All the Inside Howling (Hollow Folk #2)(71)

“Because you’re not asleep.”

With a triumphant shout, Becca raised a finger. “But, you told me that you were able to do more than just tune in. You told me you searched Austin’s feelings. And you told me that it messed him up.”

“So?”

“So you can do stuff that affects people. Maybe you can’t fry their brain, but you can mess them up inside. You’re not just an observer. You’re not just a radio. You’re like . . . you’re like a USB cable, or a WiFi router, or something like that. Shit comes out, but shit also goes in.” The drilled one finger into the countertop to emphasize the last four words.

“I’m a USB cable.”

“You’re missing the point.

“No, I get it. It’s really smart. But what I did to Austin, it’s not like a weapon. I can’t use it to, as you said, ‘fry his brain.’ It just brings up all the shit in their lives. It’s like a storm, or a whirlpool, or an undertow.”

“It buys you time.”

“Only if I can touch him.”

“What?

“I have to touch him to do that. I have to look him in the eyes.”

“When you came into my dream—”

“I was touching you. Your hand.”

“Try it now. Without touching me.”

Shaking soapy water from my hands, I met her eyes. “You don’t want me to do that. It will screw you up—”

“I’m a big girl. Give it a try. If it doesn’t work, no harm. If it does, I go to therapy for a month.”

“Becca.”

But her gaze didn’t relent, and so I dried my hands and slung the towel over my shoulder. We were about two feet apart. If I wanted to, I could have reached out and grabbed her.

“Close your eyes,” I ordered. “If we’re going to do this the hard way, let’s really do it.”

Her eyelids settled shut.

As I had in the coffee shop yesterday, when I entered her dream, and as I had with Austin and with Emmett when I’d tried to pry their secrets out of them, I reached towards her. It wasn’t a physical reaching. It was like being in that space inside myself again, that secret space that was cluttered with all the refuse I’d packed there over the years: nightmares and bad memories and the times tables and a partial list of state capitals. The things that terrified me and the things I tried to use to keep my terrors at bay. At the very edge of that space, where it became a cramped corridor, blocked by all my emotional debris, was the door. The door that I had used to enter Becca’s dream, the same door that Mr. Big Empty had hammered on, trying to get in. A chill ran through me. The door really did swing both ways. I stretched for that door, strained until my fingertips were barely touching it, and I prodded it.

Nothing. I might as well have been pushing on a brick wall. I tried again, reaching, extending myself until I felt taut, pulled tight like a drumskin, vibrating with every stray psychic eddy and current until I thought I’d be ripped in half. But the door didn’t move. Becca might as well have been on the far side of the moon.

“Forget it, Becca. It’s not going to happen. Maybe that’s just one of my limitations, just like Mr. Big Empty and DeHaven have theirs.”

Her eyes opened slowly. “You just need practice. You can do this, I know you can do it. It’s just going to take time.”

“Maybe.”

“Let’s get you in the shower,” she said, adding with a smirk, “Alone. I’ll leave some clothes outside the door.”

I followed her upstairs, and she pointed out the bathroom and, mercifully, left me by myself. As hot water pounded over me, soaking the bruises and aches that Salerno’s beating had left on me, I found myself thinking about what Becca had said. Maybe I could do what she was saying. Maybe it would give me an edge, however slight, when DeHaven finally came for me. But even if she were right, I wasn’t ready now. As Becca had said, I needed time. And time was one of the many things I didn’t have.





At five-thirty, Becca made me turn around again.

“Tuck in your shirt.”

“It’s already tucked.”

Snapping her fingers, she said, “Do you want to go to this dinner looking like you crawled out of a haystack? Or do you want to make a good impression?”

Grumbling, I re-tucked my shirt. I was wearing more clothes borrowed from her brother: a neatly pressed blue Oxford, crisp khakis, and lace-up shoes polished to a shine. It was easily the nicest I’d ever dressed in my whole life. “They already know me. I’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell of a good impression at this point.”

“They know a version of you. They don’t know the version of you that’s dating their son.”

“I’ve been over—”

“Vie.”

“Fine. Better?”

“Much. Now, your hair. Does Austin like it down or up?”

“How in the world should I know?”

“Because you should be paying attention to how he responds. You should be paying attention to everything: how he looks at you, when he compliments you, what he asks you about, when he seems more or less interested—”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“Of course it’s exhausting. It’s dating. It’s meant to be obsessive and painful and completely, bone-numbingly wearying. Frankly, I’m a little disappointed in you.”