Thicker Than Water Read online

  By the time we’re in the car, my heart rate has found a normal rhythm. Mark has kept up a litany of profanity the whole way back to the vehicle. I was worried about walking in front of the restaurant again, but JB assures me that no one will bother us.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “Some people will help a skip get away, but they won’t risk themselves to stop you once you’ve caught him.”

  And he’s right. No one comes out of the restaurant. People on the street treat JB like he’s a cop. No one stops him. No one questions him.

  In the car, Mark spits at us through the grilled partition and bangs his head on the metal, making it rattle. I’m glad for the barrier. No mental powers are needed to understand his mind-set right now.

  This is going to be irritating as all get-out for the drive home.

  “Check this out,” JB says, as we pull onto the highway. He presses a button on his center console, and a layer of glass rises between the front seats and the back. We can still hear Mark and his invectives, but they’re muffled.

  “Handy,” I say, impressed.

  “You have no idea. Best money I’ve ever put into this thing.” He puts out a hand and smacks me on the shoulder. “You did good, kid. I wasn’t sure how you’d handle it.”

  I glance at him, and then back at the road. For the first time in a long, long while, I feel a glow of belonging. “I’m glad you didn’t tell me what we were doing.”

  “I didn’t want to leave you alone, but I wasn’t sure you’d come if I told you we were picking up a drug dealer.”

  Wow. I let that go. “So you’re allowed to just . . . do that? Arrest people?”

  “If they skip bail? Sure.” He hits the turn signal to merge into traffic. “When we post bail, they sign a contract, waiving their rights if they decide not to show up for court. We can arrest them, we can cross state lines, we can break into their house if we think it’s warranted . . . you name it.”

  “And that’s all legal?”

  “Yep.” He glances over. “You signed the same thing. You should learn to read, little brother. Better not think about running.”

  I snort, but his words inspire just a tiny inkling of fear. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

  “Neither did this guy, but he found people to take him in.”

  “How’d you find him?”

  JB looks at me over his sunglasses. “I am very, very good at finding people.”

  I hesitate.

  “Ask your question,” he says.

  “Stop that. Why did you tell me to shoot him?”

  He looks over again. “What scares you more? That I told you to do it, or that you thought about it?”

  I look back out at the road. Cars still give way around us, and this time, I wonder if this is another extension of his empathic abilities. “Both,” I say.

  “I knew you wouldn’t shoot him. I wouldn’t have let you take the gun.”

  “How?” I demand. “How did you know?”

  “Because you weren’t in the right mental state. You had no stake in killing him.” He pauses, then gives me a smile. “Scaring him, though . . .”

  I keep my eyes on the road, warring with my own morality. “I didn’t like it.”

  “Liar.”

  “It feels wrong. Playing with someone’s emotions. It feels wrong.”

  “Is eating wrong? Having sex? Sleeping? It’s part of your makeup, Tommy. It’s not wrong. You didn’t hurt him.”

  “I think we’re splitting hairs a little too finely.” I glance at him. “Is that why you do this? Do you get off on the fear?”

  “I don’t play with them like that. If I got off on fear, I wouldn’t pick this occupation. I only did that to show you what I meant.”

  “Effective.”

  “I know.” He pauses. “Nothing is ever one hundred percent, though. I want to make sure you understand that. People have free will. They can surprise you.”

  “So I could have shot that guy.”

  “Probably not.”

  I glance in the backseat, where Mark Duplessy has finally given up; he’s staring out the window with gritted teeth. I can still feel the remnants of his fear coursing through me. “But I could have. Just like what you think I did to my mother. Or to Charlotte. Is that another point you’re trying to make?”

  “Just like that, Tommy.” He pats my shoulder again, but this time it’s more sympathetic. “Just like that.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHARLOTTE

  That night, I dream of Lilly again.

