There’s a click of the crutches, and Bella’s voice moves farther away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I tripped. I’m clumsy. Everyone knows I’m clumsy. Why are you talking about my dad?”
I reach out a hand, desperate. “I saw—I thought I saw—I mean, I just thought maybe your dad . . .”
“You saw? Last time I checked, you’re blind.” Her tone is one I’ve never heard before—not directed at me, anyway, only at other girls when she gossiped.
I’m so scared for her. She’s here, but she’s hurt, and I know what happened. I have to help her. “I know about your dad,” I whisper. “Bella, you can’t let him hurt you like that. You have to talk to someone.”
My hand hangs in the air, begging her to take it.
Now she sounds the way she looked when I saw her—terrified. She tries to laugh but it comes out strangled. “You are such a freak. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Is this what you do for fun? Make up sick stories about people’s families? You really are insane, you know that? Stay away from me.”
That afternoon as I sit on the steps alone, waiting for Fia, I hear muffled laughter and sharp whispers. But Bella doesn’t bother to keep her voice down. “I Googled her. Did you know she actually claimed to see her parents die before it happened? Someone needs to remind her what being blind means.”
“Let me carry your backpack for you,” another girl says, and I flinch as something metal clips my shoulder.
“Oh, sorry,” Bella says, syrupy sweet. “These crutches are so confusing, and I didn’t see you there.”
“Touch her again and I’ll break your other leg,” Fia snaps, and I want to sink into the earth and disappear.
I’d never noticed before how mean Bella’s laugh is. “Oh my gosh, Freak and Baby Freak!”
The crutches click like exclamation marks as Bella and her new entourage leave, still cackling.
Fia sits next to me and takes my hand in hers. “Oh, Annie,” she says with a sigh. “I told you not to say anything.”
“I should have listened.” I lean my head on her shoulder, miserable.
“You should always listen to me.”
FIA
Four Months at Keane
IT’S ALMOST LAUGHABLE HOW EASY IT IS TO STEAL Ryan’s cell phone. Turn the ringer all the way up, slip it into the pocket of his father’s suit jacket in the dining hall that night. I’m gambling that no one will call or text Ryan before I do, but I feel good about it. He’s not that popular.
I am the first girl he ever held hands with.
I hate myself.
But if this is a game—it’s a game, make it a game, Fia. It’s a game and I’m going to win because I am very, very good at games. I have all my pieces in play and I will win.
A note slipped under Ms. Robertson’s door that night saying Eden is planning on sneaking out at three a.m. Sorry, Eden. You were a very effective piece of the game, but your part is done.
Also I still don’t like you.
As soon as I hear Ms. Robertson hauling Eden back to her room, I slip out and go to the main desk.
I dial Ryan’s cell from the phone there.
It rings several times—don’t go to voice mail, don’t!—and then a groggy voice answers.
“Ryan!” I whisper, letting myself sound on the verge of tears. Tears are a lie and I am so good at lying. “It’s me, Lucy. Ashley got caught by her mom! I barely managed to avoid it. Are you guys already at the Jacuzzi? I don’t think we can meet you. And . . .” (I hate myself I do I hate myself so much) “Ashley is the one who had the condoms. I’m so sorry.” I pause. “Ryan? Are you guys at the Jacuzzi?”
“Who is this?” a man’s stern voice says. I squeak and hang up the phone.
Then I run. Their suite is perfectly placed on a corner on the second floor. It was way too easy to follow them there after dinner and case it. I freeze just out of view and wait.
The door opens. I don’t hesitate—I can’t. I slip around the corner and watch as their dad storms down the hall in his robe. If he turns around, if he waits to make sure his door clicks closed and automatically locks, I am caught.
He doesn’t so much as look over his shoulder. It was the condom mention, I think. Hadn’t planned that one but it felt right.
Oh, Ryan, I’m so sorry.
Their dad left a few lights on and I hurry through their main room into the master bedroom. His laptop is on the desk. I flip it open, and a small part of me hopes—prays—that he has it password protected.
