Connecting (Lily Dale #3)(24)
A chill slips down her spine. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I still have this feeling that you’re in some kind of trouble, or . . . more like danger. And it’s been getting stronger every day. Every time I see you.”
“You’ve been having more visions about me?”
“Yeah.”
“What are they?”
He sidesteps that again. “I’ve been trying to figure out what it all means, whether what I’m seeing is supposed to be interpreted literally, or if it’s some kind of psychic shorthand.”
“What do you think?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you say anything to me before now?”
Another shrug. “You didn’t listen to me last time.”
Exasperated, she says, “But I didn’t—”
“Wait, just listen. I told you to be careful. You weren’t. You walked into the house alone that night, with that guy waiting there, and you almost got yourself killed.”
“That’s not my fault. It’s not like I knew someone was there.”
Or did she?
She remembers the overwhelming feeling of foreboding as she crossed the threshold that night. It grew stronger by the second. If she had listened to her instincts, she might have walked right back out again.
But she didn’t.
She pushes her self-doubt aside, though, needing to settle this with Jacy, who’s acting as though she personally offended him. Which is ridiculous.
“So that’s why you haven’t been talking to me? Because you think I should have heeded your big, dramatic, ominous warning?”
She’s being sarcastic; she can’t help it. She just feels like she’s in way over her head with him and there’s no getting back on solid footing. Not anytime soon, anyway.
“I said it’s not all your fault,” he reminds her. “It’s mine, too. It’s—look, I don’t like feeling like this, okay? I’m not good at it.”
“Feeling like what?”
He looks away, obviously uncomfortable.
Whoa.
Jacy, who’s managed to maintain a level of emotional detachment since they met, is no longer entirely in control.
Looking at him, she glimpses for the first time the wounded child whose alcoholic, troubled parents lashed out at each other and at him one too many times. The authorities intervened, took him from his home, and placed him in the system.
Peter and Walt are good to him; according to Evangeline, they want to formally adopt him, and his parents are prepared to sign away their rights.
How does that feel? For your own parents to hurt you, badly, and then be willing to cut all ties?
No wonder Jacy spends so much time alone—running, fishing, hiking in the woods.
He’s got a lot to think about. So much pain to absorb, a tremendous amount of healing to do . . .
He probably doesn’t want to be too close to anyone after what he’s been through. He probably needs to keep the world at arm’s length.
Gazing at Jacy, aching for him, Calla wills him to turn his head and look at her again.
He does, and she clearly sees the vulnerability in his eyes.
That lasts all of a few seconds before some defense mechanism kicks in and they flash with anger.
“Hey, it’s not like I want to worry about you,” he snaps at her.
“So don’t.” She shrugs, clenching the straps of her backpack with both hands so he won’t see them shaking.
“Doesn’t work that way, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
They stare at each other in silence.
Locker doors slam all around them. People are laughing, talking, oblivious.
Then Jacy says, “You’ve got this thing hanging over you. I see it whenever I look at you.”
“What thing?”
“I’m not sure. I just feel like someone’s going to try to hurt you.”
“Again?” she asks, heart pounding in dread.
He nods. “It has nothing to do with the other night. This is someone else. A stranger, I think. And I feel like it has something to do with your mother.”
EIGHT
Tuesday, September 25
3:31 p.m.
Walking into an empty house after school, Calla finds a note on the kitchen table.
At the vet with Gert. Back by Six.
Love, Gammy
Calla goes straight to the adjacent sunroom, where Odelia does her readings.
Rare afternoon sunlight streams into the bright room with windows on three walls, unadorned by curtains or shades. The color scheme here, unlike the rest of the house, is a soothing beige. And unlike the rest of the house, the room is relatively free of clutter. The only furniture is a trio of wingback chairs, all facing each other in the center of the room, and one table that holds a box of tissues, a couple of candles, a tape recorder, and her grandmother’s appointment book.
Calla opens it, hoping that Odelia is more organized in her professional life than she is in her private one.
Surprisingly, she is.
On last Thursday’s date, beneath Owen Henry’s name in the 6:30 p.m. slot, is a phone number.
Calla goes to the kitchen, picks up the phone, and dials the number before she can chicken out.
Yes, she knows her grandmother warned her not to meddle with her clients.