  As much as I wish this dream would start where the last left off, it doesn’t. It starts at the beginning. We revisit the emails, her mother’s intrusion, the playing dress-up in front of her mother’s mirror.

  In a way, that’s a good thing. It allows me to watch for clues.

  In another way, I know this is ridiculous. This is a dream. I wasn’t there. I didn’t see this. This is my subconscious feeding me someone else’s imaginary memories.

  But because it’s a dream, I’m along for the ride.

  His initials stick in my head. AS. I don’t know what they stand for, and it’s got to be arbitrary. I don’t know anyone with those initials.

  The selfie he sends her . . . What kind of car is it? What’s he wearing? What’s in the background?

  I can’t tell. She only looks at it for a moment, and I can’t tell. The background is too dark, and I don’t know enough about cars to pick one out from the seatbelt mounting.

  So far, I’m a pretty crappy dream detective.

  When he knocks on the door, I’m worried I’ll be knocked out of the dream again, but this time I’m with Lilly as she throws it wide, smiling shyly at her visitor.

  Through the whole dream, I’ve had this feeling of anticipation, that she’d open the door and I’d have this huge Aha! moment, that I’d wake up from this dream and be able to solve the crime.

  But no. I have no idea who this guy is.

  He’s not quite as old as I’d feared. I’d thought she would be opening the door to some thirty-five-year-old skeeze in a polyester suit. This guy is college age, with dark, softly curling hair, and warm brown eyes. Too old for Lilly, but maybe he gets a pass if she lied about her age. As I’d guessed, he’s not white: he’s Hispanic, or maybe Middle Eastern.

  His eyes light up when he sees her. “Wow,” he says, laughing under his breath. “I thought maybe you’d sent me a fake picture.”

  She blushes, pleased. “Thanks.” We look up at him through her lashes. “You too.”

  He hesitates, then holds out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you in person, Lilly.”

  She smiles and we shake his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Alex.”

  Alex! We have a first name. His palm is warm and dry. I’m screaming at her to shove him out the door, but at the same time, I’m not getting a creeper vibe off him. Going off first impressions, it’s hard to believe this guy would strangle her.

  Then again, look at my first impressions of Thomas.

  When she goes to pull away, he doesn’t let go of her hand. We hold our breath, but he leans in conspiratorially, his voice gently teasing. “I don’t think you’ve been honest with me.”

  She pouts. “What makes you think that?”

  STOP FRIGGING POUTING, I want to yell.

  His smile widens. “This place has mom-and-dad written all over it. You didn’t have to lie to me. I’ve only lived on campus for the last year. You think I’m going to bolt if I know you live at home?”

  Campus. Good. He’s probably twenty-two. Or younger.

  Lilly’s response is smooth as butter. We look away shyly. “Usually when I tell guys I still live at home, they don’t even write back. It’s so obvious what they’re after.”

  He gives her another up-and-down. “Their loss.”

  We blush hotly.

  “Do you want to go out?” he says. “Or did you want to stay here?”

  Her heart trips and stumbles at th
e suggestion. It would be safer to go out, but she doesn’t want to risk being seen with him.

  “We can stay here,” she says softly. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Sure,” he says. “You have any beer, or would your parents freak?”

  She almost falters, but I can hear in his voice that it’s an innocent question. He’s a college student and thinks she is, too. “Sure,” she says. “They’re cool. They won’t care.”

  Inside, her heart is thumping along. Her parents will care. She’s figuring out how to cover for missing bottles later. But she fishes two bottles out of the refrigerator and finds a bottle-opener without too much trouble.

  He asks if she wants to watch a movie or if she’d rather talk. She decides on a movie, and they sit on the couch and look at each other shyly.

  Honestly, as far as first-dates-ending-with-murder go, this is starting off pretty boring.

  Then the front door opens and closes. Lilly—we—jump a mile.

  “It’s all right,” says Alex. “He’s a friend.”

  I wake up to a hand on my arm and a man leaning over me in the darkness.

