Birds of a Feather

by Harper Crowley

  “So, let’s say I believe you, even for a second.” Yeah, I don’t have to be psychic to see that he doesn’t, but whatever. “What did you see?” He leans closer, his elbows propped on his knees.

  “Fire.” I gulp. “I saw her house engulfed in flames, I smelled smoke, and I heard screaming. It was awful. I tried to warn them, but who’s going to believe me? I’m just a teacher. And how do you really explain something like that? And then the visions kept coming, and they were getting worse and worse. Until the last one, when I heard my student crying for help as she choked on the smoke.”

  Nick swears. “What happened next?”

  I rub my wrists, still feeling the handcuffs cinching tightly against my skin. “That night, I couldn’t sleep. I went to her house. I had to—do you understand? If there was a fire, I had to do something. I didn’t know if I could stop it, but I could warn someone. Well, one of the neighbors got suspicious and called the police.”

  His eyes dart up to meet mine. “Did they arrest you?”

  “Not that time.” I scoff. “But I was placed on administrative leave with my school, and the second time they caught me out there, the police did take me in. I was freaking out. I could almost feel the fire coming. I knew it was going to happen, and that I might be the only one who could do something about it. That’s never happened to me before.”

  “What happened then?” Nick stands up and resumes his agitated pacing.

  “Four days later, the house did burn down, just like I said. But I was there that night, too, even though the cops had told me to stay away. I was there, and I saw the first curl of smoke as it reached the night air.” I stare at the wall, remembering that feeling, the fear. “I’ll never forget that.”

  “And the kid and her family? Were they okay?”

  I let out a heavy breath. “Yeah, I called 911, and the fire department got there in time. I was arrested, of course, and they were going to charge me with arson, but I didn’t care as long as my student and her family were safe.”

  He snorts. “Aren’t you a regular superhero?”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Hardly. Do you have any idea what it’s like to see things like this and know that even if you tell someone, they’re not going to believe you? Worse yet, they’ll think you’re crazy or that you did it, and then the rumors will spread. Those will kill your career and your reputation faster than an arrest record.”

  “I take it you lost your job?”

  “After all that? Oh yeah. The school couldn’t fire me outright because I wasn’t charged and I was part of the union. They called it ‘budget cuts,’ and when the time came around to hire someone for the position, suddenly there wasn’t an opening that met my qualifications. Not that I would have taken it, anyway. By then, I’d already been tried and found guilty by the public. I got death threats daily—on the phone, online, and in the mail—and the reporters wouldn’t leave me alone. I was even offered a book deal. I probably should have taken that, to be honest. Then I’d have had a bit more money in the starting-over fund.” Too bad I never have visions related to my own life, or I might have been able to find a way to avoid some of that disaster.

  Nick stops his pacing and jerks his head up. His gaze pins mine to the spot. “How often do you get these visions?”

  I shake my head. “Not very often, thank God. I don’t know if I could handle it if I saw something every time I touched someone.”

  “What do they look like? From the outside, I mean,” he says.

  I chew on my lip. “I don’t know. I think I kind of just stare into space, I guess. I’ve never asked anyone what it looks like before.”

  His brow furrows in concentration. “So if that’s what it looks like, then that first day you met me, the morning when you spilled my coffee all over my shirt and then got really quiet and stared off into space, you had a vision, didn’t you? One about me?”

  The blood drains from my face. Crap. I’d hoped he’d forgotten about that. “Yeah. I had a vision.” I’m so screwed.

  “What did you see?” Of course, he’s going to ask. Anyone else would do the same.

  I’ve got to try to dissuade him, at least one more time. “I-I don’t know if you want to hear this.”

  He folds his arms across his chest. “Try me.”

  “Fine. I saw you standing in a dimly lit hallway, holding a gun, and then you shot someone.”

