My Soul to Take (8 page)

It took me a moment to realize her question wasn’t rhetorical. She was actually asking my opinion about something, and there was no sarcasm involved.

“I don’t know.” I glanced in the rearview mirror as I turned onto our street, and wasn’t surprised to see Aunt Val’s car on the road behind us. “Maybe.” But that was an outright lie. Meredith Cole was the third teenage girl to drop dead with no warning in the past three days, and while I wasn’t about to voice my suspicions out loud—at least not yet—I could no longer tell myself the deaths weren’t connected.

Nash’s coincidence theory had hit an iceberg and was sinking fast.

I parked in the driveway, and Aunt Val drove past us into her spot in the garage. Sophie was out of the car before I’d even turned the engine off, and the minute she saw her mother, she burst into tears again, as if her inner floodgates couldn’t withstand the assault of sympathetic eyes and a shoulder to cry on.

Aunt Val ushered her sobbing daughter through the garage and into the kitchen, then guided her gently to a stool at the
bar. I came behind them both, carrying Sophie’s purse, and punched the button to close the garage bay door. Inside, I dropped my cousin’s handbag on the counter while Sophie sniffed, and blubbered, and hiccupped, spitting out half-coherent details as she wiped first her cheeks, then her already reddened nose with a tissue from the box on the counter.

But Aunt Val didn’t seem very interested in the specifics, which she’d probably already heard from the dance-team sponsor. While I sat at the table with a can of Coke and a wish for silence, she bustled around the kitchen making hot tea and wiping down countertops, and only once she’d run out of things to do did she settle onto the stool next to her daughter. Aunt Val made Sophie drink her tea slowly, until the sobs slowed and the hiccupping stopped. But even then Sophie wouldn’t stop talking.

Meredith’s death was the first spear of tragedy to pierce my cousin’s fairy tale of a world, and she had no idea how to deal with it. When she was still sobbing and dripping snot into her lukewarm tea twenty minutes later, Aunt Val disappeared into the bathroom. She came back carrying a small brown pill bottle I recognized immediately: leftover zombie pills from my last visit with Dr. Nelson, from the mental-health unit.

I twisted in my chair and arched my brows at my aunt, but she only smiled half regretfully, then shrugged. “It will calm her down and help her sleep. She needs to rest.”

Yes, but she needed a natural sleep, not the virtual coma induced by those stupid sedatives. Not that either of them would have listened to me, even if I’d offered my opinion on the subject of chemical oblivion.

For a moment, I envied my cousin her innocence, even as I watched it die. I’d learned about death early in life, and as inconsolable as Sophie was at the moment, she’d had fifteen
years to prance around in her plastic-wrapped, padded, gaily colored, armor-plated existence, where darkness dared not tread. No matter what happened next, no one could take away her happy childhood.

Aunt Val watched Sophie swallow a single, tiny white pill, then walked her daughter down the hall into her room, where the bedsprings soon creaked beneath her slight weight. Ten minutes later, she was snoring obnoxiously enough to leave no doubt in my mind that my cousin had inherited just as much from her father as from her mother.

While my aunt put Sophie to bed, I grabbed a second Coke from Uncle Brendon’s shelf in the fridge—the one realm Aunt Val’s sugar-free, nonfat, tasteless regime had yet to conquer—and took it into the living room, where I checked the local TV station. But there was no news on at two-thirty in the afternoon. I’d have to wait for the five o’clock broadcast.

I turned off the TV, and my thoughts wandered to the Coles, whom I’d only met once, at a dance-team competition the year before. My eyes watered as I imagined Meredith’s mother trying to explain to her young son that his big sister wouldn’t be coming home from school. Ever.

Glass clinked in the kitchen, momentarily pulling me from the mire of guilt and grief I was sinking into, and I twisted on the couch to see my aunt pouring hot tea into a huge latte mug. My brows furrowed in confusion for a moment—maybe Aunt Val needed a sedative too?—until she stood on her toes to open the top cabinet. Where she and Uncle Brendon kept the alcohol.

