“Well, they obviously have something important to tell you, but I seriously doubt you have a brain tumor. Shouldn’t you have some symptoms, or something, if you’re sick?”
I dropped into my desk chair again and ran my finger over the mouse pad to wake up the monitor. “I looked it up, and—”
“You researched brain tumors? This afternoon?” Nash hesitated, and the footsteps paused. “Kaylee, is this because of Meredith?”
“No!” I shoved off against the desk so hard my wheeled chair hit the side of the bed. “I’m not a hypochondriac! I’m just trying to figure out why this is happening to me, and nothing else makes sense.” Frustrated, I scrubbed one hand over my face and made myself take another deep breath. “They don’t think I’m crazy, so it’s not psychological.” And my relief at knowing that was big enough to swallow the Pacific Ocean. “So it has to be physical.”
“And you think it’s brain cancer….”
“I don’t know what else to think. There’s one kind of brain cancer that sometimes doesn’t have any symptoms. Maybe I have that kind.”
“Wait…” He paused as a gust of wind whistled over the line. “You think you have a tumor because you have no symptoms?”
Okay, I still wasn’t making any sense. I closed my eyes and let my head fall against the back of the chair. “Or maybe the premonitions are my symptom. Some kind of hallucination.”
Nash laughed. “You’re not hallucinating, Kaylee. Not unless Emma and I have tumors too. We both saw you predict two deaths, and we saw one of them actually happen. You weren’t imagining that.”
I sat up in my chair, and this time my long, soft exhalation was in relief. “I was seriously hoping you’d say that.” It helped—albeit a tiny little bit—to know that if I was dying, at least I was going out with my mind intact.
“Glad I could help.” I could hear the smile in his voice, which drew one from me in response.
I swiveled in my chair and propped my feet up on my nightstand. “Okay, so maybe I’m having premonitions because of the tumor. Like, it’s activating some part of my brain most people can’t access. Like John Travolta in that old movie.”
“Saturday Night Fever?”
“Not that old.” My smile grew a little, in spite of what should have been a very somber conversation. I loved how easily Nash calmed me, even over the phone. His voice was hypnotic, like some kind of auditory tranquilizer. One I could easily get hooked on. “The one where he can move stuff with his mind, and learn whole languages by reading one book. And it all turns out to be because he has brain cancer and he’s dying.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen that one.”
“He gets all kinds of freaky abilities, then he dies. It’s tragic. I don’t want to be tragic, Nash. I want to be alive.” And suddenly the tears were back. I couldn’t help it. I’d had more than enough of death in the past few days, without adding my own to the list.
“Okay, you’re going to have to trust me on this, Kaylee.” The footsteps were back, and then a door closed, cutting off the bluster of wind on his end of the call. Then his voice got softer. “Your premonitions don’t come from brain cancer. Whatever your aunt and uncle were talking about, that’s not it.”
“How do you know?” I blinked the moisture from my eyes, irritated with how emotional I was becoming. Wasn’t that another symptom of brain cancer?
Nash sighed, but he sounded more worried than exasperated. “I have to tell you something. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”
CHAPTER 8
Seven minutes later, I sat on the living-room couch, my keys in my pocket, my phone in my lap, my fingernails rasping anxiously across the satin upholstery. I was angled to face both the television—muted, but tuned to the local evening news—and the front window, hoping no one would realize I was expecting company. “No one,” meaning my aunt and uncle. Sophie was still out cold, and I was starting to wonder how many of those pills her mother had given her.
Aunt Val was in the kitchen, banging pots, pans, and cabinet doors as she made spaghetti, her favorite comfort food. Normally she wouldn’t indulge in so many carbs in a single meal, but she was obviously having a rough day. A very rough day, if the scent of garlic bread was any indication.
“Hey, Kay-Bear, how you holdin’ up?”
I glanced up to find my uncle leaning against the plaster column separating the dining room from the living room. He hadn’t called me that in nearly a decade, and the fact that he was using my old nickname probably meant he thought I was…fragile.
“I’m not crazy.” I met his clear green eyes, daring him to argue.
He smiled, and the resulting smile lines somehow made him look even younger than usual. “I never said you were.”
I huffed and shot a glare toward the kitchen, where Aunt Val was stirring noodles in a huge aluminum pot. “She thinks I am.” I knew better than that now, of course, but wasn’t about to let on that I’d heard their argument.
Uncle Brendon shook his head and crossed the eggshell carpet toward me, arms folded over the faded tee he’d changed into after work. “She’s just worried about you. We both are.” He sank into the floral-print armchair opposite me. He always sat there, rather than on the solid white chair or sofa, hoping that if he spilled something, Aunt Val would never notice the stain on such a busy pattern.
“Why aren’t you worried about Sophie?”
“We are.” He paused, then seemed to consider his answer. “But Sophie’s…resilient. She’ll be fine once she’s had a chance to grieve.”
“And I won’t?”
My uncle raised one brow at me. “Val said you barely knew Meredith Cole.” And just like that, he’d sidestepped the real question—that of my future well-being.
And we both knew it.
Before I could answer—and I was in no hurry—an engine purred outside, and I glanced through the sheers to see an unfamiliar blue convertible pull into the driveway beside my car, glittering in the late-afternoon sun. Behind the wheel was a very familiar face, crowned by an equally familiar head of thick brown hair.
I stood, stuffing my phone into my empty pocket.
“Who’s that?” Uncle Brendon twisted to look out the window.
“A friend. I gotta go.”
He stood, but I was already halfway across the room. “Val’s making dinner!” he called after me.
“I’m not hungry.” Actually, I was starving, but I had to get out of the house. I couldn’t possibly suck down spaghetti like it was a regular Monday night. Not knowing that my entire family had been lying to me for who knows how long.
“Kaylee, get back here!” Uncle Brendon roared, following me through the front door onto the porch. I’d rarely heard him raise his voice, and had never heard him yell like that.
I took off at a trot, slid into the passenger seat, then slammed the door and locked it.
“Is that your uncle?” Nash asked, right hand hovering over the gearshift. “Maybe I should meet—”
“Go!” I shouted, louder than I’d meant to. “I’ll introduce you later.” Assuming I lived that long.
Nash slammed the car into Reverse and swerved backward out of the driveway, twisting in his seat to peer out the rear windshield. As we pulled away from the house, I took one last look at my uncle, who stared after us from the middle of the driveway, thick arms crossed over his chest. Behind him, Aunt Val stood on the porch holding a dishrag, her perfect mouth hanging open in surprise.
When we turned the corner, I let myself melt into the car seat, only then noticing how posh it was. “Please tell me you didn’t pick me up in a stolen car.”
Nash laughed and glanced away from the road to smile at me, and my pulse sped up when our gazes met, in spite of the circumstances. “It’s Carter’s. I’ve got it till midnight.”