“Everyone’s fine,” she says, peeling the plastic wrap off the beef. “I don’t know all the details, but apparently someone hacked into the medical database last night.”
I can’t help but drop my jaw. “Someone hacked into AIDA?”
Mom nods.
“But that’s impossible,” I say. “You guys have incredible security. It would take a genius to break in. I should know, I’ve tried to–”
Mom looks at me, an eyebrow quirked.
I stop short, realizing what I was about to say, then quickly rephrase. “I mean, I’ve tried to think of a company with better security. There isn’t one. AIDA’s is foolproof. Even better than the CIA.”
Mom smiles to herself as she slides the beef into a skillet on the stove. “Well, better than the CIA or not, someone broke in and deleted a bunch of files from several departments, including Dr Farrow’s office. They won’t be taking any more appointments until the new year while they sort it all out, so I guess we’ll have to find someone else for you to talk to.”
I grip the doorframe to keep my legs from giving out on me again. Someone broke in and deleted a bunch of files. The very files that probably held all Dr Farrow’s notes about my visions. Three guesses who that someone was. Now I know what Porter meant when he said he’d taken care of it.
Mom turns to look at me. “You need to go lie down, Bean. You look worse than when you came in.” She shoos me out the door with a wooden spoon.
I find my way to Gran and Pops’ bedroom and crawl back into bed beside Audrey. I fall asleep right away, but rest is futile. I can’t stop dreaming about Blue lying there left for dead, blood leaking from his chest, the light in his blue-green eyes going dark.
JENSEN, JENSEN, JENSEN
At dinner, I chase diced tomatoes around my taco salad with my fork. Grief coils around my ankle like a ball and chain. Mom and Dad give me space, thinking I still feel sick. Pops and Claire are oblivious. But Gran and Audrey watch me like a pair of hawks.
After dinner, they clutch my arms, one on either side, and drag me into Gran’s bedroom. Audrey sits beside me on the bed, and Gran closes the door.
“All right, Bean. Spill.” Gran crosses her arms over her favorite oatmeal-colored cardigan. There are fall leaves stitched on the pockets. She stares me down with the same look she uses on the neighborhood boys who steal our newspaper. “You’re not sick, are you? This is about a boy. Your mom used to sulk around the same way when she was your age.”
“Is it Jensen?” Audrey asks in her soft, careful way.
I toss my hands up. “It’s not Jensen. Would everyone stop talking about Jensen? I don’t like him like that anymore. And heaven forbid I have anything else to sulk about other than a boy.”
Gran sits on the other side of me. The mattress sinks on her side, raising Audrey up six inches on the other. “You two lovebirds have a fight?” Gran says.
I groan and fall back on the bed. Gran and Audrey lie on their sides on either side of me. I’m barricaded in by concerned faces.
Two very cute concerned faces, at least.
“Look,” I say. “I don’t like Jensen. He doesn’t like me. We’re not lovebirds. That’s not why I’m upset. End of story.”
Gran shoots Audrey a look. “OK, Pea Pod, I played bad cop. Now it’s your turn.” She climbs off the end of the bed and leaves us to ourselves.
I narrow my eyes at Audrey and clasp my hands behind my head. “OK, Pea Pod. What ya got?”
“Come on,” she says, giving me a shove. “I’m starving for drama. You still get to go to school. I have to spend my freshman year at home with Gran and Pops, remember?”
“Believe me, going to school is worse. I wish I could stay home with Gran and Pops.”
“What happened with Jensen?”
“Oh, for the love of Pete.” I sit up and look her in the eye. “I swear to you, it has nothing to do with Jensen. Now will you please stop saying his name?”
“Is it about your appointment with the psychiatrist you saw yesterday?”
I flop back down on my back. Grief tightens around my ankle even more, cutting off circulation. “No. I just had another bad dream, all right? A very, very bad dream.”
“What was it about?” Her voice is pink silk, soft and warm. It usually comforts me, calms my nerves, but this time the wound is too deep to soothe.
I chew the inside of my lip, trying not to picture Blue’s face when the taxicab pulled away, or his teasing grin right before he caught my face in his hands and kissed me. I try not to remember the look he gave me when I jumped out of the dumpster in the alley. Or the first time he called me Sousa. And I try desperately not to think about him dying, all alone, in the back of his delivery truck.
God, he didn’t deserve that.
I should’ve been there.
I should’ve prevented it.
My throat tightens and it’s hard to speak. I stare up at the lace valance across the top of Gran and Pops’ bay window. There’s a cobweb in the corner, and it could use a dusting. I think about climbing up there and taking care of that for them right now.
“Allie?”
I can’t tell Audrey about Blue dying, even if I tell her it was all just a dream. I’ve never been able to talk to her about death. Not when my biggest fear is coming home to Mom standing in the kitchen, eyes rimmed red, holding one of Audrey’s bandanas in her hands. If it hurts this much to lose someone from a past life, how much will it hurt to lose my sister?
I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. I can’t let her see me fall apart. I have to be strong for her. Always strong. So I pat her hand and just say, “I’ll be OK.”
CHAPTER 14
NEIGHBORS
When I wake up the following morning, it’s half past eleven. A note on my bedside table from Mom and Dad says they called in to school for me, they hope I feel better, and they love me. The smell of Gran’s homemade cinnamon rolls lingers in the air from breakfast. I make my way downstairs, hoping to find a few left.
The house is empty. I find two cinnamon rolls on a plate under a dishtowel on the kitchen island. A note from Gran says she and Pops took Audrey to one of her appointments.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had the house to myself. Part of me wants to stay and take advantage of the peace and quiet, maybe work on some of my projects, but I know I wouldn’t be able to concentrate. There are too many questions left unanswered.
I power on my cell phone while I take a bite of cinnamon roll, expecting to see a dozen calls from Porter, but there isn’t even one.
I redial his number.
“Hello?” he says in his distinctive, gentlemanly voice.
“Where are you? I need to talk to you. Do you live somewhere downtown?”
“Alex?”
I lick the glaze from my fingers and rummage in a drawer for pencil and paper. “Give me your address. I can take the bus.”
“I didn’t think I’d hear from you so soon.”
“Address,” I say, pencil poised.
He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “142 Elmwood.”
I start to write it down, then drop the pencil. “142 Elmwood is just down the street.”
“Well, you needed protection. Someone had to keep an eye on you–”
I hang up on him and grab the last cinnamon roll and my army-green parka on the way out the door.
142 Elmwood is a cute two-story Victorian with yellow siding, white trim, and two bright red Japanese Maples in the front yard. Porter sits on the front porch in a rocking chair when I arrive, smoke curling from a cigar in his hand. He’s wearing jeans again and another black polo. No cap today, just very, very, short white hair.