My aunt pulled down a bottle of brandy and unscrewed the lid. Then she dumped a generous shot into her mug. And left the bottle on the countertop, clearly planning on a second helping.

She took a sip of her “tea,” then turned toward the living
room, remote control in hand. The moment her gaze met mine, she froze, and her cheeks flushed.

“It hasn’t hit the news yet,” I said, and couldn’t help noticing how tired and heavy her steps looked as she crossed the tiles into the living room. Aunt Val and Mrs. Cole had been gym buddies for years. Maybe Meredith’s death had hit her harder than I’d realized. Or maybe she was unnerved by how upset Sophie was. Or maybe she’d connected Meredith’s death to Heidi Anderson’s—to my knowledge, she hadn’t yet heard about Alyson Baker—and had started to suspect something was wrong. As I had.

Either way, her skin was pale and her hands were shaking. She looked so fragile I hesitated to add to her troubles. But the premonitions had gone too far. I needed help, or advice, or…something.

What I really needed was for someone to tell me what good premonitions of death were if they didn’t help me warn people. What was the point of knowing someone was going to die, if I couldn’t stop it from happening?

Aunt Val wouldn’t know any of that, but neither would anyone else. And in the absence of my own parents, I had no one else to talk to.

My fingers tangled around one another in my lap as she sank wearily onto the other end of the couch, her knees together, ankles crossed primly. The frown lines around her mouth and the tremor in her hand said she was not as composed as she clearly wanted to appear.

That, and the not-tea scent wafting from her mug.

The last time I’d tried to tell her I knew someone was going to die, she and Uncle Brendon had driven me straight to the hospital and left me there. Of course, at the time, I’d been screaming hysterically in the middle of the mall and lashing out at anyone who tried to touch me.

Presumably, they’d had no choice.

Surely it would go better this time, because I was calm and rational, and not currently in the grip of an irrepressible screaming fit. And because she was already one shot into a bottle of brandy.

My nerves pinged out of control, and I reached absently for the scent diffuser on the end table to my left, stirring the vanilla-scented oil with a thin wooden reed. “Aunt Val?”

She jumped, sloshing “tea” onto her lap. “Sorry, hon.” She set her mug on a coaster on the end table, then rushed into the kitchen to blot at her pants with a clean, wet rag. “This thing with Meredith has me on edge.”

I knew exactly how she felt.

I exhaled smoothly, then took a deep breath as my aunt returned to the living room, the wet spot on her slacks now covering half of one slim thigh. “Yeah, it was pretty…scary.”

“Oh?” She stopped several feet from her chair, eyes narrowed at me in concern laced with…suspicion? “Were you there?” Had she already guessed what I was going to say?

Maybe Nash was right. Maybe I should keep my secret a little longer….

I shook my head slowly, and my gaze flicked back to the sticks protruding from the tiny oil bottle. “No, I didn’t actually see it—” she exhaled in relief, and I almost hated to ruin it with the rest of what I had to say “—but…You know the girl who died at Taboo the other day?”

“Of course. How sad!” She returned to her chair and took a slow sip from her tea, eyes closed, as if she were thinking. Or maybe praying. Then she took a much longer drink and lowered her mug, eyes wide and wary. “Kaylee, that girl had nothing to do with what happened today. According to the news, she was drunk, and may have been on something stronger than alcohol.”

I hadn’t heard that last tidbit, but I got no chance to question it because she was talking again. Like mother, like daughter.

My aunt gestured with her mug as she spoke, but nothing sloshed out this time. It was already empty. “Sophie said Meredith collapsed while she was dancing. That poor child ate almost nothing and lived on caffeine. It was really only a matter of time before her body cried ‘enough.’”

“I know, and Sophie may be right.” I let go of the scent sticks and bent the tab on my Coke can back and forth, carefully working it free from its anchor to avoid seeing the pity and skepticism surely lurking behind her cautious sympathy. “The way they died may have nothing to do with anything.” Though I certainly had my doubts. “But, Aunt Val, I think
I’m
the connection between them.”

“What?”

I made myself look up just in time to see my aunt’s eyes narrow in confusion. But then her forehead actually relaxed, tension lines smoothing as if she’d just figured out what I was talking about, and it came as a relief.