  He stares at me, his jaw slack for a few seconds. A litany of swear words spills from his lips. “You’re crazy, you know that? This is unbelievable.” He turns on his heel and stalks to the door before stopping. “Look, I don’t know what the hell kind of game you’re playing, Willa—or should I say Shelby—but I’m done. You need to figure out your shit, because I’m calling the cops. No more lying. No more hiding the truth. They need to know about that book, and if you had something to do with all of this, and with Sandra’s death, they’ll get to the bottom of it. I don’t believe a word that’s coming out of your mouth. I just don’t. It’s BS. All of it. I’m not going to shoot someone. There’s no way.”

  He takes a ragged breath. “I suggest you call your lawyer. I don’t need to be psychic to know you’re probably going to need it.” He storms out of the apartment, and the door slams shut behind him, a fitting exclamation point to his statement.

  Silence fills the room. I’m screwed. I deserved that. I never should have told him who I am or what I could do, but I don’t think there was a way around it. Not with him staring at me, demanding the truth.

  At least you might be able to finish packing before the cops get here. Save you time later so you can leave right after they finish questioning you.

  With Nick’s words echoing in my head, I finish loading up the car and make a quick stop in my aunt’s office—I still can’t think of her as my mother, not yet—to grab the paperwork Mr. Erickson dropped off. If I’m going to call him anyway, then I might as well have everything ready for him to sign. If he agrees to represent me in any police matters, maybe he can take his retainer from the inheritance. I’m sure Sara won’t mind.

  After activating my new burner phone, I try to drown my misery in the paperwork Stan gave me. Everything looks pretty standard for a power of attorney, at least in my limited experience, until I get to the last page and the fine print. It’s written on different paper than the rest, without his law office’s letterhead, so he must have been in a hurry. That must be the addendum he talked about earlier.

  My aunt’s voice echoes in my head. Always read the fine print.

  I, Willa Thompson (also known as Shelby Williams), hereby give Stan Erickson full and immediate ownership of all property and assets both known and unknown, including but not limited to physical, financial, mineral, and legal as therein outlined in Wanda Williams’s last will and testament. I furthermore agree that should anything happen to me, as Wanda Williams’s sole heir, I forfeit all future rights and claims, should so any arise.

  What the—? I stare at the words, reading them over a few times, as if somehow they’ll make more sense and not mean what I think they mean. That little snake. He wanted me to sign away everything to him, including any assets I don’t know about. And then the last line sinks in. He called me Wanda Williams’s child. He doesn’t mention my sister or anyone else. He only talks about me. He knows.

  I jump to my feet. The papers scatter across the floor, fanning out around me, the last one landing on top, as if mocking me. I stab my sister’s number into the new phone, but it’s three hours behind in California, and she doesn’t answer. She’s probably still asleep. I listen impatiently while her voicemail plays before I can leave a message.

  “Sara, it’s off. I’m coming home. The lawyer lied. He’s a snake, and he’s trying to steal everything. I’ll see you in a few days.” I stuff the phone into my pocket, and one of the old wooden floorboards creaks behind me. I spin around, expecting Nick or Marge, but something heavy hits me on the head. I collapse to the ground, and everything goes dark.

  Chapter 1
5

  The throbbing in my head drags me from unconsciousness first. I blink, but it’s dark so I can’t make out anything anyway. The throbbing intensifies, and I fight back a groan as my mind groggily recalls what happened.

  I was loading my car. Nothing unusual there. I wanted to get out of here as soon as possible after talking to the cops, so I can start the process of beginning a new life. Again. And then... someone hit me on the head, and here I am. I try to remember anything else about the person who hit me, but I can’t. I didn’t see them. I didn’t see anything.

  I jerk my wrists, but the ropes hold them tightly. A gray room swims around me. I have no idea how I’m going to get out of this this time.

  Think, Willa. Think.

