The Elders (Mind Dimensions #4)(2)

And what’s this? Is my chest actually tightening from reminiscing? Am I thinking fondly of the time Kyle tried to whip me? Can’t be. But my eyes feel all watery. Dust must’ve flown into them, or maybe my allergies are acting up from all the damn ragweed that blooms in the fall.

I don’t get a chance to berate myself for feeling whatever it is I’m feeling, because all of a sudden, the world freezes.

The sobs coming from my moms stop, as does the rustle of leaves in the warm autumn breeze.

The resulting silence is the familiar, telltale sign of the Quiet, only it’s not my doing.

I look around.

Everyone is frozen in place, except Mira. One version of her is animated and looks worried, which is unusual. Annoyed, sure. Angry, too often for my liking. Sarcastic, always. But worried is not a common expression for her. She’s standing next to a calmer-looking, frozen version of herself.

“Split out, get right back in, and pull me in,” she says, her voice tense with urgency. “I might not have enough Depth.”

“But what—”

“Promise you’ll do it,” she insists.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” I say. Now I’m beginning to worry.

Without saying a word, she touches her frozen self, and I’m back in the real world.

I instantly phase in and pull Mira in, as ordered.

“What’s up?” I ask as soon as she turns up. “Why did you pull me in before? I don’t exactly want to savor—”

“Shut the f*ck up for a second,” she says, “and look at those cops.”

She points at the somber-looking men in uniform. They’re standing near Thomas, on our left and about a dozen feet to the side.

“What about them?” I ask, walking toward the men.

“Look at their hands.”

Closing the distance, I take a look. It is odd. Every officer is reaching for his or her sidearm, and they’re all looking at my frozen self.

“I don’t like how this looks,” I say.

“No shit.”

“Maybe there’s a good explanation? Maybe they’re planning that salute thing they do at military funerals? Don’t they do that for cops too?”

“In that case, what are those idiots for?” She points at the rifle-bearing dudes who have been standing off to the side for a while. She walks up to the nearest cop and takes his gun. “Also, they only do the salute with blanks.”

She shoots the cop in the foot. The hole in her victim’s shoe confirms that the gun is most certainly not filled with blanks.

“Crap,” I say.

“You can say that again.”

“So why are they looking at me like that? Did you Read them?”

“Just some superficial thoughts, but they are about to shoot you.” She pauses. “They’re being Pushed.”

Pushed. That’s the last thing I expected to hear, yet it’s the only explanation for why cops I’ve never met before would want to shoot me. Only, the man who was behind similar orchestrations, the man who Pushed people to kill me in the past, is being buried as we speak. Unless—

“Are you there?” Mira asks, interrupting my thoughts.

“Yes. I’m just trying to digest this.”

“Digest it later. You have to act.”

“If someone is Guiding them, I can override the order,” I say.

“Provided you’re more powerful than whoever is doing this.”

She says this without any anger. My acknowledgment of my Guiding abilities has recently stopped receiving strong negative reactions from Mira. In general, I’d say her feelings toward Guides have warmed. I like to think I’m the catalyst for her change in attitude.

“Yes, well, thus far, I’ve been more powerful than anyone I’ve met,” I say without false modesty. “But shouldn’t we pull Thomas in to apprise him of the situation?”

“A Pusher is controlling these cops,” she reminds me. “Don’t you want to make sure Thomas isn’t the one doing the Pushing before you pull him in?”

Okay, maybe I see what I want to see when it comes to Mira’s improved outlook on Guides—a term she’s still not the biggest fan of. In this case, the problem is compounded by her general mistrust of strangers. She hasn’t interacted with Thomas as much as she has with my aunt Hillary, whom she was stuck with at the Miami airport. Mira’s attitude toward my favorite miniature relative is what gives me hope. Though I wouldn’t go as far as to say that Mira and Hillary became BFFs following their ordeal, Mira does treat my aunt with reserved trust and, more importantly, begrudging respect.

“You can’t seriously think Thomas would do this,” I say, looking at Mira. Despite my words, liquid nitrogen fills my stomach at the idea of Thomas attempting to kill me. In a flash, I replay the episode of Kyle getting shot in front of him and recall my own emotions when I learned that Kyle killed my biological family. I wanted—no, I needed—to kill Kyle afterwards. Is Thomas feeling the same way about me?

No. I don’t want to accept this possibility. It’s just fear talking. Kyle was guilty of more than the murder of my biological mom and dad. Had he only been guilty of that, I’m not sure I would’ve killed him for it.

Or maybe I would’ve.

“You’re at his father’s funeral.” Mira’s words echo my dread. “You know how his father died. Do I need to draw you a f*cking diagram?”