I am greeted by a grinning photo of Ty and Ryan. Their laughing faces are a knife in my gut. This is a good dad, I think. A good man.
I put in the jump drive and wait while it uploads, then I hide the folders in an obscure location where someone who doesn’t password protect his personal laptop certainly will not think to look.
The drive is ejected. The laptop is closed. I leave as silently as I came.
Ty and Ryan will be punished, and that sucks. But they’ll be okay.
I know—deep down inside—that their dad will not be okay after what I did.
When I get back to our room, I climb into Annie’s bed, lying as close to her as I can. She doesn’t wake up, because when she is happy she sleeps so deeply nothing can wake her up.
Everything is wrong.
But I won the game.
Annie will keep being happy.
ANNIE
Six Weeks Before Keane
FIA AND I EAT LUNCH ALONE TOGETHER EVERY DAY. She walks me to my classes. She hisses at mean girls when she thinks I can’t hear her. I had to make her promise not to get in a fight with Bella, even though Bella hasn’t so much as talked to me since last year. Fia hates her.
I’m too tired to hate her. And I understand, I think, why Bella is so scared of me. I know her secret, and she can’t lash out at her dad, so she went after me instead. Made sure no one would talk to or believe me.
No one calls. No one comes over. We sit on Aunt Ellen’s couch (because everything here is still Aunt Ellen’s, always) and Fia describes the TV shows to me.
I want to cry, all the time, because nothing will ever change. I hate living here, I hate this school, I hate myself. This is all my fault, and I’m so trapped, and because I’m trapped, Fia is, too.
I don’t know what I’d do without her, but I hate that she’s tied to me. It’s not fair to her. She shouldn’t be stuck in the same life I am. The life that will never change.
Then I get the letter.
The Keane School.
A future—my future. Hope. I am full to the brim with it, because I know without a doubt that this school is my way into a new life, a better life. A happy life. A life where I won’t see anything that will mess it all up. Where no one will know I’m a freak who destroys everything.
I want it more than I have ever wanted anything, and I cannot wait for my new life to start.
FIA
Four Months at Keane
I WON THE GAME. AND I LOST.
Because I know now—without any doubt, without any false hope—that I am theirs. The look on Clarice’s face when I nodded at her this morning. It was triumph, but it was also greed. It made my stomach hurt, made my lungs incapable of pulling in enough air.
I proved my worth.
Now we all know what I can do, how easily I can win. And we all know that I will do it for Annie, that I will do whatever I have to for her to be happy. Sweet-like-honey Clarice will keep her happy. The school will take care of her.
And I will do what they tell me. My future stretches out, a continuous, unending path of wrong. I cannot see any way out. I have no power in this game. They hold all the cards.
Because Annie is all I have in the whole world, and I will never leave her.
Excerpt from Mind Games
Keep reading for a sneak peek at Mind Games
FIA
Seven Years Ago
MY DRESS IS BLACK AND ITCHY AND I HATE IT. I WANT to peel it off and I want to k
ick Aunt Ellen for making me wear it. And it’s short, my legs in white tights stretching out too long under the hem. I haven’t worn this dress in two years, not since I was eight, and I hated it then, too.
Annie’s dress is just as stupid as mine, but at least she can’t see how dumb we look. I can. I don’t want to be embarrassed today. Today is for being sad. But I am sad and embarrassed and uncomfortable, too.
It should be raining. It’s supposed to rain at funerals. I want it to rain, but the sun bakes down and it hurts my eyes and everything is sharp and bright like the world doesn’t know the earth is swallowing up my parents.
My parents. My parents. Mom and Dad.
Annie cries softly next to me, her head bent so low we’re nearly the same height. I’m glad she can’t see any of this, can’t see the caskets, can’t see the mats of fake green grass around them. Just show us the dirt. They are going in the dirt. I would rather see the dirt.
I reach out and take Annie’s hand in mine. I squeeze it and squeeze it because she is my responsibility now, and no one else’s. I’ll take care of her, I promise my parents. I’ll take care of her.
