Death, Doom and Detention

I grabbed a bar of soap to examine it and lifted a shoulder. “I have homework.”

Disappointment lined her face. “Granddad’s at the church. He was asking about Azrael.”

“It’s Jared, Grandma,” I said, adding an edge to my voice. “It’s just Jared now.”

“Pix.” Grandma rounded the counter and put a hand on my shoulder.

I stiffened, but didn’t step away from her. It was the weirdest feeling, being at odds with my grandparents. It had never happened before. I’d been mad at them before for some perceived infraction, but our relationship never sank to this level of pain and resentment. And it wasn’t just about Jared. It was everything. Everything they hadn’t told me. Every secret they’d kept and every lie they’d lived. And now they were planning to ship me off without even consulting me? Without asking what I wanted?

“We can’t begin to express our gratitude where he is concerned. It’s not as though we don’t want him here.”

For some reason, I asked, “Then what is it?” I didn’t want to have this conversation. As infantile as it sounded, I didn’t want to forgive them just yet, and having a heart-to-heart would only lead me closer to that end.

“We’re just … we’re worried. That’s all. He’s so much more dangerous than you can imagine.”

“I know.” I schooled my expression again. “You’ve told me. Can I go do my homework now?”

She drew in a deep breath and nodded, and I steeled myself against the hurt in her eyes. “There’s fruit in the kitchen.”

“Is it in the form of a toaster pastry?” Brooke asked, trying to lighten the mood. She’d walked in after the coast was clear of unwanted sentiment.

“There are those too. Cameron,” Grandma said to him, looking past us into the kitchen, “make sure you get a snack. We’ll see about dinner in a bit.”

He offered a sheepish smile. “Thank you, Mrs. James.”

With a sigh, I shuffled off to bake Cameron a toaster pastry. I wasn’t hungry in the least. My mood had turned as gray as the skies.

“What are you doing?” Brooke whispered to me.

“Making Cameron a snack.”

“At a time like this? We have things to discuss,” she said just as I was maneuvering a cherry pastry out of the toaster oven with a fork. Because I could be reckless when I wanted to be. Danger was my middle name.

“And Cameron has to do a perimeter check,” Brooke said, pulling at my arm.

“I do?” he asked, taking the pastry from me and blowing on it.

“You most certainly do.”

“So, you’re kicking me out of the playhouse?” He grinned at us, at her, then took a huge bite, unconcerned.

While Brooke was dragging me up the stairs, she turned back to him and said, “Of course not. We just have girl stuff to discuss.”

“I thought you had homework.” He said it plenty loud enough for my grandmother to hear. I cringed and glowered at him, but only for a second before I lost sight of him.

“Fingernails,” I said as Brooke whisked me into my bedroom.

A storm had moved in. The wind shook the world around us as rain scratched and clawed across my window in massive waves. And again, all I could think about was the fact that Jared was out in it. I could only pray he found shelter.

“Hurry,” Brooke said as she rummaged through her backpack. “I know you don’t want anyone to know about your new talent, so we have to practice before your bodyguard gets up here.”

She was back and in full force. I thought I’d gained a reprieve from her prodding when I told her what I was going through with my visions. Apparently not.

I rubbed the underside of my arms. “I wasn’t kidding about the nails. You have a killer grip.”

“We need to explore your new talent.”

“I didn’t really mean that literally.”

“You said yourself, you want to understand this a bit more before we tell anyone.”

“Brooke, I don’t want the visions, remember?”

“But these are safe. You’re only seeing into a picture, into what actually happened when it was being taken. No emotion. No scary dreams afterwards or thoughts of suicide. This will be fun. Now sit,” she said, completely ignoring my exasperation. She brought out a photo wallet as I sat on the end of my bed. After thumbing through it, she stopped and handed one over. “Okay, see what you can get.”

I made sure to exhale really loudly before I scooted until my back was against my headboard. She did the same on her bed, but she leaned against the wall so she could watch me. Which was only a little uncomfortable. I looked at the picture. It was a shot of Cameron at a lake with his dad. He couldn’t have been more than twelve, his blond hair shorter and his long frame thinner. He had an almost sad expression in his eyes as he posed for the shot. His dad had an arm around his waist, his teeth flashing white against his dark skin, but Cameron’s smile was more reserved, almost cautious.

“Where did you get this?” I asked her.

“Out of Cameron’s truck. He wouldn’t give me a picture, so I stole one.”

“Brooke,” I said, my tone admonishing.

“What? He knows I took it. I grabbed it off his visor and stuffed it into my pocket with him watching me.” She thought back. “He just gave me this odd expression. Like he couldn’t understand why I’d want a picture of him in the first place.”