“I once ran over a chipmunk with my bike. It was horrible. I crushed him, and I kept riding. I couldn’t stand to look back and see what I’d done.” She chuckled and looked at her wine. “I’ve never told anyone that. This wine must be going to my head.”
“A chipmunk. I think if that’s the worst you’ve done, you’re in good shape.”
“And you?”
He leaned back on the couch and draped an arm behind her shoulder.
“I wrecked my mom’s prized possession - a 1964 Aston Martin. I wrapped it around a tree.”
Orla watched the little smile on Spencer’s lips. He held an expression of guilt coupled with exhilaration. It was a strange sight, and Orla set her glass on the table.
“Did you get hurt?”
“No. Miraculously according to the doctors, but… well, I knew I wouldn’t get hurt.”
“Did you plan it?” Orla asked, goosebumps rising on her arms.
He looked at her, his eyes glassy, and then blinked. His normal gaze returned, and he laughed.
“Of course not. I’d have to be crazy to do something like that on purpose.”
He reached out and touched her long black hair.
“You’re stunning,” he said.
Orla smiled, tucked her hair behind her ear.
“Thanks.”
He leaned in and kissed her. His lips were soft and warm, and she felt him holding back. When he pulled away, he slipped his hand into hers, pausing and looking down at her hand.
“Why the gloves?” he asked.
She blushed. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked. Intimacy always ended up there.
She started to offer her rehearsed response - dry skin, etcetera. Instead, she told him the truth.
“Sometimes, if I touch things with my hands, I receive impressions.”
He looked at her curiously.
“Impressions?”
Something in his face stopped her. She had been ready to reveal all, but quickly pivoted, choosing the safer, more sane response.
“Just tactile sensations, you know? Like every ridge and bump. I can’t describe it, but it’s unnerving. I keep them on to reduce that.”
He nodded and studied her gloved hand.
“Can I refill you?”
She shook her head.
“I think I’ve already passed my limit.”
“A lightweight.” He stood and took her glass.
Something had changed between them. Orla couldn’t place it, but the near-revelation with the gloves had closed off some part of Spencer.
“Listen, I’m not trying to be fresh, but do you want to spend the night?” he asked, turning on the faucet and putting the glasses in the sink. “I can drive you home. I don’t mind at all. I was just thinking about driving up to Leelanau State Park for a hike tomorrow. I thought you might like to join.”
Orla glanced toward the clock over his refrigerator. It was going on midnight, and the drive back to town would take forty-five minutes. She wasn’t tired. She imagined they could stay up all night talking, and she’d wake refreshed when the sun peeked over the horizon. But then she remembered his look when she talked about her hands…
“Sure,” she said. “On the couch, though. This will suit me fine.” She patted the leather sofa.
“Not a chance.” He shook his head. “You get the bed. I’ll take the couch.”
Orla stepped from the door of the carriage house. Flowering trees and high, dense bushes shrouded the building. It was a beautiful spot. The sun slanting through the branches made her want to step out, press her face into the soft petals of the pink flowers on a nearby bush.
Spencer had left to pick up pastries and coffee, insisting she take her time waking up, have a shower if she’d like.
Dark pink flowers, heavy and sagging from the lattice, wound up the garage’s side wall. Orla heard the frenzy of bees as they hovered over the fragrant flowers.
The rain left a sparkling sheen on every surface.
She looked at the huge oak tree, whose roots rose and fell within the green grass, and imagined an enormous bark-colored octopus reaching out from a secret sea hidden beneath the earth.
Slipping off her gloves, she tucked them in her jeans pocket. At the flowers, she cupped the fleshy petals, savoring the sensations. Warmth spread through her hands.
The driveway was a menagerie of glittering stones. As she walked, she stared down at their shapes and colors. Pausing, she reached down and picked one up, turning the stone in the sun, watching the dazzle of light off its sharp surfaces. She reached for a second and a third. It was the fourth that rocked her. She hadn’t been paying attention, simply plucked one from the ground, and the moment her fingers grazed the object - not a stone at all - a terrible vision tore across her mind.
A young woman stood on hands and knees, bleeding from a head wound and staring at her own bloody teeth knocked from her mouth by a terrible blow.
As the image vanished, Orla lurched backwards, almost toppled over, but managed to shuffle her feet and stay upright. She looked at the tiny, hard item in her hand. It was not a rock, but a tooth, perfectly intact. A molar.
The sound of feet crunching over gravel brought her back to the moment. A woman stepped into the glare of the sun.
Orla stuffed the tooth in her pocket, her stomach a soup of nausea. Fear had not yet arisen. The shock of the vision still lingered, overwhelming her other senses. In her mind’s eye, she saw the girl who’d been struck - blonde hair falling over her battered face, destroyed by… a rock, yes, Orla thought someone had hit her in the head with a large rock.
The woman who’d walked from the main house had not seen Orla. She was middle-aged, her dark hair neatly pinned up, and she wore dark slacks and a navy blouse. Dark lipstick lined her small, thin mouth.
“Excuse me?” The woman’s voice stopped her cold.
Orla looked up, struggled to meet the woman’s cold stare.
“Are you Spencer’s friend?”
Allowing her hair to fall over her face, Orla nodded and pretended to look at the flowers. She took a few steps backwards into the driveway and bolted. She’d get to the road and hitch a ride back into town. The tooth hung heavy in her pocket, though she knew it weighed nothing at all.
“Wait,” the woman commanded.
Orla’s legs wanted to keep running, and for a minute they did. It took all her willpower to slow and turn.
The woman walked toward her. Orla realized she should say something, apologize for taking off, but her mind could not find a suitable excuse.
“Spencer is always in such a rush. Won’t you join me for breakfast?”
Orla swallowed and shook her head.
“I better not. I forgot about some sewing I’m supposed to have done. Let Spencer know I’ll call him. I’ve really got to run.”
The woman took a step closer, still smiling, and then another.
“Where’s your car, dear?”
Orla’s mouth hung open.
“I don’t live far,” she lied.
“You have such beautiful hair. May I?” The woman was right in front of her now, reaching out a pale, slender hand.
Orla’s eyes bulged as she watched the hand as if were a tentacle. She wanted to slap the woman’s hand away, turn and run, but the woman had sunk her hand into Orla’s hair. Orla saw the woman’s other arm slip from behind her. She held something that glinted in the sun. Orla stared, perplexed, as the woman’s hand lifted, hovered, and plunged a syringe into Orla’s neck.
Orla shrieked and wrenched away, but the woman depressed the syringe. Whatever it contained rushed into her body.