believe them either.
Chapter Twenty-Five
When I went to my room to get ready for bed, feeling lighter and heavier at the same time, I was surprised to see something on my bed. A little silver dress. A note in my mother’s handwriting lay on top:
She must have purchased it for me just hours after accepting Tristan and calling me Babydoll, while I was betraying her by telling Tristan our family’s secrets.
I ran my fingers over the material. The dress was strapless and fell to just above my knees. Several layers of crinoline hung from under the silver bodice and a wide silk ribbon tied around the waist in a bow. A gift box held a pair of silver heels and a little silver handbag. It was too extravagant for a simple school dance, but I didn’t care. I loved it.
“I already sewed a pocket under the skirt for your cell phone,” my mom said from the doorway.
She loved me so much.
I tried not to think about all the secrets I was keeping from her now.
* * *
The dark shadows under Tristan’s eyes were visible from fifty feet away as he paced at the corner the next morning. When he saw me, he almost collapsed in relief. He grabbed me and held me for a long time. He kept both arms around me as we headed toward school, making it difficult to walk.
“Did you tell anyone?” I asked him.
He shook his head wearily. “I need time to figure everything out anyway.”
“I’m sorry to burden you with this.”
“You’re never a burden.”
I told him about my Winterball dress, hoping to see his face brighten, first his eyes, then his smile. He did smile, but it only reached his lips.
The shadows under his eyes grew darker each day. I knew he wasn’t sleeping at night and insisted he nap after school while I studied. I would lie on his bed and pat my belly. He would climb into bed and lift my sweater to give each of my scars a gentle kiss. He used my stomach as a pillow. I loved the feeling of his head on my belly, right over my scars. It gave my stomach a new purpose, something other than a permanent reminder of Dennis Connelly’s attack.
* * *
At lunch on Thursday, Tristan and I sat with our friends, as usual. He pretended to laugh along with their jokes, but his laughter was hollow and always a second late. He kept his arm tight around my shoulders, as if I would disappear if he let go.
He suddenly sat up straight, eyes wide, then murmured in my ear. “Your brother and sister are coming. They’re going to take you away.”
“What—” But before I could finish, Jillian and Logan rushed into the cafeteria and up to the table.
Her eyes were damp. “Sarah, you need to come with us.”
“Did Mom call?” With one arm I reached for my cell phone. With the other I grabbed Tristan. “Are we leaving?”
“No,” Logan said. “Shelby just needs to show us something.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “In the computer lab.”
The professor. The red star!
Tristan said he only got premonitions when something bad was about to happen, but this wasn’t bad at all! I scrambled to my feet, and he stood up with me. Jillian glared at him and swiped away a tear. “Not you, Tristan. Stay away.” She grabbed my hand and tugged.
He gave me a little nod in a silent message: I’ll be right behind you.
As Jillian pulled me from the lunchroom, I turned to give him an excited smile.
But his face was grim.
And Jillian was crying.
Something was horribly wrong.
* * *
Professor Fielding’s portrait smiled at us as we huddled around the monitor in a private corner of the computer lab. His webpage had changed, but there was no red star. Instead two words hovered in a fancy bold font over his head.
“Wh...” I swallowed hard. “What does that mean?”
“It means he’s dead!” Jillian’s voice was high with near-hysteria. “It means our email led Dennis Connelly straight to him.” She covered her mouth with her hands and whimpered. “He’s dead, and it’s our fault.”
No. “It’s my fault.” I was the one who’d seen that word, parapsychology, in the catalog. I was the one who’d wanted to contact the professor. I was the one who’d convinced Jillian and Logan to help me email him. Guilt swept through me like a fog, making me sway with dizziness.
Logan took my arm and placed me in a chair. “Hold on a minute. Don’t jump to conclusions.” He clicked on a link that led to the professor’s obituary. “Look. It says here he had a brain aneurysm. He wasn’t...” He eyed my stomach and made a swiping motion with his fingers.
My hands fluttered to my belly, the scent of cherry cigars filling my nose.
“The webpage was updated today, but he died three weeks ago,” Logan said. “If Connelly had intercepted the email, he would’ve found us by now. I don’t think he had anything to do with this.” Settling the issue with a firm nod, he clicked back to the professor’s portrait and stared at it with a disappointed sigh.
“What’s going on?”
Jillian and Logan jumped, but I recognized Tristan’s voice behind me. He pulled me from the chair and into his arms.
“Geez, Tristan, possessive much? I told you to stay away,” Jillian snapped, but her bark lost its bite when she sniffled.
“Just making sure everyone’s okay.” Tristan pointed to the smiling professor on the computer screen. “Who’s that?”
Through damp eyes, Jillian sent me a distressed look, devastation snuffing her normally lightning-quick ability to make up lies.
Logan cleared his throat. “He was a friend of the family. We just found out he passed away.”
Turns out we didn’t have to lie at all.
“Oh wow,” Tristan said. “I’m so sorry.” He gave me a squeeze, a silent question: What really happened?
I squeezed back: Tell you later.
The bell rang, and with a sniffle, Jillian wiped the makeup from under her eyes and padded from the room. I touched my fingertip to the professor’s portrait in a wordless goodbye before Logan closed the browser.
As Tristan walked me to class a few minutes later, I hurriedly explained the man on the screen was the professor we had emailed for help. His face turned gray, but he said Logan was right. His death could not possibly be my fault.
I tried desperately to believe him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
We were quiet at dinner that night. Not unusual for me or really even for Logan, but it was for Jillian. She slouched in her chair and picked at her food. Claiming exhaustion, she floated her plate into the kitchen and shuffled up to her room.
Later I sat at the desk in my room, staring at my study guide but seeing Professor Fielding’s portrait instead.
