Be the Death of Me (12 page)

Tucker

Have you completely lost your mind?

I shouldn’t have let her get to me. I shouldn’t have, but how am I supposed to resist? How when every fiber of my being is telling me to help her? It’s what it’s always told me. I’ve tried appeasing her. I’ve tried giving her the cold shoulder. I’ve tried completely shutting her out, but trying to keep Billie from my thoughts is as pointless as wishing for a second chance at life.

I groan loudly as the elevator comes to an abrupt halt.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Reid.”

Abby looks up from her work, and flashes me one of her million–dollar smiles.

I grin back, showering her with a dose of irresistible Tucker charm. “You’re looking particularly radiant today, Abby,” I say as I approach her desk. I brush a tuft of hair off my forehead, completely unsurprised when it falls back into place the instant I move my hand.

“MR. REID?” the Captain’s voice booms from the intercom. “MR. REID?”

With a wink in her direction, I place a finger to my lips and pretend to make a beeline for the nearest exit.

“DON’T PULL THAT CRAP WITH ME, TUCKER. GET IN HERE.”

With a half–hearted chuckle, I trudge the long, chic hallway to his office with the enthusiasm of a man climbing the gallows. I knock once and enter, pushing the heavy, oak door open. To my complete and total astonishment, I’m not bombarded with the customary greetings of “Sit your ass down, Tucker,” or “Glad you found the stones to come back, Mr. Reid.” Instead, the dulcet tones of both strings and woodwinds, swelling violins, piccolos, and flute welcome me as I enter the open, stylishly–decorated office. The Captain stands at his “window,” the mural of blue sky behind his desk I’ve never fully understood, hands clasped tightly behind his back.

“Berlioz?” I ask, listening to the dull thud of the door as it closes behind me. “
Un Bal
, right?” The music grows and fades, grows and fades, grows and fades. The flutes, the strings, they serve as dialogue, speaking to one another through composition.

“I’m impressed,” the man in black murmurs, finally stirring. His thick, auburn mustache twitches in amusement. “One of the lesser–known waltzes, but exquisite nonetheless.”

“Do you want me to sit?” I ask, ignoring the tiny voice in my head telling me to make a mad dash for the door. “Do you . . I mean . . Have you figured out why Ford can see us yet?”

He keeps his hands behind his back, his sharp, unwavering gaze never leaving my face. “We’re still looking into the situation. However, that’s not why I called you here.” He lets my question dissolve into thin air. “You’re clever enough to understand, Mr. Reid, just how pointless it is trying to keep things from me. Especially on an assignment as important as this one.”

I focus very hard at the tile beneath my feet, counting them, numbering them, naming them, anything to keep from meeting the thunder clouds in the eyes of the man in front of me.

“I want you to know, Tucker, that I am very pleased with the way you and Foster are handling this case.”

My head shoots up before I can completely register what he said.

“You’re practically Pavlovian when it comes to Foster,” he chuckles. “Listen, I know all about the close call that occurred in the grocery store parking lot. Foster pushing Mr. Ford out of the way of an oncoming vehicle? I almost didn’t believe it. Though I must say I am exceedingly pleased to be proven wrong. And for that, I want to applaud you.”

“Me?” My voice involuntarily rises nearly three octaves.

“Foster is finally living up to her potential,” he says, moving forward and unclasping his hands to pat me once on the shoulder. “She’s motivated. Focused. Everything a true Guardian ought to be. And I have to believe the sudden change of attitude is due, at least in part, to your influence.”

“My . . . influence?”

“I’ve told you before. You and I are very much alike, Mr. Reid. We’re different,
special
even. We’ve overcome personal tragedy to be elevated to higher stations because I believe we know how to remain steady when the rest of the world crumbles in chaos. Steadfast through and through. Not like Foster. No, she’s far too explosive for her own good. So I have to believe something you’ve said, or perhaps simply your general enthusiasm for the job, has had this remarkable effect on her. Why else would she take such a determined interest in this case?”

