Whispered Darkness by Jessica Sorensen Page 0,45

one that really stands out, though, is how he said I’ve belonged to him ever since that day in the woods. I’ve never belonged to him, even though at one point in my life I had convinced myself I wanted to. What I really want to know, though, is what day in the woods he was referring to since we’ve been in the woods several times. The first time we ever went in there was the first day we became friends. It was also when I lost my locket I’m wearing now. The one he found and kept.

I lightly brush my fingers across it, and for the weirdest moment, I swear I feel heat spread through my body. But I quickly become distracted as I notice officers outside my window, heading into the woods, in the direction of where Beth’s body was before Kingsley and I moved it. As worry stirs inside me, I hurry and close the window, shut the blinds, and make my way over to the bed. I plan on distracting myself with attempting to decipher the book or at least finding out more about this Shadow Tongue language. However, when I pick up the book, a feather falls out. Black and laced with silver, it glints when the light casts across it. Even stranger is it’s the same shape as the wound on my wrist.

Turning my wrist over, I peel the bandage back and place the feather beside the wound. As I do so, the wound splits open and sucks the feather inside. I gasp in horror, but instead of sucking in air, water spews out of my mouth.

I’m drowning in a swampy water. Hands are holding me down.

I can’t breathe.

Help!

But no help comes.

I’m dying.

I am going to die.

But I’m not Harlynn.

I am Beth.

As I struggle to get free, I manage to get my head above the water. The sky is dark, but moonlight trickles down through the branches. It’s enough to give me a glimpse of them.

A glimpse of the person who killed me.

Killed Beth.

But it’s not Foster like I’d thought.

No, the man holding me down looks a lot like my ex-best friend except for older.

Foster’s father.

I gasp, jerking back to reality, and spitting out the last of the water. But I continue to choke on something. Reaching into my mouth, I pull out the object.

The feather.

I drop the damn thing onto the bed and scoot back, my heart hammering in my chest.

How did this happen? How did this feather unleash those images inside me?

I think about Star and Beth, who have both told me I have abilities. But how is this my ability? Where did this feather come from? Foster?

I’m not sure.

What I am sure about is that Foster’s father either killed Beth or played a huge role in her death. The question is: why? And how am I supposed to prove that? Because right now, the only evidence I have is from what I’ve seen in visions, which I’m sure is going to go over really well if I tell the police.

What I need is proof. But how am I supposed to prove that a powerful lawyer like Foster’s dad murdered a girl...

It suddenly clicks why Beth probably insisted her body needed to be moved. Foster’s father knows a lot of people in law enforcement, and he could maybe pay off someone to hide evidence.

And what about the room and the red chair. There had been multiple people in that room with Beth. Did they play a part in her death too? If so, how many people are in on this?

All of these questions need answers. And I plan on getting them.

With Kingsley’s help, maybe I can...

I gulp, becoming aware that I have another issue I need to figure out.

Telling Kingsley that his father may have played a part in Beth’s murder.

15

Kingsley

I’ve just gotten out of the shower when I receive a call from Harlynn. Even the sight of her name makes a smile pull at my lips. As I pick up the phone, though my smile fades as a fading sensation fleetingly seizes my body.

My soul is trying to fade on me.

My knees buckle and I grip onto the edge of the counter as I struggle to get oxygen.

Taking a few breaths, I steady my breathing before answering the phone, not wanting to worry Harlynn more than she already is. Because I can feel it, her worry, pulsating through her at this precise moment.

“Hey,” I answer. “Is everything okay?”

“Not really,” she whispers.

Her