Rachel Vincent: My Soul To Take

While Nash would no doubt have met with Aunt Val’s hearty approval, I did not need her hovering over me when I got home, eyes glittering in anticipation of a social climb I had no interest in. I was happy hanging with Emma and whichever crowd she claimed at the moment.

“His name’s Nash.”

Aunt Val took a butter knife from the silverware drawer. “What year is he?”

I groaned inwardly. “Senior.” Here we go…

Her smile was a little too enthusiastic. “Well, that’s wonderful!”

Of course, what she really meant was “Rise from the shadows, social leper, and walk in the bright light of acceptance!” Or some crap like that. Because my aunt and overprivileged cousin only recognize two states of being: glitter and grunge. And if you weren’t glitter, well, that only left one other option…

I slathered strawberry jelly on my toast and took a seat at the bar. Aunt Val poured a second cup of coffee and aimed the TV remote across the dining room and into the den, where the fifty-inch flat-screen flashed to life, signaling the end of the requisite breakfast “conversation.”

“…coming to you live from Taboo, in the West End, where last night, the body of nineteen-year-old Heidi Anderson was found on the restroom floor.”

Nooo…

My stomach churned around a half slice of toast, and I twisted slowly on my bar stool, dread sending a spike of adrenaline through my veins. On screen, a too-poised reporter stood on the brick walkway in front of the club I’d snuck into twelve hours earlier, and as I watched, her image was replaced by a still shot of Heidi Anderson sitting in a lawn chair in a UT Arlington T-shirt, straight teeth gleaming, reddish-blond hair blown back by the relentless prairie wind.

It was her.

I couldn’t breathe.

“Kaylee? What’s wrong?”

I blinked and sucked in a quick breath, then looked up at my aunt to find her staring at my plate, where I’d dropped my toast jelly-side down. It was a miracle I hadn’t lost the half I’d already eaten.

“Nothing. Can you turn that up?” I pushed my plate away and Aunt Val turned up the volume, shooting me a puzzled frown.

“No cause of death has yet been identified,” the reporter said on-screen. “But according to the employee who found Ms. Anderson’s body, there was no obvious sign of violence.”

The picture changed again, and now Traci Marshall stared into the camera, pale with shock and hoarse, as if she’d been crying. “She was just lying there, like she was sleeping. I thought she’d passed out until I realized she wasn’t breathing.”

Traci disappeared and the reporter was back, but I couldn’t hear her over Aunt Val. “Isn’t that Emma’s sister?”

“Yeah. She’s a bartender at Taboo.”

Aunt Val stared at the television, her expression grim. “That whole thing is so tragic…”

I nodded. You have no idea. But I did.

I also had chill bumps. It really happened.

With my previous panic attacks, my aunt and uncle had had no reason to heed my hysterical babble about looming shadows and impending death. And with no way to shush me once the screaming began, they’d taken me home—coincidently away from the source of the panic—to calm me down. Except for that last time, when they’d driven me straight to the hospital, checked me into the mental-health ward and begun looking at me with eyes full of pity. Concern. Unspoken relief that I was the one losing my mind, rather than their own, blessedly normal daughter.

But now I had proof I wasn’t crazy. Right? I’d seen Heidi Anderson shrouded in shadow and known she would die. I’d told Emma and Nash. And now my premonition had come true.

I stood so fast my bar stool skidded against the tiles. I had to tell somebody. I needed to see confirmation in someone’s eyes, assurance that I wasn’t imagining the news story, because really, if I could imagine death, how much harder could it be for my poor, sick mind to make up the news story? But I couldn’t tell my aunt what had happened without admitting I’d snuck into a club, and once I’d said that part, she wouldn’t listen to the rest. She’d just take away my keys and call my father.

No, telling Aunt Val was out of the question. But Emma would believe me.

While my aunt stared, I dropped my plate into the sink and ran to my room, ignoring her when she called after me. I kicked the door shut, collapsed on my bed then snatched my phone from my nightstand where I’d left it charging the night before.

I called Emma’s cell, and almost groaned out loud when her mother answered. But Emma had gotten home more than an hour early for once. What could she possibly be grounded for this time?

“Hi, Ms. Marshall.” I flopped onto my back and stared at the textured, eggshell ceiling. “Can I talk to Em? It’s kind of important.”

Her mom sighed. “Not today, Kaylee. Emma came home smelling like rum last night. She’s grounded until further notice. I certainly hope you weren’t out drinking with her.”

Oh, crap. I closed my eyes, trying to come up with an answer that wouldn’t make Em sound like a delinquent by comparison. I drew a total blank. “Um, no, ma’am. I was driving.”

“Well, at least one of you has a little sense. Do me a favor and try sharing some of that with Emma next time. Assuming I ever let her out of the house again.”

“Sure, Ms. Marshall.” I hung up, suddenly glad I hadn’t spent the night at the Marshalls’, as had been my original plan. With Emma grounded and Traci probably still in shock, breakfast could not have been a pleasant meal.

After a minute’s hesitation, and much anticipatory panic, I decided to call Nash, because in spite of his reputation and my suspicion about his motives, he hadn’t laughed at me when I told him the truth about the panic attack.

And with Emma grounded, he was the only one left who knew.

I picked up my phone again—then I realized I didn’t have his number.

Careful to avoid my aunt and uncle, who was now awake and frying bacon, based on the scent permeating the entire house, I snuck into the living room, snagged the phone book from an end table drawer and took it back to my room. There were four Hudsons with the right prefix, but only one on his street. Nash answered on the third ring.

My heart pounded so hard I was sure he could hear it over the phone, and for several seconds, silence was all I could manage.

“Hello?” he repeated, sounding almost as annoyed as sleepy now.

“Hey, it’s Kaylee,” I finally blurted, fervently hoping he remembered me—that I hadn’t imagined dancing with him the night before. Because frankly, after the night’s premonition and the morning’s newscast, even I was starting to wonder if Sophie was right about me.

Nash cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice was husky with sleep. “Hey. You’re not calling to cancel, are you?”

I couldn’t resist a smile, in spite of the reason for the call. “No. I…Have you seen the news this morning?”

He chuckled hoarsely. “I haven’t even seen the floor yet this morning.” Nash yawned, and springs creaked over the line. He was still in bed.

I stamped down the scandalous images that knowledge brought to mind and forced myself to focus on the issue at hand. “Turn on your TV.”

“I’m not really into current events….” More springs squealed as he rolled over, and something whispered against his phone.

My eyes closed and I leaned against my headboard, sucking in a deep breath. “She’s dead, Nash.”

“What?” He sounded marginally more awake this time. “Who’s dead?”

I leaned forward, and my own bed creaked. “The girl from the club. Emma’s sister found her dead in the bathroom at Taboo last night.”