Drake squeezed my hand. 'It's okay. If you hear anything off in his thoughts, we'll leave. We can overpower him physically or mentally. He can't hurt you.'
I knew he meant that to be comforting, but it had the opposite effect. Professor Shaw didn't deserve to be "overpowered." We'd barged in on his life, uninvited and unannounced. How could we consider punishing him for not buying our story?
All eyes in the room were on me, which I guess made sense, but I didn't have to like it. I took a deep breath and tried to still my shaking body. It didn't work.
Professor Shaw's kind, understanding eyes held mine. "Just start from the beginning. I don't bite."
So I did. I'd have thought that retelling my story would be easier. If anything, my vocal chords, as if working against my will, were more reluctant than ever to give up my secrets. All my life, I'd been told that if I revealed them to the wrong person, everything would be screwed.
I talked for nearly an hour. No one so much as breathed too loud.
My sweaty hand clutched Drake's cool palm. "So, that's the story. Whoever is after us is very dangerous. We didn't know where to go or what to do. Brad said we should come here."
No one spoke for several minutes.
A fly buzzed past my ear, startling me so bad I jumped and broke the silence with a chirp. I felt the blood rush to my face. "Sorry. Nerves."
"Who wouldn't be nervous after all you've been through?" said Professor Shaw.
'Poor girl. Can't believe she's been through so much. She must be exhausted.'
My eyes flicked to him. "Professor, you believe me?"
He harrumphed. "Please call me Bernard. And yes, I believe you."
I couldn't help but grin. "Bernard Shaw. Really? As in the famous Irish playwright and novelist?"
He smiled. "Yes. Actually, George Bernard Shaw, but I've always gone by Bernard. My parents had a sense of humor."
"A fool's brain digests philosophy into folly, science into superstition, and...."
"...art into pedantry. Hence University education," Bernard finished. "One of my favorite quotes."
So far, I liked him.
My brain pounded from the lengthy connection. I rubbed my head.
'Sam, pull out. If any red flags pop up, you can go back in, but you're going to kill yourself.'
"Okay, for now. I just don't want any more surprises."
The pressure eased as I slipped out of the Professor's mind, and I enjoyed the solitude of my own thoughts. "Why do you believe me? This story is preposterous. Don't you want to at least test us? Have me read your mind?"
"All right, what am I thinking?"
Drake frowned at me, but I slipped in and out just fast enough to grab his thought. 'Brad needs a girlfriend. He's wasting away as a bachelor.'
"Ha! Really? Brad, apparently the good professor here thinks you need a girlfriend to fatten you up. Though I have to say that assuming the girl will feed him is a bit sexist."
Brad sat up straighter. "I do not need a girl in my life right now. Are you kidding me? How would I even see her?"
He made eye contact with me, then turned his head sharply and looked at Bernard. "I know you're open-minded, but I didn't expect them to win you over so quickly. What aren't you telling us?"
Bernard picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. "I spent a lot of years writing for some pretty big publications: Newsweek, U.S. News & World Report, The New York Times and L.A. Times. As an investigative reporter, it was my job to uncover the stories no one else could break. Once, when I was young and cocky, I landed on something I knew would be Pulitzer material, only I kept hitting dead ends. Not just normal, contacts-dried-up, leads-too-scared-to-talk dead ends, but literally—people kept ending up dead. All accidents, of course, unrelated to me or my story, but my gut told me there was more to it. I didn't take the hint. I kept prying."
He put his mug down and pulled up his flannel shirt, revealing a fairly toned stomach for an old guy—and a nasty, familiar-looking scar.
"You were shot." I rubbed the still-healing bullet wound on my own arm.
Brad's eyebrows shot up. He'd obviously never heard this story.
I asked the question I already knew the answer to. "What story were you working on?"
He looked me straight in the eyes. "I'd met some very powerful people who, in exchange for not having their names plastered all over national headlines, offered me an interesting story about kids with paranormal abilities who are rented out as spies."