Part 7 (2/2)
”What about school?” I whispered.
He smiled. ”Cam, I'm eighteen. I graduated last year.”
Shocked, I could merely sit there and stare at him. He'd lied to me? To the school?
His face grew serious and he reached out, taking my hand in his. ”Tomorrow, I'll come by your house to pick you up. Eight in the morning. Come with me...please.”
”What about my schooling?” I was frantically trying to find some reason to stay, fear of the unknown sharp and bitter. Yet even as I fought for an excuse, I realized I had nothing holding me here.
”You'll be home schooled, like I was. You've only got half the year left anyway.”
His gaze slid across the cafe, landing on the waitress who was whispering something to a man seated at a table. She looked upset, he looked angry. ”Let me ask you something. Does that woman deserve to die?”
I jerked my head toward him. ”What kind of question is that?”
”She has a child, a little girl who's five. It's only the two of them. She wants to go to college, but can't afford it. She's hoping if she keeps working, she can save enough. But she worries that while she's working, she's not spending time with her child. The worst thing she's done is get pregnant at seventeen. She wanted to keep the baby, her parents didn't want her to and kicked her out of the house. It's only been those two since.”
He looked at me, his gaze piercing and direct. ”So, does she deserve to die?”
”No,” I whispered, my voice harsh. ”Why are you asking me that?”
”Because that man is her ex-boyfriend. He's jealous, ridiculously jealous. He's. .h.i.t her and she broke up with him just last week because of his temper.”
The words shocked and angered me. I knew he was going somewhere with this conversation and I wasn't sure I wanted to head that way with him. ”And?” What wasn't he telling me?
”That man has a gun. He's going to wait until she gets off work tonight and he's going to kill her.”
My heart froze. For one brief moment I saw Savannah's pale, lifeless face.
”Her daughter will go to foster care, of course, because she'll have no one to take her in.” He drank the rest of his coffee and then leaned back, letting the words sink in. ”So tell me, Cameron, does she deserve to die?”
No! I yelled at him in my head, as tears stung my eyes.
”We can stop it from happening.”
”How?” Dare I trust him? He'd told me that we could help Annabeth, and look how well that turned out. Sure, George was behind bars, but I wouldn't be surprised if the town showed up at my house with pitch forks and torches.
Lewis stood, threw a few dollars on the table. ”Eight o'clock tomorrow morning.”
He was leaving and as he made his way across the cafe, I let him go, too stunned to stop him. I watched him out the window as he strolled so confidently down the sidewalk. When he came face to face with the Police Officer, he paused, his lips moving. The officer glanced at the cafe and pulled out his walkie talkie.
Lewis looked into the window, directly at me. Go, Cam, he's calling for backup.
He'd told on the waitresses' ex-boyfriend. He'd saved yet another life, while I sat here like a scared little girl, doing nothing. I grabbed my backpack and calmly made my way out of the cafe, past the cop who was thrilled to have something interesting to do on this dreary day. They weren't taking any chances as they'd already had one shooting at the cafe.
I had to find Lewis. He couldn't leave me like this, with so many unanswered questions.
I rushed around the corner.
But Lewis was gone.
Chapter 8.
I'd stayed out late, sitting in the park until eleven, knowing Grandma would be sleeping when I came home. She couldn't read my thoughts while she slept. For hours my mind had warred with my heart. I wanted to go, I wanted to know what I could be. But I was afraid. Afraid to leave what I knew.
I finally gave up and returned to our little cottage around one in the morning. But being home, out of the cold and dreary weather, offered no comfort. I paced my room, walking over the wooden floorboards until the sky turned light and mysterious shadows morphed into furniture.
I'd done what I could with my small domain; painted the walls a Caribbean blue, dreaming of warmer climates. But the floorboards creaked and the window leaked cold air reminding me of where I truly was.
Even though I was embarra.s.sed by how small and outdated our home was, I'd lived here most of my childhood and I couldn't help but fight the tears at the thought of leaving. And I was leaving. I suppose I'd known that even before Lewis had left me in the cafe. But it wasn't until three a.m., with the moon high, when I'd finally admitted the truth to myself; I couldn't stay here any longer.
As the moonlight began to fade, I flicked aside my white curtains to look out onto the quiet neighborhood where mostly old couples had retired. Gray dawn was giving way to yellow light. The sun just peeking over the horizon. The promise of a new day, a new beginning. Under the brilliant rays of the sun, the pavement sparkled with light, with hope. I'd showered and dressed, a suitcase packed since 4 a.m. Now, it was time to say goodbye to my life.
There was only one young couple on our block; a married couple with a five year old girl. I watched as the man made his way down their front drive to his car, headed to work. A perfect, happy family. We could have had a life like that if...if what? If my father hadn't been killed? If Mom hadn't been a druggie? I didn't even know where my father was buried. No one had bothered to tell me. The anger I'd been trying to keep at bay flared to life, giving me courage.
Grandma had made me think I was a freak, alone in this world. Someone who should be ashamed. She hadn't told me my father could read minds. Now I had the opportunity to learn more about my dad. Lean about who I was, but more importantly, who I could be. I knew if it were up to Grandma, I'd live here the rest of my life, hiding my true self. But I couldn't take that any longer. It was time to live.
The soft clatter of utensils against pans alerted me to Grandma's presence. She was awake, which meant she probably already knew what I was planning. My heart skipped a beat. She wasn't going to let me go without a fight. I reached for the Swiss Army Knife on my bedside table and slipped it into my pocket. The piece was old and worn from age, but it was the only thing I owned that had once belonged to my father. Steeling my nerves, I pulled my suitcase into the hall, leaving it there. Wearing her long, gray robe, the same robe she'd worn since I could remember, Grandma stood at the stove frying eggs. She had her routine to do and nothing would stop her, not even me.
She had to hear my thoughts; I couldn't keep them to myself. Yet, she didn't say a word when I settled at the kitchen table. Her silence made me nervous. She pushed the eggs onto a plate and placed them in front of me. The same plates I'd used most of my life, beige with brown roses. How many meals had I had on these outdated dishes? My stomach revolted at the thought of eating. Instead, I took a gla.s.s of orange juice and drank deeply. But the acid only made it worse. I pushed the plate and gla.s.s away. What to tell her? How to explain? Then again, why even bother when she knew. And I could tell by her stiff movements that she knew.
”You're not leaving,” she finally said.
I swallowed hard, my mind racing so fast I couldn't grasp hold of a statement, but one thought remained clear, Grandma could read my mind. She knew what I was planning to do. She knew even before I said it.
”And what if I want to see what they can offer?”
She slammed the pan onto the stove, making me jump. Rarely did she lose control. ”d.a.m.n it, do you have any idea what you're getting involved with?”
I surged from my chair, anger propelling me into action. ”No! I don't because you've never told me anything.”
Still she didn't face me. ”You've never asked.”
She wasn't even going to deny these Mind Readers existed, wasn't going to pretend they were dangerous. Which meant everything Lewis had told me was probably true. I released a harsh laugh. I'd asked her plenty of times. Maybe not recently. But I had years ago, before I'd given up. ”When I was a child I-”
”You were too young then.”
My fingers curled into the back of the chair. Her voice was calm again, as if she was in complete control and it made me furious. ”Of course, you always have an excuse.” The same words she'd used on me whenever I got in trouble.
Why didn't you tell me my father was murdered by SPI? I was so angry, I couldn't say the words aloud.
She was quiet for a moment, quiet and still. But I knew she'd heard. I'd surprised her. We'd never chatted via our mental voices before. ”You didn't need to know.”
”He's my father!”
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