Second Verse (21 page)

Sharon shakes her head sadly. “He saw a lot of corruption in Obitus in the few years he was there. It was slowly being infiltrated. He heard word of the most horrible souls reunited, evil people brought together again and again. He was snooping into this, trying to find out if the criminal souls of murderers and rapists and worse were being tracked more than others. That was when they began to cut off his access to the archived records.
He had no proof and neither do I. But as you’ve proven, coincidences very often spell out the truth.”

“But why would they do that? Empower the evil souls more than the others?” I ask.

“Power. The same thing most of the world’s problems come down to. The leaders of Obitus realized the power they had, tracking people over their lifetimes. They could find an evil, tortured soul who’d spent lifetimes honing his wicked tendencies and paired up with another misfit, they were practically bursting with the need to create chaos and evil. Obitus capitalized on that, started using them for their own means.” She looks down. “Not only were they tracking and reuniting the worst souls, they were trying to influence where souls would actually end up. Instead of a soul choosing its own path, Obitus wanted to be able to force it a certain way, either for their own use or even for revenge. My father thought it was impossible, but they seemed to be inching their research toward that very thing.”

“How?” I ask.

She gives us a worried glance. “I’m not sure exactly, but I do know that they were working on it when he left. Experimenting like crazy. From what I understand, as long as the person who dies is not a child, they were able to sometimes partially influence which direction the soul would go after death, or even if they could force the soul into a state of unrest. An in-between place, so to speak.”

“But why not children?”

“I don’t know the exact details, but I do know the soul of a child – anyone under sixteen, typically—is too close to the other side to be influenced. Until you’ve reached a certain age, your soul is still somewhat moored to your previous live, evolving-wise. The souls of children are nearly untouchable because of this and their purity. But once that soul has aged a little more and evolved more fully into its new life, it’s much more likely to
be influenced, and therefore a more attractive conquest for Obitus. They can do the most damage to a slightly older soul. Children are almost useless to them. Like I said, I don’t know completely how they do it or what the Vitagraph told them. But my father was very scared about that research. He even thought Obitus was working on ways to groom souls during their life for this very purpose when they died. I just hope they haven’t made much more progress with it. My biggest fear is not only that they can keep track of the evil souls in the world, but cause good ones to go that way as well.”

The ticking clock is the only sound in the space until Vaughn finally speaks. “Is there any way for us to find out if someone has contacted these people about us?”

Sharon shifts on the couch. “There’s no way.”

She’s lying. Vaughn slides me a look.

“Please Sharon.” He leans across the table. “We’re in real danger. We decided we’d call the cops for protection but even if we do, they obviously won’t be able to track down the person if it’s something like this.”

She snaps her head toward us, her eyes wide. “No. Do
not
call the police. If someone is working with Obitus, it’s possible they’ve got someone in your police station working with them. They’re very thorough.”

The bottom of my stomach drops out. “So what then? What are we supposed to do?” Panic races through me. It’s like I’m on the very edge of a rooftop. One more setback and I’m afraid I’ll go over the edge.

“Sharon.” His voice is filled with authority, but underneath it, he’s begging. “Help us. Please.”

She stares at the window with her jaw set. When she looks back at us, her eyes shine.

“Anything you can do will help,” I say in a meek voice. “If we can’t call the police and we can’t figure out who’s doing this on
our own, I don’t want to think about what could happen. Look what happened to Ginny.”

Vaughn’s hand tightens around mine.
“That’s
not going to happen.”

She looks from Vaughn to me and back to him again. “Fine. I’ll help. Because I like you. And because I know it’s what my father would have done.”

The first wings of hope start to beat in my chest. “What’s our first step?”

She puts her hand up. “Slow down. The idea that this is your answer is still a huge long shot. I have a few friends with connections in Obitus. I’ll try and call in a favor. It might take some time, though.”

“Time is the one thing we don’t have,” Vaughn says, running a hand down his face, the other pulling me tightly against him.

