Touch (Denazen #1)(54)

Then he was gone. Swallowed by the shadows.





21


The next morning I woke with my sheets tangled like spaghetti around my legs. My shoulders ached, my neck was sore, and I had a knot the size of a grapefruit in my back. Restless sleep. I’d awoken almost every hour, on the hour, having the same freaky nightmare as the night before, but with a couple of variations. Sometimes Kale kissed me with Alex looking on. Sometimes Alex intervened, shoving Kale into the crowd. Those were hard to watch because Alex always ended up dead. Sometimes, they both did.

I’d overslept—it was nearly ten—but I wasn’t worried. Dad had told me to stay home today since all the mimicking I’d done had worn me down. My head still buzzed and my stomach felt off, but all in all, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. Dressed and showered, I made my way downstairs, thrilled I’d be avoiding what was becoming an unwelcomed and twisted morning ritual. Coffee with Dad. He’d have left for sure by now.

As expected, when I entered the kitchen he wasn’t in his usual spot—but he was still home.

Not good.

Dad was across the room pacing, his cell phone tucked tight under his chin as he jotted down notes on a piece of paper. Whatever that call was, it was important. I knew the look on his face. It was the look he wore when things weren’t going well with his clients.

I poured myself a bowl of cereal while trying to eavesdrop on the conversation. This proved impossible because Dad’s end was nearly nonexistent. He mumbled simple, scant replies to the person on the other end, like yes, sure, no, and absolutely. Nothing that might give me any clue as to who was on the other end or what the subject matter was. He usually left the house by eight without fail, so something big had to be going on. At that moment, super dog hearing would have been more useful than mimicking.

Fifteen minutes later, he joined me at the table, cell phone out of sight.

“Surprised to see you still here,” I said through a mouthful of Rice Krispies. For once, the thought of coffee kind of turned my stomach. “Taking the day off?” It was a joke. Dad never took a day off.

“I’ve been on the phone with Mark most of the morning.”

“Really?” I put the spoon down.

“When did you last speak to Brandt?”

The unusual-for-June humidity vanished, replaced by a creeping, icy cold. I swallowed a lump of cereal in my mouth that suddenly tasted like cardboard and did my best not to choke. “I tried calling him all day yesterday. He’s pissed about something, so he’s been blowing me off.”

“He’s gone.”

“Gone?”

Dad hesitated and turned away. If he couldn’t—wouldn’t look me in the eye—then this was bad.

“What does gone mean?” I pressed.

“Dead.”

I dropped my spoon. It splashed down, sending droplets of milk and cereal raining over the edge of the bowl. The icy air turned thin. There wasn’t enough oxygen to fill my lungs. Or maybe there was plenty of air. It was possible I’d stopped breathing. My fingers clutched the edge of the table for support because the floor was suddenly moving like the tilt-a-whirl at the local fair. Sick. I was going to puke.

Dad continued to speak, oblivious to my distress. “The police think it might be connected to a story Mark’s working on. They found his body in the driveway behind Cairn’s car this morning.”

I opened my mouth to say something—at least I think I did—but nothing happened. For the second time in twenty-four hours, I’d forgotten how to speak.

Frowning, Dad rose from the table. His lips were moving. Something about Brandt’s clothing and his blood. I couldn’t hear him though. Not really. I was vaguely aware as he grabbed his keys and locked the door behind him on the way to the garage. My mind only half registered the roar of the engine and the mechanical thumping of the garage door as it opened, then closed. Not twenty seconds later, I sprang from my seat, into my black hoodie, and out the door.

For awhile, I ran blindly through the woods. It was humid and rainy, and my hair stuck to my face as I went. Autopilot kicked in, but it didn’t take long to realize where I was heading.

Brandt’s.

Brandt had lived next door my whole life. Granted, next door was separated by four acres of dense woods and a shallow stream, but still, he was never far away. I could see the flashing blue and red lights before I even broke the edge of the woods. People—police, neighbors, passing cars—were clumping in front of the house. Uncle Mark was silent. Watching the door while aunt Cairn stared blankly at the street, where two men were loading a large, long black thing into the back of the ambulance. I imagined the black bag containing trash, sand, even rocks—anything but my cousin.

With the most soul-crushing scream I’d ever heard, Uncle Mark lunged forward and threw himself at the gurney. “I need to see him. My boy. This is my fault!”

I couldn’t watch another minute.

I tore back through the woods and after awhile found myself on the strip. I had a million acquaintances I could call. Friends of mine. Friends of Brandt’s. But only one would understand what was going on. Only one wouldn’t have me committed if I told him what I thought really happened to my cousin.

I rounded the corner and took off in the general direction of Roudey’s.

Pushing open the back door, I slipped inside. I was drenched, and with each step, my sneakers squeaked and spit. My face was wet—it might have been tears or it might have been the rain—and I knew my eyes were red and puffy. There was no question I’d been crying when I came into the main room. All the ambient chatter died away.