His words dredge up images I wish my mind could erase. Billie and Ford laughing, his arm around her shoulder, her hands grazing over his, the smile she wears whenever they’re together. She thinks I haven’t noticed. She thinks it’s harmless. But she has no idea what that smile means.

The Captain dismisses me as the symphony of violins and violas ends, letting me go with another clap on the shoulder. I get to my feet, feeling as if I’ve been dropped into an alternate universe. Truth be told, I find the new, even–tempered version of the Captain far more frightening than the original.

“Oh, and Tucker,” he calls before I can put one foot outside the door, “I want you to have something.” He reaches into the far bottom desk drawer, pulling out what looks to be no more than a manila folder. From the file he withdraws a single sheet of paper before placing it, alone, back in the drawer. He then holds the folder out to me, thick and stuffed with mismatched papers, though missing the now–excluded sheet. I reach out to take it, approaching as one would a dangerous, feral animal. He smiles once more. “Consider it a gift,” he says. “I suppose I should have given it to you a while ago, but it took quite a bit of wheedling to get the Elders to allow it.”

I stare down at the file in my hand, feeling my gut turn a somersault into my throat.

“You may go,” he says once more, sitting behind his desk and diving back into his stack of paperwork.

I nod and leave, wrapped in a tight cocoon of shock and confusion, unsure of what to do with the universe I’ve been thrown into.

Ford

Billie remains silent after she finishes her story; the quietest she’s ever been. I say nothing. I don’t think she expects me to. We sit, unmoving, still as statues in the solitude of our private world, content with the simple satisfaction of having someone to listen. My faithful owl sits on guard duty outside my window, hooting a cadence of peacefulness like he knows it’s only a matter of time before I succumb to sleep. I yawn against my will, and it isn’t long before my eyelids begin to grow heavy.

“I want you to know that it’s okay, Billie.” I yawn deeply, allowing my eyes to close. I don’t even know what I’m saying; the words spill out without thought or consideration. “You’re a good Guardian, but it’s . . .  too much. It might be easier if . . . 
yawn
 . . .  you just let me go. Then I could be like you.”

One lightning quick move is all it takes for her to have my ear as a hostage, twisting it painfully in her hand. “Don’t ever say that!” Her blue eyes blaze. “I don’t care how bad you think you have it. You wouldn’t say that if you knew what it’s like from my side. You think Tuck and I are lucky because we can disappear and walk through walls? There are so many things, hundreds of things,
millions
, that you do every day that I would give anything to do again.”

She slips out of bed and crosses to the far side of the room, taking her comforting glow with her. “A word to the wise,” she says, turning back. “Appreciate what you have. Even the bad stuff. Because you can’t imagine how much you’ll miss it when it’s gone.”

I creep out from beneath the covers, discovering the hardwood floor chilly against my bare feet. “So tell me,” I say gently, not wanting to overstep my boundaries. “What do you miss?”

A bitter chuckle issues from her throat as she slides gracefully down the wall, falling like a stream of running water. She pulls her knees to her chin. I follow her example.

“Weird things,” she answers finally, as if the words are being pulled from her like a string of taffy. “Things I never in a million years would have thought twice about when I was alive.”

“Like?”

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

“Ever again?”

“Ford.”

“Okay, okay. I promise.”

“Stupid stuff. Like . . . waking up after a perfect night’s sleep and laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. I miss cheeseburgers and French fries and cherry soda. I miss dressing up and feeling pretty.” She tugs at the sleeve of the same black t–shirt I see her in every day. “I miss the way the scent of an orange would linger on my fingertips after peeling it, and stepping into a really hot shower, and brushing my hair, and how a kiss could make my lips tingle for hours.”

She pauses for a single, heartbreaking second.

“I miss crying.”

