Touch (Denazen #1)(51)

Inside the cage, Ken was putting his equipment back in the case. On his way out, he stopped to pick up one of the full glasses of juice and handed it to Kale. He took it and turned back to me.

“Can he hear us out here?”

Dad shook his head and stepped to meet Ken as he exited the cell.

Kale came forward as I glanced over my shoulder at Dad. He spoke to Ken in hushed tones, ignoring me. “Drink it,” I mouthed. To my relief, he brought the glass to his lips and downed the entire thing. I kept my face turned away from Dad, stuffing my hands deep into my pockets to keep from placing them on the glass. “I’m sorry.”

Kale’s expression stayed neutral, but his eyes conveyed a longing that matched my own. If I could only touch him, even for a minute…

“Are you ready to head back?” I jumped as Dad’s hand clamped down on my shoulder.

CRASH

Kale had thrown the empty glass at the front window of the cage—directly where Dad’s head was. Tiny droplets of juice dripped down the uncracked glass and pooled on the floor.

He backed into the corner of the cell, eyes never leaving Dad’s, and wearing a bone-chilling sneer.





20


We got home sometime after 7:30 that night. Dad had gone back to Denazen to take care of some things, so I was left alone. For the first time as far back as I could remember, all I wanted to do was curl up and cry.

I wandered the living room, picking up small mementos from a life that had never existed. A tiny porcelain kitten statue, a blue glass rose. All lies. I came to the vase. That stinking, ugly vase. I picked it up, turning it over as Kale had done the night we’d met and gave it a good shake.

This should have plants in it, right?

I ran my index finger along the rim of it once before heaving it at the wall. It shattered—much like Kale’s glass—pieces exploding every which way. They fell, tiny plinks and clinks as they hit the hardwood and bounced across the floor.

The rest of the rooms went pretty much the same. A heavy fog had settled over my head and no matter what I tried, it wouldn’t go away. I smashed things, ripped things—nothing helped. I tried calling Brandt again. No answer. I emailed. No response. At this point, I was getting worried. It could have been that he was blowing me off because he’d kept digging. I saw it in his eyes at the Graveyard. He’d never been able to resist a challenge, and since the guy couldn’t lie to me, he was avoiding. The logic was flawed and didn’t seem right, but it made me feel slightly better.

I found my way into the kitchen and fixed my favorite sandwich—turkey, tomato, and peanut butter—but after closer inspection, found it unappetizing. I took a bite regardless, but the bread tasted stale and crumbly, and the turkey smelled bad even though it was fresh. I spit the mouthful into my open palm, almost gagging. My stomach rumbled in hungry protest, but I dumped the remainder of the sandwich in the trash on the way up to my room.

Television—nothing on. Radio—all the songs sucked. Computer—all the usual chat rooms were empty. I entertained the idea of sneaking out to find some action—a few choice calls and I’d undoubtedly have the 411 on a party going down somewhere along the strip—but I didn’t have the energy.

Instead, I kicked off my shoes and crawled under the covers. All the mimicking I did earlier had caught up with me again, and even though my head buzzed—annoyance over Brandt, disgust for my father, and fear for Kale—sleep came easier than I thought it would.

§

I woke sometime later to a soft but noticeable clinking sound. Sitting up, I surveyed the room. It was the second night of the full moon—the brightest of the three—and the floor of my bedroom was illuminated by silvery light shining through the window.

The window.

That’s where the noise had been coming from. I slid off the bed, opened the window, and peered over the edge. Alex.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can I come up?”

I shrugged and backed away as he started to climb.

He slid through the open window and gave me a quick once-over, frowning. I was suddenly glad I never changed into my pajamas. “You just get home? I looked up and down the strip for you.”

“Been here all night,” I said falling back onto the bed. “Why were you looking for me anyway? Didn’t we say all we needed to say last time we saw each other? Remember? You told me to get the hell out?”

“I was worried about you. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Next time, use the phone. Or email. Hell, use a carrier pigeon.”

“I don’t have your number anymore. Or your email. And I don’t own any pigeons.”

“My email’s the same it’s always been.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

“Well?” I snuck a look over at the clock on my nightstand. Only midnight. I must have dozed off because the last time I’d looked at the clock, it’d been 11:20.

“Well what?” he asked, irritated.

“You said you wanted to see if I was all right.” I twirled once. “Obviously, I’m all right.”

“God,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “You’re so irritating!”

“Thank you,” I said, pointing to the window. “Would it be ironic if I told you to get the hell out now?”