The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions #2)(13)

I walk over and sit down on a bench in the park to think things over while sipping the lukewarm coffee.

It’s 7:28 a.m. Mira and Eugene are probably still sleeping, like most normal people. If I do what I’m planning, Mira might be upset for more reasons than just my Pushing yesterday. But then again, I doubt I can make things worse—and I have a feeling that the element of surprise will be to my advantage.

Convinced, I sit up and, using the above-average anxiety I’m feeling at the moment, phase into the Quiet. As the sounds of the street go away, I walk toward the building.

The gun helps when it comes to opening the downstairs door. It also works like a charm on the lock of the door to their apartment. My ears still ringing from the gunshot only I could hear, I gingerly enter the apartment, thinking that it’s a good thing the damage will automatically be repaired when I phase back to normal.

I begin to question the sanity of my plan again as soon as I walk into what has to be Mira’s bedroom.

Mira is asleep on a gray futon. Her room is much less messy than the apartment overall. So it seems like the mess I noticed the other day is more Eugene’s fault.

I’m cognizant of a lacy bra and thong lying on the chair next to the bed. I didn’t think this part of the idea through. I’m in luck, though. She’s clearly not sleeping naked—the shoulder that’s visible above the blanket is clothed in a pajama top.

As I stand there, I wonder what will happen when I pull her into the Quiet with me while she’s sleeping. I was never able to fall asleep in the Quiet, which seems to imply that Mira will wake up as soon as she enters. I’m about to find out for sure.

I reach out, pull away a few stray strands of Mira’s soft dark hair, and gently touch her temple. Then I take a calming breath, realizing the chips are about to fall where they may.

She appears in the Quiet as a second Mira on the same bed, but closer to the edge on my side. This Mira has her eyes open and stares at the ceiling for a moment. Then she turns and looks at her still-sleeping double.

“Please don’t panic,” I whisper softly.

Hearing me, Mira jackknifes to a sitting position on the bed. Swinging her feet down to the floor, she looks at me, obviously confused.

Dressed in polka-dot pajamas, without all the makeup and the femme-fatale clothing, she looks a lot more approachable than the last time I saw her. Like the proverbial girl next door. A little vulnerable, even. These illusions last for only a moment before I get the most seething look she’s ever given me.

“What. The. Fuck,” she says somewhat incoherently, and for the first time, I hear a slight Russian accent in her speech.

“I’m sorry to burst in on you like this,” I say quickly. “But I really needed to talk to you. Will you please hear me out?”

She jumps up—eyeing her purse, which happens to be behind me.

My heart sinks as I realize she’s looking for the gun I recall her carrying in that purse.

Before I can complete the thought about the gun, she’s right next to me, throwing a punch. Without consciously planning it, I catch her small fist in my hand a millisecond before it connects with my face. Then I hold it for a few moments, looking into her eyes. She seems shocked at my quick reaction. As soon as she gets her wits back and starts struggling, I let go of her hand.

She tries to kick me in the shins next, and I step back, again without conscious thought.

She almost loses her balance when her leg doesn’t connect with its intended target. Her frustration turns into anger, every expression clear on her face, and she runs for the door. I briefly regret my newfound fighting reflexes. Maybe if she’d hit me, it would’ve been cathartic for her. Maybe afterwards she would’ve been willing to listen. And I can’t imagine her punches would’ve hurt me that much—given her slim frame and all. And I’m not being sexist here, by the way. Not exactly. If my tiny friend Bert had punched me, seeing as he can’t weigh much more than Mira, I doubt I would’ve felt anything either.

I follow her and realize she’s heading into what must be Eugene’s bedroom. She must be thinking about pulling him into the Quiet with us. Or getting his gun. Or both.

I wait, letting her do what she wants. I feel fairly safe, figuring that if she didn’t kill me yesterday, she’s even less likely to do so today after a good night’s sleep. Hopefully.

Eugene walks out, wearing only wrinkled tighty-whiteys and looking confused. I don’t get a chance to smirk at his appearance because Mira—holding that gun of his—immediately follows him.

The most worrisome part of this is that her hand is steady. I didn’t expect that at all. She looks much calmer than yesterday—much more ready to shoot me. How could I have misjudged the situation so horribly?

I hear the gun safety click off.

Is it possible to have a heart attack in the Quiet? If so, I might be flirting with that possibility, given how fast my heart is beating.

She’s carefully aiming at my head.

I expect to see at least some doubt on her face, but she looks completely calm. Merciless. Her forearm tenses as though she’s about to pull the trigger.

I put my hand in front of my face, like that could actually protect me.

“Mira, stop.” Eugene puts himself between me and the barrel. “Think about what you’re about to do. He can spend months in the Mind Dimension.”