Hidden grief echoes through those three simple words, piercing my heart with sadness. When I first met Billie, I assumed her general disdain for everything around her was an act, a defense mechanism set up in order to keep anyone from getting too close. I see now that the root goes much deeper. Maybe Billie did let someone get close once. Maybe she even loved someone and they loved her back. Perhaps being forced to protect people with lives like the one she used to have has made her this way, bitter and unstable and beyond anyone’s reach. I can’t fault her for it. It would be enough to drive even the strongest mad.

“Do you know what happened after you died?” I ask when I realize she isn’t going to continue. “What happened to everyone else?”

She leans to the side, resting her head on my shoulder. I feel her nod against the soft fabric of my shirt. “Everyone made a big deal out of my death. Stupid, really. Practically the whole school came to the funeral. My sister even went to counseling for a while. It didn’t last though. I think one day everyone sort of realized that the world would keep turning even though I was gone. And that’s good. It’s exactly how it should be. My best friend, Maya. She works for the local news station now. She handles weather or something like that.”

“Maya Rodriguez?” I interrupt with a goofy grin. “The WCYN weather girl?”

Her face breaks into a sentimental smile. “That’s her. And Austin, my boy—” she cuts herself off this time, “my other friend, he went to college on a basketball scholarship. But he blew out his knee sophomore year, so now he coaches at a high school in Vermont . . .  the same school where his wife teaches.”

Is it my imagination, or does her perfect voice actually break?

“My mom moved to Fort Lauderdale two years ago,” she continues as if nothing is the matter, always stronger than the rest of us. “She’s living with some guy named Franklin. She looked peaceful the last time I saw her. She and Olivia deserve to be happy.”

“Olivia?”

“My sister. Got married, had a kid, works as the head chef at Bonterra’s now.”

“Café Bonterra? I love that place. They have the best shrimp
capellini
.” I look down at her to find her face turned to mine, staring at me with an unreadable expression. “Oh,” I say quickly. “Not the point.”

And to my surprise, she laughs. “No, its fine,” she says, placing her head back in the crook of my neck. “In fact, you should tell her that the next time you’re there. Olivia always loved being the best. She was so smart, you know? Focused. Not like me. The only thing I was best at was being a total screw up.”

“Come on, Billie. Don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth. I was never the sort of girl who deluded herself into thinking she would make history or change the world. I just wanted . . .  to be. I wanted to be happy and show love. I wanted everything they have, Austin and Maya and Olivia. Everything you have to look forward to. College. Marriage. Kids. I know you think things would be easier if all of this went away, and you were like me, but you’re wrong, Ford. I’ve had four years of being nothing more than a fly on the wall. I watch people. I see them. I see their faces, their bodies, the laugh lines at the corners of their eyes, the bruises, the holes in their shoes. And what hits me the hardest is that no matter how down or dejected they seem, sooner or later they smile. Always. And you will too, I promise. There are days coming when you will laugh and feel and love. And when those days come, all of this will seem like nothing. Tuck. Me. We’ll be nothing. And that’s how it should be.”

I’m startled by the sudden appearance of wetness on my cheek; the single, salty tear coursing its way down my face. It rolls silently off my chin and onto my T–shirt, leaving a tiny drop of moisture as the only sign it ever existed.

It’s then I realize what the tear means, why it’s there. It’s because, for the first time, Billie is incapable of doing something for herself.
I’m
the one helping
her.
So in the silence and darkness of my bedroom, with a ghost on my shoulder and my heart the slightest bit broken, I cry for us both.

“Pansy,” she whispers.

I wipe the dampness away, chuckling against the heartache. “Sorry.”

“For what?” she asks. “I’m here. You’re there. Things are what they are.”

“You really believe that?”

“Maybe.” The light she casts bounces a shadow against the opposing wall. “Or maybe it’s easier to tell myself that, because if I didn’t . . . you’d probably already be dead. Just like the others.”

The macabre response frightens me. “Others?”

