"I don't like reading family or friends."
Luke snorted. "Is that some kind of psychics code of ethics?"
I took a deep breath. "No, it's mine. I wouldn't want anyone knowing my private emotions." I thought about the time Tessa read me and confessed that she was also empathic. It felt as I'd imagined it would: an intrusion.
Sinder leaned forward. "But if we want you to, what's the big deal?"
"Start with me," Luke said. "Tell me what I'm feeling right now."
"I don't need to be empathic to do that."
I expected to see a smirk on his face, but his expression was serious.
"Just read me." He said it in a voice that seemed inappropriate to the occasion. My stomach tingled. I lowered my gaze. "Are you scared to?"
"He's an ass," Sinder said. "Read me."
I didn't want to read anybody, but I found myself unable to take my eyes away from hers. They were child-like—huge and vulnerable-looking. Love. Then the emotion seemed to grow edges. An amorphous cloud of jealousy shimmered between us like heat. But I sensed no hate or vengeance.
"Is she the killer?" Luke said.
"Can we stop this, please?" Ione said. She didn't look cold anymore. "This is the stupidest thing I ever—"
"Why are you so resistant?" Sinder said. "Do you have something to hide?"
Embry slapped his hand on the table, and everybody jumped. "Enough of this crap. Let's go." He got to his feet and pulled Ione up by the arm. Before anyone could react, they were halfway down the street.
"I knew it," Sinder said. "They're both hiding something."
"Can you give us a minute?" Luke said to her.
We both looked at him. Sinder nodded, got up, and went into the cafe. I kept my eyes on the door.
"Look at me."
I did, reluctantly. My eyes lingered on his stubbly chin and traveled across his face. His cheeks were pink from the chill. I looked into his eyes. Lust, affection, and deception tangled together and settled at the base of my throat. Deception over what?
"Satisfied?" I said, taking a sip of cappuccino that had grown cold.
Luke picked up his cup and rose from the table. "Actually, I'm not." He zipped his jacket. "But that's another topic for another day." He gave a half-salute and walked away.
Sinder must have been watching from a window. She came out just as he left.
"Let's go to my house," she said. "I want to show you something."
I glanced at the time on my phone. "I'm supposed to meet my grandfather in about an hour."
"It won't take long. I promise. I parked on the next block. I'll drop you off after."
***
We entered Sinder's house, and she ushered me quickly through the hall.
"Rosie, is that you?" A voice called out from the kitchen.
Sinder stopped in her tracks and rolled her eyes. "My middle name's Rose," she said to me in a low voice. "It's me, Mom. Just headed to my room with a friend."
I expected her mother to come out and greet us, but she remained in the kitchen. "One of your cute boyfriends? The red-head or the other one?"
Sinder pulled me along. "A girl friend, Mom."
I was curious but didn't question her. We entered her room, and I looked around, wide eyed. Her bed wasn't just unmade. The comforter and the sheets were halfway off the mattress, and one pillow was on the nightstand. Papers and books were piled in a corner, and energy-drink cans littered the desk.
"It's not usually like this," she said. A framed photo of her and Desmond hung on the wall above her desk. "I was anxious to hear what you and Luke had to say."
"Can I ask you something?" I said, studying the photo.
Sinder stop tidying and turned to face me.
"Did you and Desmond ever—"
"I wasn't his type."
"And what was his type?"
She folded her arms and looked at the photo. "Picture Ione. Everything about her. Her nose in the air, her entitled attitude, the hair flip, the mood swings."
"They dated so briefly," I said. "Were they together after that?"
Sinder gathered her hair and tied it in a knot. "He didn't confide in me like that. I suspected they were still connected somehow. But that's not why I asked you to come over."
I found myself wishing more and more that I had Tessa's power of premonition. Sinder seemed nervous all of sudden. She opened the closet door and pulled on a string dangling from the ceiling. I peered inside. The light illuminated a closet empty of clothes and shoes. On the floor, pushed against the back wall, was an altar.
My eyes traveled over it. Two fat, white candles sat at either end near the top of the board of dark wood. Beside the candle on the left were two, small, unlabeled glass vials that contained what looked like oil. On the right was a silver chalice etched with a pentagram. A small, silver bowl sat on top of another pentagram carved onto the board.
"I know you think it's silly." Sinder said in a shaky voice. "It's just that, well, I've been following the Ridge Grove case since before you got here. I know you say you're not a witch, but I think you're confusing it with the stereotype."
I kept a straight face. "Witches call themselves pagans, right? They worship the goddess or whatever? Well, I believe in God, and the Bible condemns witchcraft."
"Tell me this," she said, cupping her hands together. "Where do you think your abilities come from?"
I'd wondered about this, myself. "From God."
She nodded slowly and seemed to be choosing her next words carefully. "If that's true, why are you afraid of them?"
"I'm not," I said too quickly. "I just don't...it's not about..." I sighed. "I have to figure this out at my own pace, and I have to do it alone. I'm not a witch, and I don't want to practice witchcraft or start a coven."
"But that's just it," Sinder said, her face shining with excitement. "You don't have to do it alone. I can help you."