FIA
Monday Morning
THE MOMENT HE BENDS OVER TO HELP THE SORROW-eyed spaniel puppy, I know I won’t be able to kill him.
This, of course, ruins my entire day.
I tap my fingers (tap tap tap them) nervously against my jeans. He’s still helping the puppy, untangling the leash from a tree outside the bar. And he’s not only setting it free, he’s talking to it. I can’t hear the words but I can see in the puppy’s tail that, however he’s talking, he’s talking just right, all tender sweet cheerful comfort as his long fingers deftly untwist and unwind and undo my entire day, my entire life. Because if he doesn’t die today, Annie will, and that is one death I cannot have on my conscience.
Why did he have to help the puppy? If he had walked by like he was supposed to, I could have crossed the street, followed him into the alley, and ended his life as anonymously as possible.
Now he is more than a photo and a location. He is panting-puppy salvation. He is legs that stick out at grasshopper angles as he gives the spaniel one last ear rub. He is shoes scuffed up and jeans worn thin and dark hair accidentally mussed. He is eyes squinting because of forgotten sunglasses and heavy backpack throwing off his balance. He is too-big ears and too-big smile and too-big eyes and (too-big too-big too-big) too real for me to end.
I stay in the shadowed recesses across the street. Why did they send me on this one? Why couldn’t it have been stealing bank account information from a CEO or blackmailing a judge? I could have done those. I do those. All the time.
I haven’t messed up this bad in two years. I’ve done everything James asked me to, everything Keane wanted me to. I’ve kept Annie safe, and so what if how we’re living is no way to live, at least it’s alive. James let me come alone on this trip, and I know it’s a test to see if I’m really theirs, if they can trust that my need to protect Annie cements me to them forever, no matter what horrors I’m doing. I can’t mess up.
Technically I haven’t yet, I could still do it, I could still keep Annie safe and sound in her room where she sees nothing but fractured visions of life. Maybe she’s already seen this, maybe she knows it ended for us the moment this boy helped that puppy and became a person to me.
That dumb dog has killed us all.
But the decision is made and I have to cross the street and finish what I’ve begun. Now. I can’t plan it. Planning isn’t safe—it begs for Seers to spy on you. I have to just go.
My feet step onto the asphalt, carry me across, and I don’t know what to do. For so long my brain has been trained to ignore the wrong pulsing constantly, trained to work in spite of knowing everything I’m doing is always bad. Now I am thinking only for myself, using my instincts for my own good.
Which, for whatever reason, means this guy needs to come with me now, somewhere I don’t know yet, but I feel like north is the right direction. I am about to become the grateful owner of the silky-eared engineer of my destruction.
“You found my puppy!” A voice that is not my own but what he needs to hear slips out of my mouth, and the instant his eyes meet mine (gray, he has gray eyes, I would have closed his gray eyes forever), I know I have him for as far north as I need to go, and after that I will figure it out.
Planning is not my friend. Impulse is.
“This is your dog?” he asks, and his voice is deeper than I thought it would be and as kind and warm and untainted by violence as I knew it would be. He takes me in, my wide blue eyes, china doll lips, long brown hair: I am the picture of teenage innocence.
I lean down and pull the dog toward me. No tag on the collar, I get to name it. “Yes! Thank you. My dad—” I hesitate and look toward the bar. His gaze follows mine and then snaps back, sympathetic color flooding his face on my behalf.
Guys are so easy.
I stand, keeping my eyes on the dog as though I can’t bear to meet the boy’s instead. “Well, uh, he was supposed to be back two hours ago. I got worried. Chloe needs to eat.”
“I didn’t find her,” he says, his voice soft and bright to try and compensate for my embarrassment. “Just untangled her. She’s a great dog.”
My cue to look up and recover. “She is, isn’t she? She’s my best friend in the whole world. Oh, gosh, that makes me sound like a loser.” I giggle just like I should. He smiles. (His gray eyes, they will haunt me forever with what I would have done—what I still could do—what I still should do—oh, Annie, have you already seen this? Did you know when I left that I’d kill us both?)
