“On his house,” I add, trying not to sound
“Have you seen that triangle again?”
“On another house. Down on Fifth Street—in the old section of town. I like to take walks there. I didn’t notice it at the time, but I found it later in a picture I took.”
“Can you show me?”
I nod and pull out my phone. When I reach the right photo, I zoom in on the white wood above the door and point. “There,” I whisper.
Elizabeth looks, squints, looks again. She doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she doesn’t see it. My hearts slides into my stomach and I want to crumple into the couch.
After zooming in and out a couple times, Elizabeth hands the phone back. “Why didn’t you want to tell me before?”
“I was afraid,” I admit in a whisper.
“Afraid of what?”
“That you would say I was crazy. Or worse, that I needed to go back to the neurologist.” There’s a long hush, then I rush on. “After everything that’s happened, you would think that would be the least of my worries. But when it feels like nothing else in my body works, at least I’m still sane and if—if you take that away …” I can’t finish. There are no words for the darkness that losing my mind represents.
The darkness that feels like it’s looming, waiting to devour me.
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Elizabeth says gently, but with a firmness that tells me she’s telling the truth. Or, at the very least, that she
“What do you mean, changes?” Like my pockets of infinite ChapStick? Should I tell her about that too?
But even as I think it, I know I can’t. Seeing things? Well, that can be explained. Hallucinations are an ordinary side effect of traumatic brain injury. Magic pockets are not.
“I want to continue to explore some of these things. Quinn, the triangles,” she says, not really answering my question. “And Tavia, you might have more strange things happen. Unexplainable things. And that’s okay. Just know that you can trust me and that I’ll do my best to get your life back on track. That’s what I’m here for.”
I nod, but I don’t mean it. It’s not that I
Or arrested.
What do you do with people who can magically pull lip balm from their pockets?
“Do you think maybe you’ll draw anything else before our next appointment?” Elizabeth asks, sounding light and casual; but we both know we’re walking on thin ice with my artist’s block and if she pushes too hard, it’ll break.
“Maybe,” I mumble, not willing to commit to more than that.
“Well, do you mind if I keep this picture until our next session?” Elizabeth asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
She holds up the drawing and a zing of jealous possession rushes through me. I suppress the urge to snatch the drawing back, take a breath, and remind myself that if I managed to draw one, I can draw another. Or ten. Or a hundred.
Besides, it’s only a couple of days.
So then why does my heart ache like it’s gone forever? Like
CHAPTER TEN
It’s
When I reach the curb of the parking lot, I look up and barely catch sight of a man half hidden by a bush. He’s leaning casually against one of the buildings across the street from Elizabeth’s office plaza and doesn’t seem to have seen me yet. But he looks familiar.
It’s only when he lifts one hand to adjust his sunglasses—sunglasses in the rain?—that I realize it’s the man who was staring at me when I ran into the wall. Have I got another stalker? Or should I add paranoia to the list of mental disorders brought on by my injuries? Most likely he just lives nearby, and now that I’ve noticed him, I’ll see him all the time—like how when you buy a new car, you suddenly start seeing the same model everywhere you go. Still, I’m creeped out, so I duck my head and grip my backpack straps as I pivot and head in the opposite direction.
I’m only two blocks from Elizabeth’s office when my stomach rumbles. I was so nervous about my appointment—not to mention keyed up about Benson—that I forgot to eat breakfast. Now I’m famished.
I’ve been hungry a lot lately. Like,
Part of me wants to head to the library anyway—maybe Benson and I can go grab lunch. He
Looking nice for Benson didn’t matter before. But now …
When I reach the house, the front door opens on silent hinges and I’m several steps up the stairway before I hear Reese’s voice.
“It’s really not a good time, Liz. Tavia took off this morning and didn’t tell me where she was going. Did she even make your appointment?” Pause. “Oh! Well, in that case.”
Startled, I turn my head toward the kitchen, my ears perking up when I catch my own name. Reese’s steps are coming toward me and I instinctively duck out of sight as she carries the phone into the front room to peek out the window.
Watching for me.
“The blond guy again?”
Liz.
I curl my knees up to my chest, shrouded by the shadow of the winding staircase, and try not to make a sound, to not even breathe.
“You’re sure? He looks just like our descriptions from Sonya? But—wait, he
I hear her sipping something and she swallows quickly, then says, “The Earthbound triangle? At his house? So you think he knows what he is?”
I’m sick as I hear all my secrets dropping from Reese’s lips.
“No, I agree, it must be. I’m happy to check out the one on Fifth as well. Were you able to get a house number from the picture? Maybe whoever lived there was a Curatoriate. There might be something left that we can use. But get me the sketch for sure—this could be the break we need.”