D
ESPITE SOME CRAZY-ASS
dreams, I sleep the sleep of the dead. Or at least the sleep of the heavily drugged. I’m sure it has something to do with the bright green glow of the alarm system lights which, as promised, had been activated by the time Vaughn brought me home from Sharon’s. With the ponytail day behind us, and learning all about our history and the elusive Obitus, I was exhausted. Sleep came on fast and strong.

I wake feeling more rested than I have in a long time.

“Honey?” Mom knocks on my door, opening it a second later and leaning in. “I’m leaving in an hour. Want to come down for breakfast first?”

“Leaving?”

Sure enough, she’s wearing black pants, a green sweater and black leather clogs. In other words, super dressed up for Mom.

“Photographers convention? Out in New York, remember?” She taps her nails on my door. “Just overnight. I know I told you about it.” She examines me closely. “Are you okay? If you don’t want me to go, I can stay—”

“No, it’s fine. I’m sure you told me.” I can’t keep anything straight these days. Yawning loudly, I ask, “What’s for breakfast?”

“I’m making omelets,” she says. “See you downstairs in a few.”

While brushing my teeth, I nearly burst into tears at the thought of Mom leaving. Which is ridiculous. I’ll be fine. And at least Mom will be safe.

I need to call Vaughn ASAP. Until we hear from Sharon or I finally get in touch with either of the Sellers guys, I need to keep busy. Otherwise, I may just go crazy.

A
FTER BREAKFAST, MOM
heads out without a single lecture. After her comments about me and Vaughn the other night, I’d expected at least a warning about him not staying over, or God forbid, something about safe sex.

But she’s out the door, toting enough camera equipment to require a few trips. I hum along to the kitchen radio while I clean up the breakfast dishes. Each time she makes a trip to her car, the melodic beep of the alarm system chimes to signal the door is being opened and closed and opened again.

Ding Ding
. It’s like a heartbeat, comforting and constant.

I wave to her as she pulls out of the driveway. She’s always loved this stuff. Back when we lived in Jersey, she used to go to these things on a monthly basis.

And anyway, I’ll be fine here. I’ll just call Vaughn and he’ll come over. With the dishes done, I head upstairs to shower.

I spend extra time washing my hair, relaxing beneath the spray. I even apply the Critical Repair conditioner sample Kelly gave me last week.

In my mind I can still see the photos at Sharon’s. This apparently supersonic love that travels through the ages. Last night, I couldn’t think of anything but who we were last time, and the time before, and probably the time before that. Walking down Market Street after we left Sharon’s place, I wondered if we’d ever done that exact thing before, on that street or any other.

But what I realize now, is as amazing as all that is, it’s just an extra bow on an already perfect gift. It’s in this life I’ve fallen for him. Just the thought makes me break into a huge smile, my face in the hot spray while I scrub my shoulders and arms. He’s made me believe in things I never thought possible, like happy endings and knowing the depth of a person’s soul.

Soul.

Soul echo. Obitus.

Why does there have to be a downside?

My skin stings, streaked red from the hot water. I open the door to let out the steam while I towel off and finger brush my hair.

Ding Ding
.

It doesn’t register at first. But then I hear it again.

Ding Ding
.

It’s the alarm sensor. One of the doors has been opened.

Ding Ding
.

And closed.

Breathe, Lange. Focus
.

Slowly, I close the bathroom door until there’s only enough space for me to peek into the hall.

Ding Ding
.

I look around the bathroom. There’s nothing even close to a weapon in here.

Lifting my foot cautiously, I gently step into the hallway. The wood creaks like a loud, out of tune instrument and I wince, turning my ear toward the kitchen stairs. I hear nothing. I look both ways, and eye the staircases on either end of the hall. The north stairs lead to the kitchen and the back door, the south stairs to the front of the house, where there are two exits within two rooms of the stairs. I wrap the towel around me tightly and press myself to the wall, skulking down the hall like an intruder in my own house.

Upstairs, something creaks. I stop and look at the ceiling, my heart slamming against my chest.