The image was shattered by an anguished howl.
I stumbled from my room. My sister knelt in the hallway, clutching her head. “I was...piggybacking...” she moaned, “and....” She choked on her sobs as blood, thick red blood, gushed from her nose.
The world grew hazy as Mom and Logan ran up the stairs. Our dad followed, slowly, his eyes dazed and unfocused. Mom, her jaw clenched, shook her head. “This is exactly what we were afraid of. We told you to stay out of your father’s head!”
“I had to try, Mom. I need to know where he is.” She blubbered through the blood on her lips as a fresh spurt poured from her nose. “I need to figure out how to stop him. I can’t keep living like this.” She moaned and gripped her head. “I can’t.”
“Mother, help her!” Logan cried.
But Mom remained motionless. The picture of the faded yellow flower vibrated against the wall, then the glass cracked and shattered.
“Wendy,” Dad mumbled, blinking the daze from his eyes. “Calm down.”
Logan shot his hand up to catch an ice pack as it zoomed up the stairs. “Press this to Jillian’s head, Tessa.”
Shaking, I took it and sank down next to Jillian. She gripped my hand, making it sticky with blood. Dizzy, woozy, I pressed the ice pack around her forehead, unable to take my eyes off the blood running from her nose, down her chin, dripping onto the carpet and soaking into the fibers.
I flinched when a vase flung itself against the wall. “What has gotten into you lately? All three of you?” Mom screeched. “Do you think we don’t know about your training sessions with those Zener cards?” All the doors lining the hallway trembled violently in their hinges. She wasn’t even trying to control herself now, and this time, she was more than upset. She was furious.
Her gray eyes seemed to flash silver as a table lamp flew through the air and smashed over my head. Logan dove to shield me as I shrieked and curled up into a ball.
“Wendy!” True panic in his voice, my dad grabbed her hand and tugged, but she yanked away.
Her next words were growled. “If you think you got away with something by emailing that college professor, you are wrong.”
My lungs turned to stone, and Jillian peeked up through swollen eyes. “How did you know?”
Lips in a straight line, Logan answered. “I told them. Tonight after dinner.” He gave us an apologetic shrug. “They needed to know what we did. We took a stupid risk.”
My sister hung her head, then flinched as another vase slammed itself into the wall. “That’s right. It was stupid!” Mom screeched. “Do you not care at all about this family? Do you not realize what your father and I have sacrificed to keep us all together?”
“I’m sorry!” Jillian screamed, then whimpered. “I am so sorry.”
“Get in your room. Now!”
Grimacing with pain, Jillian crawled to her room. My mom jerked her arm back and Jillian’s door slammed itself shut, splintering the door frame.
“Wendy, that’s enough.” Dad inched toward her with his palms up like he was approaching a rabid dog. “Let’s go downstairs and calm down.” He took her hand, and this time she didn’t pull away.
As he directed her to the stairs, he turned back to Logan and me. “You two also. Get in your rooms.”
On trembling legs, I rose, and Logan and I shuffled to our rooms.
Our house became very quiet.
* * *
A few minutes later, after I’d stopped shaking, I crept to my window and peeked out. Tristan was there, standing in the shadows across the street.
I knew he’d be there. He’d had a premonition I was distressed and came to make sure I was okay. He huddled against the cold, and though I couldn’t see his face in the dark, I knew his eyes would be dark with worry.
I waved to him. I’m okay, my wave said. Thank you for checking on me.
He pulled his hand from his pocket and waved back.
* * *
After an hour or so, I snuck out of my room. My parents were still downstairs, their words muffled, Mom’s high and fast, Dad’s calm and soothing.
I brought a dampened washcloth, along with a glass of water and two Tylenol, into Jillian’s room. She lay on the bed, curled on her side, stifling her sobs and moans of pain. I wiped the dried blood off her face and hands and carefully cleaned her gold bracelet. I supported her head as she took the pills, then held her hand until she fell asleep.
We were hurting, bleeding, even though De
nnis Connelly wasn’t close enough to slice us open. Was this part of his plan? To keep us running, hiding, terrorized? Maybe he was toying with us, the way a cat plays with a mouse, letting it scurry a few feet away and then catching it again, before growing tired of the game and finally pouncing on it and crushing it between its jaws.
He had to know we were suffering.
He had to know that even though he hadn’t captured us, he was killing us anyway.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jillian didn’t go to school the next day. When I left in the morning, my parents were sitting on either side of her bed, Dad pressing an ice pack to her head and Mom quietly crying. When I got home Mom was on her hands and knees in the hallway, scrubbing Jillian’s blood from the carpet.
The Winterball dance was starting in a few hours. I told my sister I’d stay home with her, but Mom insisted Logan and I go. She told Jillian she could to go too, but Jillian just shook her head.
While I was trying to do my hair in the bathroom, Jillian shuffled in. Her eyes were red, but she didn’t appear to be in as much pain. She curled my hair into dozens of loose spirals and applied my makeup.
I slipped into my silver dress and heels. The sparkles caught the light as I turned around for her, and she tied the ribbon in a bow around my waist. “It didn’t work,” she whispered. “Developing my own remote vision. It’s not going to happen.” She raised a shaky hand to rub her temple. “I’m so sorry, Tessa. I really thought I could save us.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I said. “You tried. I tried with the professor. We’ll try something else.”
“But what?” she asked. “What else can we do?”
“We can—” But I stopped. There was nothing else. “We can hope,” I said.
She just shook her head.
We stared at each other for a long time, then she grabbed me in a fierce hug. “Have fun at the dance tonight, okay?” she said. “Have the most fun you’ve ever had in your entire life.”
I hugged her back as tight as I could.