If the return of my “delusions” put her at ease, what on earth had she expected me to say?

Her expression softened, and the familiar, patronizing mask of sympathy stung my pride. “Kaylee, is this about your
panic attacks?
” She leaned forward and whispered that last part, as if she were afraid someone would overhear.

Anger zinged through me like tiny bolts of lightning, and I made myself set down my half-empty drink can before I crushed it. “It’s not a joke, Aunt Val. And I’m not crazy. I knew Meredith was going to die before it happened.”

For an instant—less than a single breath—my aunt looked terrified. Like she’d just seen her own ghost. Then she shook her head—literally shaking off her fear of my relapse—and
donned a stoic, determined mask. I’d been right all along. She wasn’t going to listen. Ever.

“Kaylee, don’t do this again,” she begged, a frown etching deep lines around her mouth as she stood and carried her empty mug into the kitchen. I followed her, watching in mounting irritation as she lifted the teakettle from the stove.

“I know you’re upset about Meredith, but this won’t bring her back. This isn’t the way to deal with your grief.”

“This has nothing to do with grief,” I insisted through gritted teeth, dropping my half-full can into the recycling bin.

It landed with a thud, followed by the fizz and gurgle of the contents emptying into the plastic tub.

I read frustration in my aunt’s narrowed gaze. Desperation in the death grip she had on the teakettle. She probably wished she could knock me out as easily as she had Sophie. And some part of me knew that talking to her would do no more good than trying to warn Meredith had. But another, more stubborn part of me refused to give up. I was done with secrets and sym pathetic looks. And I was definitely done with hospitals and those little white pills. I was not going to let anyone else call me crazy. Not ever again.

Aunt Val must have seen my determination, because she set the teakettle back on the stove, then planted both palms flat on the countertop, eyeing me from across the bar. “Think about Sophie. She’s already traumatized. What do you think a selfish, attention-seeking story like this would do to her?”

My jaw tightened, and tears burned behind my eyes. “Screw Sophie!” My fists slammed into the bar, and the blow rever berated up my arms like a bruising shock wave of anger.

My aunt flinched, and I felt a momentary surge of satisfaction. Then I stepped deliberately back from the bar, my hands
propped on my hips. “I’m sorry,” I said, well aware that I didn’t sound very sorry. “But this isn’t about her. I’m trying to tell you I have a serious problem, and you’re not even listening!”

Aunt Val closed her eyes and took a deep breath, like she was practicing yoga. Or searching for patience. “We all know you have problems, Kaylee,” she said when her eyes opened, and her quiet, composed tone infuriated me. “Calm down and—”

“I knew, Aunt Val.” I planted both hands on the countertop again and stared at the granite. Then I looked up and made myself say the rest of it. “And I knew about the girl at Taboo too.”

My aunt’s eyes narrowed drastically, showcasing two sets of crow’s feet, and her voice dropped dramatically. “How could you, unless you were there?”

I shrugged and crossed my arms over my chest. “I snuck in.” I wasn’t about to rat on Emma or her sister. “Ground me if you want, but that won’t change anything. I was there, and I saw Heidi Anderson. And I knew she was going to die. Just like I knew about Meredith.”

Aunt Val’s eyes closed again, and she turned to stare out the window over the sink, gripping the countertop with white-knuckled hands. Then she exhaled deeply and turned back to me. “Okay, this other girl aside…” Though we both knew she’d readdress the clubbing issue later. “If you knew Meredith was going to die, why didn’t you tell someone?”

A fresh pang of guilt shuddered through me like a psychological aftershock, and I sank onto one of the cushioned bar stools facing her, my arms crossed on the countertop. “I tried.” Tears filled my eyes, blurring my aunt’s face, and I swiped at them with my sleeve before they could fall. “But when I opened my mouth, all I could do was scream. And it happened so fast! By the time I could talk again, she was dead.” I looked up, searching her face for some sign of understanding. Or
belief. But there was nothing I recognized in her expression, and that scared me almost as badly as listening to Meredith die.