"You're not clairvoyant."
Her lips twitched. "I think I'm an Intuitive."
I glanced at her little altar. Why was she hounding me about this? "When you start dreaming about death," I said, "we'll talk. I've got to go. You don't have to drop me off. I'll take the Metro."
She visibly stiffened. I hated disappointing people, but I certainly didn't have a problem saying no. As Sinder turned off the light and closed the door, I did double-take at the altar. I grabbed the door and pushed it open.
"What's in those little bottles?"
"Oils," she said, pulling the light on again.
"What kind?"
"Almond and lavender. Why?"
"Almonds?"
"Yeah," she said. "I use them in my spells."
Chapter Eight
When the implication behind my question dawned on her, she shook her head. "Desmond wasn't allergic to almonds."
"How do you know?"
"Because I..." She stopped abruptly and looked at her feet. I'd already caught a flash of shame. She folded her arms. "You've got the wrong idea. I practice good magic. I don't hurt people."
"There is no such thing as—"
"There is," she said, her voice rising.
Before I could receive another flash of emotion from her, I turned to leave. "I'll see you later."
She grabbed my arm. "I didn't do anything wrong."
I glanced at door. Could her mother hear us? "I'm not accusing you of anything."
"I feel that you are. Like I said, I'm an Intuitive."
I lightened the mood. "I'm going to be late. We'll talk later, okay?"
She reluctantly let go of my arm. "I'm sorry. This is not how I wanted this to go."
"Don't worry about it."
I left her house and walked three, long blocks to the nearest Metro station. I trudged down the stairs in a trance, the breeze from the incoming train making me shiver. A stab of regret shot through me.
I should have gotten samples from both bottles of oil to test on Luke's allergy kit.
***
Granddad sat o
n a park bench wearing his prescription sunglass and reading a copy of the Examiner. I slowed my approach and watched him. A longing to be back in Ridge Grove with him reached deep into my bones.
"You look like you belong here," I called.
He peered around and smiled when he saw me. He closed the paper. "If I were a younger man, maybe. But city life ain't for me."
I sat beside him and leaned my head on his shoulder.
"What's up, buttercup?"
"Why does it seem like death is following me around?"
He didn't answer right away. We watched people go by. "Death is as natural as life," he said. "I could say it's coincidence, but if that boy's death turns out to be murder...well."
I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples.
He touched my arm. "I have a feeling death is destined to be a recurring theme for you because of your gifts."
I shuddered at the thought, then counted my blessings. At least I wasn't hearing or seeing dead people. Or whoever the beings were. "Maybe there's some drug to suppress the dreams," I said.
He grunted. "I don't think you want to go through life without dreaming."
I shrugged. We watched a man with a huge, black Saint Bernard walk by. The dog dragged him along.
Granddad tapped my knee. "Let's walk."
I told him about my visit with Sinder and the bottles of oil on her altar.
"Hmm. Someone allergic to peanuts might not be allergic to almonds, and vice versa."
"Really?"
"Peanuts are from the legume family," he said, "and almonds from the plum family. An almond isn't nut, although that's what people commonly believe. A peanut isn't really a nut, either...well, you get the point."
"And why do you know this?"
He grinned. "I went to school with a girl who was allergic to peanuts and made it my business to know more about it."
I smiled at him. "You wanted to serve and protect even back in the day?"
"Back in the day? Wasn't that long ago."
We caught a crowded train headed in the direction of the Smithsonian. I'd forgotten that tourists descended on the city during the Thanksgiving holiday.
"Sinder seemed sure Desmond wasn't allergic to almonds," I said once we were seated. "If she knew the difference between them, I don't understand why she hadn't mentioned it. Perhaps she'd seen him eating almonds. Again, why hadn't she just said so?"
Granddad took off his sunglasses and peered at me. "You don't think this girl killed him, do you?"
"I don't want to think that. I should keep my nose out of it."
He snorted. "That'll be the day."
Chapter Nine
I tried in vain to put all thoughts of murder out of my mind. I was trapped. As much as I wanted to escape, I couldn't. I had to face whatever this all meant. When I came downstairs Monday morning to fuel up on caffeine, the expression on my mother's face made my stomach flip. Her fear and panic were contagious. I followed her gaze to her laptop on the counter. I walked over and squinted at the words on the screen.
Questions Arise in Student's Death
Police are questioning whether the death of a Thomas Grier School student was accidental after it was determined that a bottle of canola oil found in the school's kitchen pantry contained traces of peanuts. The police also determined that the oil was used to make cheesecake brownies for that day's dessert. Witnesses reported seeing seventeen-year-old Desmond Drake, who had a severe allergy to peanuts, eating a brownie shortly before he collapsed. Police are also looking into allegations that his epinephrine medication was missing. The deceased died of anaphylactic shock at the school last Wednesday.
I glanced at my mother. She had her back to me, busying herself at the stove. I read on:
Mrs. Una Brennan, the school cook who baked the brownies, told the police, against the advice of the school's legal counsel, that she didn't know how peanut traces got into the canola oil bottle.