Billie climbs to her feet. “It’s not important,” she says, refusing to elaborate any further. Our moment of unguarded hearts and minds has passed, and we’re back to our uneasy cease fire, a friendship balancing on the head of a pin over a strange and murky pit. “You should get some sleep.”

I pick myself off the floor, my back popping embarrassingly with the sudden movement. “I’m not tired.”

“These,” she laughs, turning to face me as I reach my feet, “beg to differ.” Delicate fingers reach for my face, tracing beneath both eyes, first right, then left, tenderly outlining what I’m sure are two identical shadows of fatigue. Her gentle touch isn’t romantic. It isn’t charged by sexual tension. It isn’t anything but what I need it to be. Instinctively, almost as if acting with a mind of its own, my cheek leans into the softness of her hand. She curves her small palm to fit the shape of my face, sliding her thumb over the crest of my cheekbone, exploring the hollows beneath my eyes.

“Well, isn’t this cozy?”

The voice crashes around us, far too loud for our solitude.

“Tucker.” I offer him a cold welcome, feeling Billie’s hand slide quickly from my face. What is it with this guy? It’s like his brain is equipped with radar designed specifically for ruining what few moments of happiness I have in this life.

“How’s it going?” he asks cheerfully.
Too
cheerfully. He saunters forward, hands clasped behind his back. A wicked grin dances across his face.

It’s Billie who answers. “Good,” she says, still a bit startled. “It’s good. We’re good. Separately, of course. I’m good. Ford’s good. Everyone’s good.”

“Nice cover,” I hiss as she springs forward to join her partner by the door.

“We were just talking,” she continues, helpless. ‘But it’s late now. Ford should probably get some sleep, don’t you think?”

One eyebrow lifts in suspicion. “Talking?” Tucker steps forward. A challenge. “What were you guys talking about?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “The weather.”

His face turns expressionless, any pretense of a smile gone. He turns his icy gaze on the girl at his side, eyes roaming the contours of her face, searching for the truth.

Billie draws back from his intense stare. “What?” she glares up at him from under her lashes. Typical Billie stubbornness. It almost makes me laugh. Even when she’s the one caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar, she still refuses to back down.

“Nothing,” Tucker says with borderline contempt. “Don’t mind me. Just trying to keep Ford alive.” He turns to me, eyes expectant.

“Yeah . . . great.” I’m lost in my own thoughts and unsure as to what turn our conversation has taken. “I’m sorry. What were we talking about again?”

“The weather,” Tucker supplies.

“Right. The weather. Well, there’s supposed to be a cold front moving in across Cincinnati this weekend, and thunderstorms over Dallas.”

Billie pinches the bridge of her nose, using her hand to cover an emerging grin as Tucker takes a step in my direction.

“Don’t test me, Ford,” he says. “Because I promise you’ll regret it.”

“If you want to hit me that badly, just do it already.”

“You really want me to hit you?”

“Not particularly, but if you’re set on it, there’s probably nothing I can do to stop you. And I do want to point out that it might actually be in your best interest to hear us out before you get on with the whole rendering me unconscious thing. We really were just talking. I swear. So why don’t you calm down, pal, before you say something you’ll end up regretting?”

“I’m not your pal,” he whispers through an icy sneer. “Truth is, if protecting you didn’t go hand–in–hand with protecting Billie, I’d probably let whoever’s trying to kill you take their best shot.”

The room grows deathly quiet, save for the persistent, unyielding wind outside.

Billie turns slowly to face her partner, revolving like a ballerina in a child’s music box. “Protecting Billie?” she repeats with narrowed eyes and an inquisitive tilt of her head. Her hair falls in blonde and white ripples over her neck and shoulders. “Why would I need protecting, Tuck?”

“You don’t,” he says, but even I can tell he’s being dishonest. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just being stupid.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Billie says.

“It’s nothing, okay?” he grumbles, sweeping to the side in a blur of blue–gray light.