“No, not at all. I love dogs. I had a German shepherd growing up; I still miss him.”
I twist the leash around my hand, drawing his attention there. Small hands, safe hands, hands he probably thinks he might like to hold once he figures out whether or not I’m too young for him. It makes me sick to look at my hands. “There’s a deli a few blocks away where I can get something for Chloe. Do you—I mean, if you aren’t doing anything, I’d love to say thank you for helping my puppy, and if you wanted to come along, I could—it’d be my treat?”
I know he’s going to say yes before it comes tumbling out of his lips and I smile in shy delight. He wants to get away from the bar of my pretended shame, and he wants to get to know me better and figure out whether or not I’m old enough for him to be interested in.
What on earth can this stuttering-arms-and-legs-and-nervous-hands guy have done to get on Keane’s hit list? I’ll have to find out. Because I’m going against Keane (oh no, oh no, they will kill us both) and I need to know as much as I can to try and fix it. When they give me things to do, they never tell me why. Just what. They want me operating on as little information as possible. I’m not like the other girls, the ones who choose to help them, who like money and power.
They know I have no choice, but if I did, they’d all be dead.
“It’s this way.” I walk in the direction we need to go. It feels right, in the same way you feel a drop coming up on a roller coaster before you go over the edge. I’m falling, but I’m falling exactly how I’m supposed to.
“I’m Adam, by the way.”
“Oh,” I say, with another giggle. “Yeah. I’m Sofia.” I almost miss a step. I told him my name—my real name. Why did it come out like that? I always lie. “My friends call me Fia, though. Or, well, I guess my dog does, since I already told you she’s my only friend.”
He laughs again. He likes me so much and he wants to know how old I am—I can read it in every line of his body. “Do you live around here?” he asks.
“Just visiting. Kind of a field trip, I guess.” I see his eyebrows rise involuntarily and even though I am a dead girl walking I smile, really smile. He’s scared now, but not of what he should be. “I’m seventeen.”
A relieved exhalation. “Oh, good. No offense, but you look young.”
“They always tell me I’ll like it when I’m older.”
/>
“They said the same thing when I was the awkward, horrible, six-foot two-inch wonder at thirteen.” He smiles, remembering, and I wonder what he was like then. I wonder what he is like now. “I’m nineteen, by the way, just in case maybe I look a lot older or younger than I really am.”
“No, you look exactly like what you really are.” He does not lie, this nineteen-year-old boy. With his body or his face or his mouth. My finger taps out the why-why-why of his death. “Do you live around here?”
“Studying, actually. At the university hospital.”
“Are you going to be a doctor?” My voice is tinged with a bit of awe. I think it’s right for what he thinks of me, but my eyes are tracing the lines of the empty sidewalks stretching out in front of us. I still don’t know where we are going; I let the dog trot to the end of the leash.
I wonder if Keane has a Seer (other than Annie) talented enough to see me yet. I wonder how I am going to hide this from the Readers and the Feelers. I wonder how bad it will hurt to die, and if I will mind so terribly much after all.
“In a way. I’m really more on the research side than treating people. When do you graduate?”
I turn with my smile, ready to make something up, and I see them.
Three men. Dark clothes, thin jackets, nothing notable about any of them. They are not looking at us as they approach from the next street over. They are coming for him or for me or for both of us.
Dear, dear intuition: Why did you lead me in this direction? Because being ambushed by three men is not my idea of a good plan. At least they aren’t women; my thoughts and emotions are still safe. Men can’t get in my head.
“Come on,” I say, tugging the leash and hurrying down the sidewalk.
“What kind of field trip are you on? Will you be in town for a while?”
“I have no idea. My plans changed about five minutes ago.” I look over my shoulder to see the men, three (tap tap tap—I hate the number three), thick shoulders, one gun between them based on the way the guy in the middle is walking (that was a mistake, they should all have guns—guess they’ll find out), matching our pace and getting closer.