Not exactly. “But I am here.”
“Not to him, and you’d have a hell of a time proving it to anyone but me. So, if you want the rest of your ten minutes, you have to shut up and stay out of the way until I can get out of here.” Killian lined himself up next to the door. With great care, he pulled the dead bolt back, making a face when it made a loud grinding noise against the housing. Evidently, they didn’t use this door very much.
The raw panic in his voice took away some of the insult of his words, but it also gave me an idea. I sidled closer. “Promise me you’ll help me.”
“What?” He looked up at me, his hand frozen in a claw on the doorknob. Behind us, through the kitchen, I could hear the sound of voices. They were talking outside on the driveway. Clearly, Killian was counting on them coming through the back door while he went out the front. It could work, but the right timing would be crucial.
“If I can’t go back to what I was”—and trust me, after what I’d seen in the coroner’s office, nobody was getting back in that body—“then I want to move on. Angels, harps, clouds, tossing down lightning bolts on Misty’s head, Krispy Kremes three times a day without getting fat — I want it all. Staying around here is just …depressing.” I tilted my head to one side and lowered my eyelashes to give him the look that once made Chris drive all the way to Peoria to buy me a peppermint mocha latte when the ONE Starbucks in town ran out of the peppermint syrup. “I’ll stay quiet and out of your way. Just make the white light come for me.”
He shook his head with a tight smile. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” I demanded.
“It’s not up to me.”
I rested my hands on my hips. “Well, who is it up to?”
He didn’t answer, just cocked his head to the side with a frown, listening to something, and held his hand up for me to be quiet.
Oh, yeah, right.
“I’m serious, Killian,” I continued. “I can’t stay here, not like this. I need help. You’re not my first choice, of course, but I need—”
He let his breath out in a frustrated hiss. “All right, all right. I’ll help you,” he said in a harsh whisper. “Just shut up already. Please.”
It was the “please” that got me. He sounded angry, but scared, too. It wasn’t any fun to mess with him when he was like that — no matter what you may have heard, I’m not into torturing people. Besides, I’d gotten what I wanted.
So, I shut up … for now.
Through the kitchen, I heard the rapid tap-tap of footsteps and the jingle of keys. Someone was coming up the sidewalk to the back door.
Killian waited a second longer than I would have — but hey, it was his great escape — and then he twisted the doorknob and pulled the door open just as his mother stuck her key in the back door lock.
It would have been perfect. They would have had no idea of how long he was gone, probably wouldn’t even have bothered to search outside the house.
Except … when Killian pulled open that front door, Dr. Miller stood behind it, his hand up and poised to knock. I couldn’t have said which one of them was more shocked.
Boogeyman rubber shoes, supernatural in their silence, strike again.
They got him back to his room and in bed, quick as a flash. It only took me a couple seconds in their company to see that while Killian’s shrink might have been the one with the power to send him away, it was his mother who ran the show. Not by pleading or whining, not like my mother. She was broken, by the loss of her husband and the pending loss of her son, and clearly struggling to keep it together. A request from her left Killian scrambling to obey, his face naked with guilt. He’d dropped his bag at the door and followed her without question. If she’d handed him a straitjacket, he’d have buckled himself in with a smile.
Fabulous. This was going to go well. I know all the talk-show hosts blab on and on about having involved and caring parents, but I still think there’s something to be said for uninvolved and apathetic parents. It’s a lot easier.
I parked myself on Killian’s desk chair again to watch the show. I had a vested interest here.
“Where were you headed, Will?” Dr. Miller paced at the foot of the bed while Killian’s mother hovered near the door, probably not wanting to crowd the great doctor. Whatever. I hated therapists. Useless lot, all of them. Always asking you to talk about your feelings. What good does that do anyone? Just makes you think and feel more about the things you can’t change.
“Just somewhere to think.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened at school today?” Miller took his hands from his pockets to cross one arm over his waist and rest the elbow of his other arm on it. Seconds later, his chin settled into the cup of his hand. The guy stepped away from his desk for a few hours and he couldn’t support his own head. A chin-rubber. Great. I rolled my eyes.
Killian shrugged, a little too defensively. “Nothing to talk about.”
Miller frowned. “Principal Brewster wanted to expel you. I’d say that’s something.”
“You talked to him?” he asked.
The doctor paused for the first time, hesitation flashed across his face. “I was with your mother at the diner when she got the call,” he said finally.
Killian flashed a look at his mother.
Oh … something going on between his mom and the shrink? How revolting.
“William, I’m worried about you.” His mother took a step inside the room, her thin, pale hands wringing one another. “Things have been getting worse and—”
“Mom, I’m fine.” Killian threaded his hands through his hair. I saw the wince when he touched the knot on the side of his head, but he hid it pretty well. “Brewster was just being a jackass again. He took Marcie and—”
“That’s the only reason you’re not expelled. That, and your mother’s efforts with Principal Brewster on your behalf.” Miller didn’t sound so happy about that.
Killian stiffened, no doubt imagining the pleading conversation that had gone on. Brewster was a hard-ass, that was for sure, but he enjoyed having power over the powerless. The smartest thing to do was just to respect him to his face and keep on his good side from the beginning. Clearly, Killian had blown that.
“It’s all right,” his mother said gently. “It wasn’t as bad as all that.” She gave him a weary smile.
I could see, though, that it wasn’t all right, at least not with Killian.
“We’ve talked about this, Will.” Miller blundered on in his calm I’m-the-therapist-so-I-know-best voice. Every word out of his mouth made me hate him more. He and Dr. Andrews must have gone to the same shrink school. “Your music is meant to aid you, but if you’re relying on it too much—”
“I’m not,” Killian protested. I could have told him it didn’t matter. Miller had already made up his mind.
The good doctor strolled closer. He lowered a hand to hitch his pants up, obviously intending to sit on the foot of the bed. Then he noticed the tilt of the bed, the left side three or four inches lower than the right. Oops. The bed had broken our fall, and we’d broken it.
Miller straightened up with a frown. “What happened here?”
“Nothing,” Killian said again.
“He’s not buying it,” I said. “Make something up.”
He gave the tiniest shake of his head.
“Julia, the boy’s bed is broken,” Miller pronounced.
“What?” His mother hurried closer, her tiny feet moving soundlessly on the carpeting. Clearly, Killian had gotten his size and height from his father. “What happened here, William?” She sounded aghast, staring down at the bed. If the awful couch in the living room was any indication, he was probably going to end up sleeping on his tilt-a-bed for years to come.
“Was it the spirits again?” Miller asked. “Did they attack you?”
He was good. You could almost miss the eagerness behind the thick layers of fake concern.
“No, no. Nothing like that.” He shook his head vigorously in response to Miller’s question.
“Then what?” Miller prompted.
Killian shifted uncomfortably in his bed. “It was a girl, okay?” He looked to his mother with pleading eyes.