Billie’s faster. She whirls on him, placing a hand to his chest, preventing him from taking one step further. “No,” she says, a hint of anger in her voice. “Tell me, Tuck.”

Coward
. I watch him continually avert his gaze to keep from having to look her in the eyes. He concentrates on staring at a spot over her head, his thick eyebrows drawing together.

“Tell me,” she growls at him.

“Let it go, Billie. Forget it.”

“Tell me, Tucker!” He balks at the sound of his true name on her lips. “What are you protecting me from?”

Tucker’s jaw looks tight enough to break. “From yourself! Okay? I’m protecting you from you. Happy now?”

I observe, silent, forever a spectator. Billie frowns in confusion. “Why would I need protecting from myself?”

“Because,” he says as if explaining something to a child. “Given your history as a Guardian . . .  I shouldn’t even be telling you this! Given your history, the Elders have decided this is your last chance.”

“I know that already. Cap told me. But how bad could it be?”

“You don’t get it.”

“So why don’t you explain it to me?”

“If Ford dies . . .” Tucker’s eyes finally lock with hers. “. . . they’ll take you.”

I have no clue what his words mean. I don’t know why Billie’s history is important or what being taken is. What I do understand, however, is the look of absolute, unspeakable terror that washes over her face. Her eyes drift out of focus, seeing the unseen. Her mouth falls open as she turns from Tucker, moving to the window to keep either of us from seeing any more of her fear.

“Billie,” he and I say at the same time, both taking a single, determined step toward our lovely tormentor. Tucker looks at me, though his expression is free of the loathing he exhibited earlier. Oh, the disdain is still there, but almost entirely obscured by something more pressing, more important than whatever rivalry we’ve created.

“
Go
,” I mouth, relenting with a silent nod of my head.

He does without a second’s hesitation or backward glance, moving in a blur of light to be at her side. He rests his hands on the windowsill while she remains perfectly still, unmoving in the gray glow of the night. The pair of them shine white beneath the sliver of moon, and from my place across the room, I catch snippets of their hushed conversation, the comforting words he bends to whisper in her ear.

“Don’t worry, Billie. Ford’s not going to . . . .”

“How could Cap?”

“I know . . .”

“I didn’t think . . .”

“I won’t let anything . . .”

“. . . not fair . . .”

“. . . I promise.”

I can’t help but imagine what I would have told her if I were in his place. What could I have possibly said to comfort her? How could I help her when I don’t even understand what she’s afraid of? My throat closes in on itself as I watch Tucker place a reassuring hand on her shoulder, as I watch her lean against him, as I watch his fingers linger in the strands of her shimmering hair. I suddenly feel achingly, unbearably alone, and I can’t help but envy Tucker for his undying affection for the girl he loves. I wish I had someone to make promises to, someone to fight for, to protect instead of always being the one in need.

Reluctantly, I slump to the floor, sliding my back along the supporting wall. As I let my head drop in exhaustion, I catch sight of something I hadn’t noticed right away, a plain, beige folder, stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey, resting unobtrusively at the base of my bookcase. It’s filled with papers, the edges curved in on itself, trying its best to hold in the contents. Across the top is a familiar string of words, printed in thick, black ink.

“What’s this?” I ask, reaching for the folder. But the paper is a blur, sliding across the floor and into Tucker’s outstretched hand, drawn to him like a magnet.

“It’s nothing,” he barks.

“Well, it has my name on it.”

“It’s your file.”

“My
file
?”

“His
file
?” Billie says from the window, her face changing from masked fear to outright incredulity. “His
complete
file?”

Tucker nods. “Didn’t I say I wouldn’t let anything happen to you?” he gives her a modest grin.

She smiles back. “Yeah. I guess you did.”

“That’s swell and all,” I point out, not sorry about interrupting their magical moment. “But what’s the big deal? It’s just a file.”