  I don’t think. I react. My hand flies out, and I hear a startled cry.

  He jerks back. “Holy cow, Charlotte! It’s just me!”

  Matt. I tell my heart to turn off the alarm.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Now I’m sorry I taught you to go for the eyes.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” His voice is husky. “Yeah.” When my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can see him rub at his eyes. He shakes his head. “No. I’m lying. I’m not okay.”

  I sit up in bed. “What’s wrong?”

  He gives a startled laugh. “What’s wrong? That kid practically killed you in front of my daughters, and you want to know what’s wrong?”

  My brain is finally starting to work. I swallow. “I am so sorry, Matt. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  He runs his hands through his hair. “The worst part is that I can’t even be pissed off at you because you got hurt in the middle of it.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  He takes a long breath, then sits down on the edge of my bed. I can barely make out his expression in the darkness, but his unhappiness practically fills the room. “How could you listen to me last night and not say anything?”

  I reach out until I find his hand. “I didn’t mean to put them in danger, Matt.”

  “I know you didn’t. I don’t want you to put yourself in danger either, Char.”

  “I know.” I crawl across the bed to hug him. At first, his body is stiff, and that, more than anything, is a sign of how pissed he is. But then he yields, and he sighs and hugs me back.

  I feel leather crossing his shoulders, and I draw back. “Are you wearing a gun?”

  “I’d rather be safe than sorry. He got in here once.”

  Matt isn’t the type to overreact. His voice is like steel.

  I sit against him and wonder if my brothers are right to be so worried. Would Thomas break in here again? I still can’t wrap my head around him doing it the first time. It feels like a dream, like it’s no different from my brain’s impressions of Lilly’s murder.

  “Were you having a nightmare?” Matt says quietly.

  “No.”

  “You cried out.”

  I look up at him. “I did?”

  He nods. “You said, ‘No.’”

  “I was dreaming of Lilly.”

  “Lilly who?”

  “Lilly Mauta. The girl who died.”

  “Years ago? Your school classmate?”

  Of course he wouldn’t remember it as clearly as Ben did. I shake my head. “I knew her from ballet.”

  “Oh. I remember. Ben was a wreck.”

  “Yeah.”

  He’s quiet for a little while. My eyes begin to drift closed when he says, “I wonder if Ben is thinking about that one, too.” He pauses. “He said he couldn’t go through this again.” Then he grimaces. “Don’t you dare tell him I said that.”

  “You guys try to hide it, but I know you’re human.”

  He gives me a hug. “Mom wouldn’t go to bed until I told her I’d stay up with you.”

  “I’m sure Alison appreciates that, being home with the little girls and all.”

  “She was having some friends over for a girl’s night. It worked out.”

  “And I’m guessing you wouldn’t have left her alone with Thomas roaming the streets . . . ?”

  He rests his chin on my head. “You’d be correct.”

  I drift again, leaning against him, feeling his heartbeat. “Do you believe in dreams?” I say slowly.

  He doesn’t answer for a while. “I believe our subconscious has the ability to tell us things, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I think so.”

  He runs a hand over my hair. His voice is gentle. “Are you remembering something from last night?”

  I shake my head. “From Lilly’s house.”

  He frowns. “Were you there?”

  “No. Only in my dream.”

  Again, he’s silent for a while. I wonder if he’s dozing the way I am. I like this quiet period in between words. It makes this space feel safe.

  “Maybe you’re dreaming of Lilly because your subconscious is trying to tell you something about yourself. She was attacked by a boyfriend, too.”

  “He wasn’t her boyfriend. She’d just met him over the Internet.”

  “You dreamed that?”

  I shake my head. “Ben told me.” I pause. “And yes, I dreamed it. His name was Alex.”

  “Hmm.” That’s Matt’s word for when he wants to sound supportive but he doesn’t know what to say. I actually think he’s half asleep.

