Touched - By Cyn Balog Page 0,52

lady in Island Heights, stopped midsentence, baffled. “No what?”

I took a small, feeble step backward.

She turned to Devon, shrugged, then alarm flooded her eyes. She tried to move closer. I backed away again. “Do you … did you see something?” she whispered.

I held out my hands in protest, and as I did I stumbled on a rock or a curb behind me. I nearly threw up my breakfast when I looked over and realized it was the gravestone of Mommy’s Little Angel. Devon was looking at me as if she was rubbernecking a horrible, ghastly car accident on the side of the road. “I think we should just go,” she muttered for the thousandth time to Taryn, but Taryn didn’t even sway.

I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t care what normal was; I knew this wasn’t it, and yet I didn’t care. “No. I can’t do this. I really can’t be near you,” I sputtered.

I half-expected the ground to open up and swallow me. After all, Mom and Nan would bury me here when I died. When we died. So I turned and broke into a run, back into the cemetery. A blind run, not really sure where I was headed. The cemetery was surrounded by a small line of trees. I didn’t know what was behind them. Maybe I could go and live the rest of my life there. Away from Taryn. Away from everyone.

Like my mother.

When that thought hit me, I slowed down, breathing hard once I reached the chain-link fence by the trees. By the time I turned back, the girls were gone. A minute later I saw the Jeep heading toward the exit. So Devon had finally convinced her to leave. They were probably still watching me, wondering what was up. Well, maybe not Taryn. She knew. She knew what was bothering me. Most of it, anyway. Devon obviously thought I was two cashews shy of a nuthouse.

I realized I could have just taken Taryn aside and told her. She would have understood. We could have vowed to stay away from each other, and that would have been the end of it.

Or would it have been? Maybe it would have been like when we decided not to let Nan bring my mother breakfast anymore. She was still on course to die, but the pieces of Mom’s breakfast were no longer around her head in the memory. Maybe Emma’s death put the wheels in motion for something terrible to happen. Maybe evil would always follow us now, no matter what we did to prevent it. Maybe we were destined for bad things, and nothing could stop it.

I started walking back to the Buick, still breathing hard. As I walked, I loosened the tie, which felt like a noose, and undid the top button of my dress shirt. The collar was damp with sweat. I knew I should stay away from Taryn, but not a minute had passed before my mind kicked into overdrive, and between the You Wills, I began imagining all the different ways I could apologize to Taryn. I was probably paying more attention to my apology than to the You Wills.

That’s probably why I didn’t anticipate the punch. Out of nowhere, a force slammed against my cheek, throwing me to the ground.

Wondering what the hell had hit me, I tried to turn over and prop myself on my elbows, but the weight pressed on me, holding me down. A hand smashed against the back of my head, grinding my face into the hard earth so that all I could taste was dirt.

“You’re the other one,” a voice hissed. “Why did you come? Do you think Emma wants you here?”

The other one. Pedro. Fear curled in my stomach. I’d come out of this looking as messed up as he had. Maybe worse. I tried to open my mouth to speak but got a mouthful of grass instead, so only a muffled sound came out. The hand loosened its grip and I could turn my head a little. I tried to look up, but my eye was swelling and the lid felt heavy and useless. Birds twittered happily in the trees, as if what was happening to me was a good thing, as if this was how it was supposed to be.

“Who are you looking for?” I muttered, trying to be tough. But I’ll admit it. I was scared crapless. I hoped it was just a simple case of mistaken identity.

“Nick. Nick Cross? That you?”

Crap. One thing became