“Yes.”
I run out. Back down the stairs. I don’t think. I don’t plan. I just run. Back to the classroom. Clarice is still there. She looks up at me, a single eyebrow raised. “Have you changed your mind then?”
I pick up the chair on the ground, still against the wall where I kicked it. I lift it and spin and smash it into Clarice’s head.
She doesn’t even have time to look surprised.
I smash it on her again and again and again.
And then I stop and drop the chair and sink to the floor. Clarice’s lifeless eyes stare at me from her bloodied and ruined head.
If Clarice is dead, she can’t be there when Annie gets shot. That can’t happen now.
It won’t happen now.
Annie is safe.
Annie is safe. Annie is safe. Annie is safe. Annie is safe. Annie is safe. Annie is safe. Annie is safe. Annie is safe. Annie is safe. Annie is safe. Annie is safe. Annie is safe.
ANNIE
Monday Evening
I KNOW ALL MY INTERNET ACTIVITY IS MONITORED and that I can’t search anything on Adam without raising suspicion. I wish Fia and I had been able to talk. She could have told me more about him, maybe told me why he was connected to all those women who didn’t want to be found. She said he was nice.
He looked nice.
I can’t search for him. But I search for Lerner. Keane can’t get angry: he’s the one who gave me the name.
I search Lerner + psychics.
Lerner + mind readers.
Lerner + psychic phenomenon.
Lerner + paranormal abilities.
Lerner + every single word I can think of that might give me any insight whatsoever into who they are and why they are interested in Adam. I don’t know if he’s with them now, but he will be. And they know my sister’s name.
I read and search until my finger is numb. Nothing. There is nothing. Fia would know what to do. She’d figure out how to get the information she needed to keep me safe. I, on the other hand, am sitting alone in my room in the building I cannot leave, doing internet searches on psychics.
My parents were right. Fia is special. I can’t take care of anyone.
“Where is she?” Hands grab me, pull me up off the couch. I try to hit them away. I don’t know what’s going on, who is here, where I am.
Asleep. On the couch. I fell asleep waiting for Fia to call me back so I could somehow tell her about Adam.
“James?”
“Fia’s gone. You need to find her. Now.”
My mind spins, clunking past the remains of sleep. I feel slow. “I saw her dancing. Did you check clubs?”
“She was dancing. With me. And then we were attacked on the street and they threw her in a van and drove away.”
“Are you drunk? Were you both drunk?” I push him out of my way and stand, whip my hand out until I find his face. Hit him. “YOU LET HER GET DRUNK?”
“Why aren’t you looking for her yet? FIND HER!”
“It doesn’t work like that! I told her not to go dancing! This is your fault. You let her go out. You got her drunk. If she hadn’t been drinking, there’s no way they could have taken her.” I slap him again. “This is your fault.”
He grabs my wrist and his hand squeezes too hard; he’s going to hit me back. Then he sinks onto the couch. “Please.” His voice is tortured. “It is. It’s my fault. She could have gotten away but she came back to protect me. She shouldn’t have come back.”
“You’re right. She shouldn’t have. You’re not worth it.”
He doesn’t answer. I want to hit him again, to scream. He lost Fia. He lost her. Then, finally, he says, “Is there anything you know—anything you saw? We have to get her back.”
Being watched while dancing. And…Adam. The vision with Adam. They were asking about Fia. That’s the connection. It has to be. But I can’t tell James that Adam is alive without telling him that Fia lied about killing him. And if they know that Fia lied and didn’t do what they asked…
The only image I have of my own face floats in my memory, cold and terrible. But just as terrible is knowing what Fia did to keep that from happening. I can’t let them push her that far again.
“Do you care about my sister?”
“Of course I do,” he snaps. I wish I could see his face. I wish I could read people like Fia does, know when they are lying. She says James is always lying. But she likes that about him.
“Did you kiss her?” I ask, whispering.
A pause. “Yes.”
“Do you remember how old she is? She’s a kid, James. A seriously screwed up kid.”
His voice is thicker. Maybe with guilt. I don’t know. I’ve never been able to get much other than false flirting and anger from his voice. “Yes.”
“Do you remember how she was when you first came back here?”
“Yes, yes, yes! Can you find her or not?”
“She didn’t kill Adam Denting.”
“She—what?”