  I rock the old wooden chair back and forth. It’s not fastened to the ground, but with my hands tied behind my back, I won’t be able to break my fall if I tip it over. I try to move my legs, but those are tied to the chair legs. Even better. If I did knock the chair over, I would be stuck on the ground until whoever did this to me comes back. Not exactly how I want to spend my last remaining hours. Panic grips me as the reality of my situation sinks in. I might die here. Here. Alone.

  I didn’t even get to tell my sister goodbye. Who will call her? No one knows who I am except for the lawyer. I take some small comfort in the fact that at least one person in Tranquility Falls knows who I really am, even if he was trying to steal the inheritance. Mr. Erickson will make sure that my sister knows what happened, if nothing else but to try and collect on what he believes he’s owed. I mean, he won’t get paid otherwise. He needs my signature.

  And Marge... What will happen to her? There isn’t a long line of people out there looking to adopt her. Hopefully, Nick will help find her a good home. They aren’t exactly BFFs, but I don’t think he’d abandon her.

  Heavy footsteps approach, breaking through my anxious worry. Whoever attacked me is coming. I can feel it in my bones.

  Panicked, I wrench my arms against the ropes, but the cords bite into my wrists. I rock back and forth, again debating whether I should try to knock the chair over. A key twists in the lock, and I try to scream around the duct tape covering my mouth.

  The door creaks open. An eerie florescent light flickers in the hallway behind the man standing before me. It all looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite pin it down. This is important, a little voice in the back of my head snarls. All of this is important. It might be the most important time in your life. Pay attention. You won’t be able to get out of here if you don’t focus.

  The man in the doorway wears a beige trench coat with the collar pulled up around his neck and a bowler hat covering his head. He moves with a short, mincing gate, locks the door behind him, and hurries over to me. He stops a few feet away and pulls off his hat.

  The meager sunlight gleams off of Mr. Erickson’s bald pate. My stomach lurches. There’s only one reason why he wouldn’t care if I recognized him.

  “Oh my God,” I mumble against the duct tape. “It’s you.”

  He smirks, looking so different than the man I last saw. This Stan Erickson is tenser and angrier, and he has a maniacal glint in his eyes that he must have suppressed before. “Surprised?” he asks.

  I glare at him.

  He pulls a gun from the pocket of his trench coat and waves it at me. I swallow the lump in my throat. This can’t be happening.

  “Make a noise and I’ll shoot you,” he says. “The building’s empty, so no one will hear it.”

  I start to hyperventilate. No. This is impossible.

  He nudges me with the barrel of the gun. “Got it, girlie?”

  I suppress the panicked pants coming from my chest and nod.

  “Good.” Clearly confident that I understand, he rips the duct tape from my mouth. The searing pain makes me cry out, but before it carries very far, he pulls back the hand with the gun and slams it into my cheek. “I told you to be quiet,” he snarls.

  Black stars dance before my eyes. A sudden, all-consuming pain radiates up my face. I’ve got it, all right. Now I just have to figure out how to get out of it. Some gift I have, if I can’t even see visions about my own impending death.

  “This all could have been avoided, you know.” He paces the room, agitated. “If you would have only signed the damn papers. Why didn’t you sign the papers?” he snaps.

  “The papers?” I cough. I must have cut the inside of my cheek on my teeth when he hit me, because my mouth rapidly fills with blood.

  “The addendum,” he says. “If you just would have signed it, then none of this would have had to happen. But no, you had to be stubborn.”

  “I-I,” I stutter. I don’t know what to say. I could lie, but I don’t know how much I want to lie to the man with the gun.

  He comes closer, leaning toward to my face as if to hear me better. Without thinking, I let my anger take over and muster the only bit of defiance I can, hawking bloody spit at him. It wasn’t one of my finer moments. The blood-flecked spittle lands on his shoes, and he roars in rage.

  Crack! The back of his hand smashes into my cheek. Pain lances through my face, my bones, my eyes. Throbbing, aching agony, and I breath through the darkness that threatens to overtake me again. You have to think. You have to be stronger than this. Smarter.

