A Want So Wicked (A Need So Beautiful #2)(23)

Lucy sighs. “Fine, but put gas in it this time.” She pats the top of my head and then leaves. When she’s gone, my father clears his throat.

“How are you feeling, kid?” he asks, taking off his glasses to set them in front of him. “The vitamins helping?”

“It’s only been a day,” I say. “Ask me again in a week.” I look toward the bathroom, listening for the shower. When I hear it, I lean toward my dad. “Has Lucy talked to you about her cramps?”

“Cramps? Like menstrual?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But she acts like they really hurt. She’s having them every day, too. I don’t think it’s normal, but she told me to stay out of it.”

My dad smiles. “Telling you to stay out of something is the same as telling you to get involved.”

“Exactly. Cry for help, maybe?” I’m joking, but I am concerned. When my father says he’ll make an appointment for her with the doctor, I thank him. I know Lucy might get mad that I told him, but she’s going to have to deal with it. Secrets suck. Including the one I’m holding as I leave the kitchen table.

I’m going to drive down Mission Boulevard until I find Madame Marceline’s house, and then I’m going to knock on her door and demand answers. And if that doesn’t work—

I sway suddenly, catching myself on the wall of the hallway and banging my shin on a box. Before I can even acknowledge the pain, I’m flooded instead with a memory.

There is water rushing below as I stand on the railing of a bridge. The wind whips past me and I’m scared—so scared that I’ll fall. Then he walks up, compassion in his eyes. And Monroe whispers, “Jump.”

My legs give out and I fall onto the boxes, knocking some over. The crash echoes through the house and I hear my father’s footsteps. “Elise?” he calls.

But the fear from the vision is still with me, making tears leak from my eyes. I’ve never been that afraid of anything before, and yet . . . it feels like me. It feels like I was the one standing on that railing, about to jump. And who is Monroe? He looks like an older version of the guy Onika was with in my dreams. What’s going on? The line between reality and my dreams is becoming blurred.

“Are you all right?” My father puts his hand on my elbow, helping me up. “I’m so sorry I haven’t gotten these out of here. I’ll move them to the garage.”

“Banged my shin,” I say to explain the crying. I wipe hard at my face, still shaking. I need to leave, to figure out what’s happening.

“Let me—”

“I’m fine, Dad,” I say quickly, backing away from him. It occurs to me how much I sound like Lucy right now. And I realize that if she’s as bad off as me, she needs more help than I thought.

CHAPTER 11

I’m standing on the sidewalk facing a worn hand-painted sign that reads: MADAME MARCELINE’S FORTUNES. The house wasn’t difficult to find, and the car ride had helped to clear my mind—at least to a functioning level. But as I stare ahead, anxiety twists through my stomach. Am I really going to do this? It seemed so much more rational on the way over.

I start up the walkway to the small, white block home, my heart beating fast. This is the same woman who tried to drag me out of my car two days ago. I’m not sure that I’m making the best life decision. At the same time, she acted as if she knew me, shared mental pictures of horrible things. Obviously we have some sort of connection. And although I don’t believe in it—or at least I never used to—maybe she’s an actual psychic.

The front door opens and I lower my head, not wanting to be noticed. What if they know my father? He’d be horrified to hear I came to a psychic and not him.

“Hey, you.”

Startled, I look up, surprised to see Harlin starting down the walkway. He smiles, seeming thrilled to bump into me, but then he stops. “What—” He looks back at the building, pulling his eyebrows together. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Is it immature if I answer with I asked you first?”

I laugh. “Yes.”

“I’m visiting an old friend,” he says in his low voice. “How do you know Marceline?” His hazel eyes study me as if he’ll be able to tell if I’m lying. So I opt not to.

“She attacked me,” I say, as if it’s not a big deal. “And I want to ask her why.”

Harlin takes a step back, shaking his head. “What? She’s like, ninety. She attacked you?”

I hold up my arm as proof, and I’m surprised when Harlin reaches out suddenly to take it, looking over the scratches. His hand on my skin sends a shot of electricity through my body, and he must feel it too, because he takes in a sharp breath.

Slowly he brings his gaze to mine, his lips slightly parted. As he looks at me, his expression softens. “I came to see you last night,” he murmurs. “But you were already gone.”

Butterflies flutter in my stomach. “You did? I thought you forgot about me,” I say.

“I’ll never forget about you.”

“Well, it’s about time,” a ragged voice cuts through the air. I jump, looking behind Harlin. On the front porch of the house is the crazy old lady, a big grin plastered across her face. “Harlin,” the old woman says. “Stop harassing that poor thing and let her come inside.”