The Case for Jamie (Charlotte Holmes #3)(3)

But she’d grinned at me, wickedly. It was a different kind of wicked than what I was used to. Wicked without secrets. Wicked without danger. It was the smile of a smart girl who was coming into her own, who knew she was about to get the thing she wanted.

“You like girls who don’t take any of your shit,” she’d said, and kissed me.

She was right. I liked girls who pushed back; I liked girls with thoughtful eyes. Elizabeth had both, and even if sometimes I got the sense that I was an item on her checklist that she had successfully crossed off (Date boy you crushed on freshman year), well—

Well, it was more my own bullshit than anything I got from her. Because, as usual, I was staring out the bright-lit window, thinking about my essay for AP Euro, my problem set for calculus, about the million other balls I had up in the air—and more than that, convincing myself that I did need to think about them, that I needed to make myself care.

Then someone dropped a tray behind me with a sharp pop and a clatter, and I was back there again.

Me on a lawn in Sussex, August Moriarty at my feet, blood on all that snow. Police sirens edging closer. Charlotte Holmes’s white, chapped lips. Those last few seconds. That other life.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, but no one was listening, not even Elizabeth, lost in her book. At least I made it to the bathroom before I started to dry heave.

One of the lacrosse starters was in there washing his hands. “Brutal,” I heard him say over my retching. By the time I came out of the stall, I was alone.

I braced myself against the sink, staring at the drain, the fissured ceramic around it. The last time this had happened to me, it’d been a slammed car door, and that time the nausea had been followed hard by rage. Horrible, mind-bending rage, at Charlotte for making assumptions, at her brother, Milo, for gunning a man down and getting away with it, at August Moriarty, who’d told me, two weeks too late, to run—

My phone pinged. Elizabeth, I thought, as I fished it out. Checking on me. It wasn’t a bad thought.

But it wasn’t Elizabeth. It wasn’t any number I knew.

You’re not safe here.

That feeling, like someone hit Play on a movie I’d forgotten I was watching. A horror movie. About my life.

Who is this? I wrote back, and then, horrified, Is that you? Holmes?, and then I called the number once, twice, a third time, and by then they’d shut the phone off.

Leave a message, it said. I stood there, stunned, until I realized I’d let it record a few seconds of my breathing. Hurriedly, I ended the call.

I made it back to our lunch table somehow, my head crackling with dehydration and fear. Elizabeth was still reading. Randall was eating his third chicken sandwich. Mariella and Kittredge and that Anna girl were bitching again about the cereal bar, and there was a whole ecosystem here, a landscape that functioned fine without me.

Why would I put any of this on them? What did I want to do, go back to being some kind of victim? Even Elizabeth, the person I’d usually turn to, couldn’t help me here. She’d dealt with enough because of me.

No. I squared my shoulders. I finished my burger.

I kept one hand on my phone, just in case.

“Jamie,” Lena was saying.

I shook my head.

“Jamie,” Lena repeated, frowning a little, “your father’s here.” I was dully surprised to see him hovering over our table, his wool cap dusted with snow.

“Jamie,” he said. “A bit in your own head?”

Elizabeth smiled up at him. “He’s been like this all day,” she said. “Off in dream land.” I didn’t point out that she’d been ignoring all of us in favor of Jane Eyre.

I put on a smile as best I could. “Ha, yeah, you know. Lots of, uh, school things. Schoolwork.”

Across the table, Lena and Tom exchanged a significant glance.

“It’s true,” I said, and my voice wobbled a little. “Uh, Dad. What’s up?”

“Family emergency,” he said, sticking his hands in his pockets. “I’ve already signed you off campus. Go on, grab your bag.”

Oh God, I thought. This again. Plus, I wasn’t sure if my legs would hold me if I stood. “Can’t. French class. We have a quiz.”

Tom frowned. “But that was yester—”

I kicked him, weakly, under the table.

“Family emergency,” my father said again. “Up! Come along!”

I ticked it off on my fingers. “AP English. Physics. I have a presentation. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Jamie. Leander’s waiting in the car.”

A surge of relief. Leander Holmes was one of the only people I could be around when I was like this, all shaky and strange. I knew as well as my father did that he’d played his trump card, and that I’d lost this round. I packed up my things, ignoring Lena’s stage-wink across the table.

“See you tonight,” Elizabeth said, already back in her book. But then, she was used to this by now.

“I actually do have a presentation in physics tomorrow, you know,” I told my father as we left the cafeteria.

He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Of course you do. But that’s hardly important, is it?”





Two


Charlotte


WHEN I WAS FIVE YEARS OLD, I CONVINCED MYSELF I WAS psychic.