Clara Kensie - Run to You Part Six - Sixth Sense

The wrinkle between her brows deepened by a millimeter. “I am well aware of the situation. I saw the video. I read the reports. I talked to Aaron.”

“Does that mean you’ll repeal Kellan’s shoot to-kill-order?” Tristan asked.

She paused for a moment, then spoke directly to me. “Your parents killed two of our investigators, Tessa. If they’d been allowed to use deadly force at that time, they’d be alive today, and so would all of the innocent people your parents killed while your family was on the run for eight years.” Her face remained motionless, except for a tiny, defiant lift of her chin. “I stand by my decision. John Kellan is allowed to use deadly force if the situation calls for it.”

She was motionless, but I was crumbling. “Mrs. Jacobs, Kellan will use deadly force whether the situation calls for it or not. He doesn’t care about them. All he cares about is vengeance.”

Another miniscule movement: her eyebrow raised.

I thought I’d convinced her, that my plea had softened her granite resolve, but her eyebrow lowered back into place and she said, “This discussion is over, Tessa.”

Tristan put his arm around me. I knew it would be useless to appeal to her, he said silently. She said the same thing to my dad. We’ll just have to find another way.

Mrs. Jacobs glanced up at the balloons we’d brought. “It’s almost time for Aaron’s meds. If you’d still like to see him, you have to do it now. Come with me.”

My heart sinking, we followed her to Aaron’s bedroom, which was dominated by several computers, stacks of video games, and a large flat-screen TV. The overhead lights of his bedroom were turned off, but sunlight streamed through the slats in the blinds, revealing a swollen white figure on the bed. A cotton sheet covered him up to his chest, which was wrapped in bandages, as were both arms. His face was turned away, toward the window. Only his eyes and lips were left uncovered.

He looks even worse than I thought he would, I flashed to Tristan. He’s just a pile of white bandages.

He’s still a thousand times better than if he didn’t have psionic healers working on him.

“You have two minutes,” Mrs. Jacobs said, then left.

“Hi, Aaron.” The cheer in my voice was forced. “Welcome back.” I tied the balloons to the handle on his nightstand drawer. Aaron didn’t acknowledge me or the balloons. He didn’t move.

Underneath all of Aaron’s bandages were lacerations and burns. The healers were able to heal his lacerations, but most of his burns were so bad that he would always be scarred.

Above me, the Nightmare Eyes burned through my blood. But no matter how much I burned, it was nothing compared to the burns that Aaron was suffering. No matter how much I hated the scars my mother had carved into my belly, they were nothing compared to the burn scars Aaron would have on over sixty percent of his body.

My brother and sister had done this to him.

But so had I.

I had given him that final clue to Ringgold, Colorado. And I had encouraged his crush on Jillian, used it to motivate him to find her.

A lump formed in my throat and I had to give up the cheerful act. “Aaron?” I choked. “Aaron, I am so, so sorry.”

No reply. The only thing that moved were his eyelashes, down, then up.

“Jillian and Logan, they didn’t know you were trying to help them,” I said. “If they knew, they never would have...” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

No reply. Just another blink as he looked out the window.

“When—if,” I corrected myself, because I was losing faith that there would be a when, “If I find Jillian, I’ll tell her how smart you are. How talented. I’ll bring her to meet you and—”

Aaron flinched, then exhaled, muttering something. Five syllables.

“What was that?” I asked.

“You...” he inhaled. “Are...” he stopped, recovered, then dragged in another breath. “Killers’ ...Spawn.”

A vise clamped around my heart as Tristan went rigid. “Hey, man. That’s not fair.”

“Aaron, please.” My heart shred into tiny pieces. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Slowly, Aaron turned his head to face me, and I was one hundred percent certain that his eyes had turned Nightmare black.

But they weren’t. They were still brown.

Aaron wasn’t feeding upon my nightmare, on my shame and grief and despair.

Aaron hated me on his own accord. And for some reason, that was even worse.

* * *

Back in the Connellys’ guest room, I sat on the bed with Tristan’s laptop on my knees. Mac lay at my feet, thumping his tail occasionally, and Marmalade was perched in her spot on top of the bookcase. The only good thing that had happened today was finding out that the APR’s board of directors had put Nathan on probation for blocking Tristan’s premonitions, and he would be fired if he bothered me, or Tristan, ever again. But my blood still burned from Aaron’s rebuke as I clicked on another website. “Here’s a used car dealership in Warrenville,” I said, and called out its phone number to Tristan.

He dialed, then paced the room with his phone to his ear.

Before Lady Elke had fed upon my nightmare and gone crazy, she’d told us that Jillian and Logan were driving in a new car. “He doesn’t like this new car,” she’d said. “It’s too small. The RV had more space.”

So, sometime soon after their visit to Lady Elke, my siblings had gotten rid of their RV and purchased a new car. It was a tiny lead. We didn’t know what kind of car, or what color, or if they’d bought it at a dealership or through a private sale. But our appeal to Beverly Jacobs had failed, so that tiny lead was our only hope of finding Jillian and Logan before Kellan did. Now Tristan and I were contacting car dealerships in North Dakota one by one, asking if they recalled two teenagers buying a car with cash.

There was a soft knock on my door frame. Deirdre, her copper hair falling over a sweatshirt painted with little upside-down handprints. In childish writing it read, Best Teacher Hands Down!

“Tessa, can I talk to you?” she asked. “Alone?”

I shot Tristan a message—what’s this about?—but he just shrugged. He gathered his notes and laptop, and kissed me before departing to his room. Mac padded after him, and Marmalade jumped onto the bed and mewed.

Deirdre sat next to me, and I tried not to stiffen when she tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. But she must have noticed, because she sighed and pulled away. “When you got back from North Dakota this morning, you asked if I was going to kick you out. Do you really think I would do that?”

“I did for a second,” I admitted.

She took my chin in her hand and made me look at her. “You will always have a home here, Tessa. Always.”

“But—”

“When you find Jillian and Logan, they will have a home here too.”

“But our parents—”

“Your parents tried to kill Dennis. They wanted to kill Tristan. They hurt a lot of people.”

I pulled away, hung my head, but she grabbed my chin again. “Your parents did those things,” she said. “Not you.”

Logically, I knew that. I understood that. But they were my parents. Their blood pumped through my veins with every beat of my heart. Shame and grief, hurt and despair built up inside me, growing bigger and bigger, heavier and heavier, until it burst out of me with a sob. “I’m just so...ashamed.” The word ripped itself from my throat.

“That shame is what’s causing your nightmare,” Deirdre said. “A nightmare so strong that some crazy psychic with a knife fed upon it.”

“But what can I do?” I cried. “How do I get rid of it? I can’t change who my parents are. I can’t change what they did. I can’t change the past.”