"I have worked at Thomas Grier for 26 years," Brennan said. "I am devastated by what happened, and I will cooperate with the police in any way I can."
Police refused to name a suspect or speculate about motives.
"We're giving this case our due diligence," a police spokesman said. "We'll investigate every aspect and go where the evidence leads us."
Mr. Drake, a senior at the distinguished school, founded at the turn of the century, had been admitted to Georgetown University.
The rest of the story included quotes from the headmaster. I walked over to my mother and put my arms around her.
"Somebody intentionally killed him?" she said. "I can't believe this is happening again. Why?"
I had no answers or comforting words. My grandfather bounded into the kitchen and went straight to a cabinet to get a coffee mug. He froze in the act of reaching for the coffee and stared at us. "What's going on?"
I pointed to the laptop. He scanned it. "Oh, no."
My mother broke from me and slumped into a chair.
"This doesn't mean Guinan is in danger," Granddad said. "It has nothing to do with—"
"With what?" my mother said, her eyes wide. "With murder turning up wherever my daughter goes?"
"Mom, I—"
"I'm going to take you out of that school," she said, rising so abruptly, she knocked her mug to the floor. I bent to clean it up, and my grandfather waved me away. He winked and pointed to the door. I nodded and heard her sobbing on my way out.
I know it was irrational for me to feel guilt. This wasn't my fault. I didn't choose this. I also felt anger. Maybe in some weird way, I was supposed to end up where murder was ready to strike. You're not a superhero. What was I, exactly?
I walked the halls at school and sat in my classes feeling on display. I'd catch students watching me, then dropping their gazes or jerking their heads away like I had the Evil Eye. Between classes, I walked with my head down. At the bell, I left the classroom and rammed into someone with a hard chest.
"Sorry," I said. I looked into the face of Luke Chapman.
"Can you believe it?" he said, his lips drawn into a grim line. "The cops are only now questioning whether it's an accident?"
Two girls I recognized as sophomores slowed as they walked by, their eyes lingering on Luke.
"Yes?" he said.
The color drained from one girl's face, and the other looked as if she might cry. They picked up the pace.
"You must be used to that by now," I said.
"What?"
"Girls staring at you."
"Guys stare at you."
I rolled my eyes. "Because I'm new, and I'm a..." A freak? A witch?
He smiled. "They're looking at you because you're cute."
I shook my head. "They think what happened to Desmond is my fault."
His expression softened. "Guinan, that's crazy, and you know it."
I gave a humorless laugh. "Death follows me around. I brought it with me to Thomas Grier."
"Ridiculous. Did you, uh, dream about Desmond's death?"
I shook my head. "Not even a hint. I didn't dream of my grandmother's death or the death of a teacher at my old school. I didn't dream of Skeeter Watson's death, either."
Luke watched me, his brow furrowed. He seemed fascinated.
"In fact," I said, lowering my gaze, "I didn't even dream of Kate Mansfield's death. I dreamed of my own." One of those comfortable silences hung between us. "My grandmother dreamed about people dying."
"Did she try to save the people she dreamed about?"
I frowned and studied my feet. "I know of only one."
"So she just let the other people die?"
I looked up at him sharply. "I don't think it was her responsibility to dedicate her life to saving people from dying." Death is as natural as life.
He held up his hands. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply...well, I guess I did. Let's say you dreamed about Drake suffocating like that. You'd have tried to save him, wouldn't you?"
"Of course."
Luke closed
his eyes. "I can't believe he's gone. I shouldn't even be here today."
I reached for his hand but drew back just before he opened his eyes.
"Come on," he said. "Let's at least try to eat."
At lunch, I discovered one reason everybody was staring at me. Embry slid his tablet across the table to me.
"I take it you saw the Post story this morning," he said. "Check this out."
I reluctantly took it. He'd been reading the Morning Malcontent.
I Hear Dead People
The demise of Desmond Drake is a tragedy this crusty old school will never live down. Snuffed out in the prime of his life, Mr. Drake was full of promise. But someone saw to it he'd never fulfill that promise. There's an unfaithful, disloyal, and homicidal maniac among us. Whoever you are, your days are numbered.
How does the Malcontent know? Because our resident clairvoyant, Guinan Jones '15, "listened" to Mr. Drake after he died.
You heard it right. We've speculated about what Miss Jones can do, you and I. Speculate no more. The Malcontent witnessed her kneeling beside him, looking into his eyes, and "listening" to his thoughts. Did he name his killer? I'd wager Miss Jones knows who the killer is, but for reasons that will become evident, she's keeping it to herself.
"That's not true," I blurted out. "I don't know anything, and if I did, I certainly wouldn't keep it to myself."
Embry broke the awkward silence that followed. "Good thing I don't believe in the paranormal. Bad thing that others do."
I read the post again and tried to remember noticing anyone pointedly watching me lean over Desmond's body. With so many people surrounding us, I couldn't exactly hide what I was doing. The person could be anybody who was in the lunch room that day.
Ione arrived at the table and took the seat beside Embry. I gave him back his tablet. She glanced at it.
Mourning Moon (A Guinan Jones Paranormal Mystery #2) Page 5