Calm down. It’s probably the house settling. You hear that crap all the time
.

I slink again down the hall, squatting when I reach the stairs. If anyone’s in the house, going down the stairs will most definitely alert them. There’s no way to be quiet on these things.

The hiss and bang of the radiator on the landing makes me jump so suddenly, I almost drop my towel. It takes me a minute to catch my breath, while I listen to the drip drop drip from my hair on the wood floor.

I take the first step and stop at the sound of a rustle, almost like an animal downstairs. Did I leave the window open? No. Any fans on? No. There should
not
be a breeze down there.

I creep as quietly as possible, which isn’t quietly at all. There’s a bang and then the soft pitter patter of feet. Running feet. Outside.

Pressing my towel to me, I stand on my toes to look out the window, but see nothing. No one running. No one anywhere. Just the trees swaying, dropping leaves like rain.

I slowly walk the rest of the way down the stairs. The back door is open halfway, caught in an air current which sucks it closed and then open again.

With a big exhale, I tsk. “You’re an idiot,” I mutter to myself. It wasn’t closed right. Just the wind causing it to latch and unlatch again. I shake my head and click the lock into place.

The sun warms my face when I push the curtain to the side. But then I notice the small package on the top step.

My heart plummets as I squint, trying to make out exactly what it is.

I open the door to get a better look. Outside, it’s funeral-home quiet. It’s not a package at all, I see. It’s something round and looks like straw.

A nest?

Despite being wrapped only in a towel, I take two steps across my porch, eyes darting across the yard. I squat near the object, reaching out to touch the side of it, rubbing the rough branches with my fingertips.

It
is
a nest. How weird. Inside are two tiny eggs. I know nothing about birds, but imagine this is the last place a nest should be. I look up at the trees and back down again. Maybe I should move it to the yard. I touch the side of it, with more force this time. The eggs move, but not in the way eggs normally move. They don’t roll or slide.

They jiggle.

I step back, clutching my towel tighter around me. The cool air nearly freezes my hair but that’s not the reason I shiver.

With my toe, I rock the nest again, and when it tilts, the eggs finally
do
roll, until they’re staring up at me.

But they aren’t eggs.

They’re eyes.

B
Y THE TIME
Vaughn arrives, I’ve somehow managed to get dressed. I pace the kitchen wildly, keeping my eyes off the back door. I’m refolding the kitchen towels for the millionth time when I hear his tires crunch on the gravel. When he bounds up the porch stairs, stopping briefly to look at our special delivery, my stomach tightens.

“Hey.” He strides into the room, his face drawn with worry, and pulls me into a tight hug.

“Did you see it?” I say against his chest.

He nods.

“The message is obvious. They’re watching. And there’s two of them. Two eyes. Two days. The countdown continues.” I look toward the back door. “Any word from Sharon?”

As I expect, he shakes his head. He pulls out a chair and falls into it, pulling me onto his lap.

“I
did
talk to Stace though.”

“And?” I keep my eyes on his, refusing to look near the back window.

“I didn’t give her details, of course, but I said you were getting some threats. I asked her about the ponytail charity thing and said someone left you something we thought came from there, along with some threatening notes.”

I stop breathing. “And?”

“She flipped the hell out. Called me every name possible, accused me of cheating on her and a bunch of other things. It was
weird. She jumped from one topic to the other. Me writing songs without her, me cheating on her, us meant to be together, her mom getting remarried soon and not loving her enough, her failing her latest English test. It was like she was on something, just spewing everything that was ever wrong in her life. And pinning it on me.” He shakes his head solemnly. “I’d like to think she couldn’t do this. But she was definitely not acting like the Stace I know, either.”

“So what now?”

“Um, steer clear of her and keep our eyes open. Until we hear from Sharon, anyway. I’m not sure how Stace would be connected to those Obitus people though. If it has something to do with them, I’m guessing it doesn’t have to do with her. Of course it could be neither, too.”

Confusing.