  “Listen here, little girl,” Mr. Erickson growls. “I don’t care who you are or what you really came here to do, but I want my money, and you’re going to give it to me.”

  “What money?” I wheeze. “Have you seen the bookstore lately? There is no money.”

  His lips twitch in a feral grin. “You know, I really look up to her. Your mother was very crafty. She had a number of offshore bank accounts that have done quite well over the years. She told me she was waiting for you, actually, waiting to reconcile so she could make up for the time you’d been apart, but that time never came, did it?” He sneers.

  His words slice through me to the core. Loss. Grief. Pain. He’s right. If my aunt was my mom, and I still don’t know if I’m ready to accept that, then I’ll never know why she did what she did or why she gave me to her sister to raise as her own.

  You’ve got to keep Stan talking. The longer I can hold on, the better the likelihood that someone’s going to realize I’m gone and come looking for me. Nick. No. There’s no reason he’d search for me, not after what I told him. Unless he thought you were making a break for it.

  “If that’s what you wanted, then why did you break in? Why’d you steal the book and vandalize my car? I was going to sign the papers.” Well, up until right before he abducted me. “You didn’t have to do all of that. You didn’t have to hurt Marge.”

  “The bird?” The lawyer shudders. “I wouldn’t go near that thing with a ten-foot pole. I hated that monster. Besides,” he gives me a scathing look, “I have far more couth than that. I pride myself on being sophisticated, educated, and far too mature for those Neanderthal activities.”

  “Then who did?” This doesn’t make any sense. If Stan didn’t break into my aunt’s bookstore, then I don’t know anyone else who would.

  He smirks. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. As you know, I’m one of the most well-respected lawyers in Tranquility Falls.”

  I bite my tongue on the fact that there are probably only two or three lawyers total, so it’s not exactly a highly coveted award.

  “And I represent another client who wanted to acquire some rather unique pieces from Wanda’s shop.”

  A few more pieces fall into place. There was only one other thing missing from the shop besides the book. “The cat paintings.”

  “Yes. They’re ugly as sin, but they’re probably the most valuable things in that store, according to my client. And since your mother didn’t have a running inventory of her items, it would be easy for them to go... missing. And with my client’s line of work, paperwork can be easily replicated.”

  Line of work. More pieces. “Were you working with Frankie Kash?” So that’s why he wanted to get in th
e apartment so badly. “He must have been the one I caught breaking in the other night. Was he the one who vandalized my car? Maybe to scare me off?”

  “Amateur.” Stan scoffs. “If he just would have been patient, like I asked, then I would have given him the paintings. But no, he couldn’t wait.”

  “Let me get this straight.” I try to separate all of the threads, but they’re still tangled inside my head. “Frank and his ex-wife were trying to break in and steal those hideous paintings, which are apparently worth money to someone, when something went wrong and he killed her behind the dumpster?”

  Stan waves off my explanation. “No. Wrong again. After the divorce, Frankie wouldn’t go near Sandra. They hated each other. Besides, there are any number of unsavory characters Sandra associated with on a regular basis, some of whom may or may not be other clients of mine. Whatever unfortunate thing happened to her had nothing to do with Mr. Kash.” Stan glances at the watch on his wrist, and his fingers twitch around the trigger of his gun.

  I’m running out of time.

  Mr. Erickson paces over to his briefcase and pulls out a piece of paper like the one I’d read in my aunt’s office.

  “Wait. I’m just so confused.” I try to play the clueless young woman. “How did Frankie know about the book? It was in my aunt’s safe the whole time. I didn’t even know about it before I got the safe open.”

  Stan stops about halfway to me. “What book? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but that wretched place is filled with books. I can’t wait to clean it out and sell the building to developers.”

  Could it be possible that he doesn’t know about the book? “It was... my aunt’s diary.” I figure calling it that is as safe as I can get. “Did Frankie mention it?”