  “There was another guy there,” I say. “Do you know if Ben knows that?”

  “Do I know if Ben knows there was another guy in your dream?” He sounds sleep-confused.

  “No, in Lilly’s house.”

  “Charlotte. Kiddo.” He’s fully awake now. “It was a dream.”

  I inhale to protest, but anything I say is going to sound ludicrous.

  He’s right, of course. It was just a dream. I can’t see the past. I wasn’t there. I’ve never even seen Lilly’s bedroom.

  He yawns, then pats my shoulder. “You should get back to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “It’s okay,” I whisper. I lie down. He sprawls in my armchair again.

  But I can’t sleep. I keep replaying the scene in my head. The nice college boy—and his friend.

  “Char,” Matt says. “I didn’t mean to discount what you were saying. Maybe your brain is really trying to tell you something.”

  I roll up on one shoulder and look at him in the darkness. “You think my dream means something?”

  “Do I think you’re having a psychic connection with a girl who died years ago? No.”

  I sigh.

  Then he says, “But dreams always mean something to the dreamer. It’s just a matter of figuring out what.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THOMAS

  I have a restless night. I’m not one to be up before sunrise, but this morning I was relieved to see the sun, because it meant a reasonable time to get out of bed. JB has a futon in his office, but he offered to let me have his bedroom. I wasn’t going to accept, but he insisted. I don’t think he wanted me going through his things.

  Check that. I know he didn’t want me going through his things.

  I keep replaying the events of the day. The trip to pick up the fugitive—the skip, as JB had called him. His explanations of what we can do.

  His insistence that I had something to do with my mother’s death and Charlotte’s attack.

  I can wrap my head around the rest of this, but that’s the hardest thing. After the visions in the car, I’m careful not to let my mind drift to thoughts of my mother. I don’t want to relive that again.

  C
harlotte had told me to sketch her, and I hadn’t been able to do it. Was that part of my mind protecting itself? Would I have drawn my own hands?

  I creep out of JB’s bedroom, not wanting to risk disturbing him, but to my surprise, he’s already up and showered and dressed.

  In half a second, I go from worrying I’m up too early to panicking about being up too late.

  “You’re fine,” he says. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee while scrolling through Buzzfeed. “Do you drink coffee? I made a whole pot.”

  “Um.” I run a hand through my hair. I’m not what you’d call a morning person. Today, especially, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. “Yeah.”

  “Cream in the fridge. Sugar by the pot. I set out a mug.”

  “Thanks.” I shuffle into the kitchen.

  “Did you sleep okay?” he calls after me.

  “I feel like crap.” I find the mug and the coffee and dump more sugar than is good for me into it. “Stan told me I was having nightmares the other day. Maybe they’re keeping me awake or something.”

  “We don’t dream.”

  I stop stirring the coffee and turn around to look at him. “What?”

  “We don’t dream. Ever.” He glances at me over the computer screen. “Our brains don’t work like that.”

  I don’t know why this one silly minor detail is throwing me, but it is.

  “Think about it,” says JB. “Have you ever remembered a dream?”

  No. I haven’t. I wonder if this is the kind of thing I should have noticed, or if it’s something I wouldn’t notice, because it never happened.

  I bring the coffee back to the table and sit across from him. “Weird.”

  “Not weird. Probably a . . . a protective thing. Think about it. We could dream that we’re being hurt and start projecting fear or aggression.”

  “Huh.” I take a sip of coffee.

  He goes back to looking at his laptop. I study him. At first, I wasn’t too sure about him, but he’s all right. He’s not deliberately cruel. He stopped me before I could hurt the pizza guy. He only gave me a glimpse of my abilities with Mark Duplessy—and I sense that could have gone a lot further than it did. Despite the fast action chase from yesterday afternoon, he takes his job very seriously. He was up late last night organizing leads and making phone calls. He seems honest, and direct, and while not exactly patient, he could be putting me through hell. And he’s not.