Soul Screamers Collection. Rachel Vincent

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      I kicked my door shut and held the cordless phone to my ear. It felt huge and cumbersome after my cell, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually held the home phone.

      “You could have called my cell,” I said into the receiver.

      “I know.”

      My father’s voice was just like I remembered—deep, and smooth, and distant. He probably looked exactly the same too, which meant my appearance would likely come as a bit of a shock to him, despite his understanding of the passage of time. I was almost fifteen the last time he’d seen me. Things had changed. I had changed.

      “I have this number memorized, so it was just easier,” he continued. That was absentee-father-speak for I’m too embarrassed to admit I don’t remember your cell-phone number. Even though I pay the bill.

      “So let me guess.” I pulled out my desk chair and plopped into it, punching the power button on my computer just to keep my hands busy. “You’re not coming.”

      “Of course I’m coming.” I could practically hear him frowning over the line, and that’s when I realized I could also hear actual background noise. An official-sounding voice over a loudspeaker. Random snatches of conversation. Echoing footsteps.

      He was at the airport.

      “My flight’s been delayed by engine trouble in Chicago. But with any luck, I’ll be in this evening. I just wanted to let you know I’d be late.”

      “Oh. Okay.” Soooo glad I didn’t start by demanding he tell me everything over the phone. “I guess I’ll see you tonight.”

      “Yeah.” Silence settled over the line then, because he didn’t know what to say, and I was not going to make it easier on him by speaking first. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Are you okay?” His voice felt …heavy, as if he wanted to say more, but left the unspoken words hanging.

      “Fine.” Not that you could fix it if I weren’t, I thought, jiggling my mouse to find the cursor on-screen. “It’s all taken some getting used to, but I’m ready to have all the secrets out in the open.”

      “I’m so sorry about all this, Kaylee. I know I owe you the truth—about everything—but some of this won’t be easy for me to say, so I need you to bear with me. Please.”

      “Like I have a choice.” But as furious as I was over the massive lie that was my life, I was desperate to know why they’d all lied in the first place. Surely they had a good reason for letting me think I was crazy, rather than telling me the truth.

      My father sighed. “Can I take you out for dinner when I get in?”

      “Well, I’ll have to eat something.” I double-clicked on my Internet browser and typed the name of a local news station into the search bar, hoping for an update.

      He hesitated for another long moment, as if waiting for more, and as badly as part of me wanted to speak, wanted to spare him the awful silence I’d suffered, I resisted. Birthday visits and Christmas cards weren’t enough to hold his place in my life. Especially since they’d stopped coming. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

      “Okay.” I hung up and set the phone on the desktop, staring at it blankly for several seconds. Then I released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and scrolled through the day’s headlines online, hoping to purge my father from my thoughts. At least until he showed up on the porch.

      There was nothing new about Alyson Baker or Meredith Cole, but the coroner had officially declared a cause of death for Heidi Anderson. Heart failure. But wasn’t that ultimately what everyone died of? However, in Heidi’s case, there was no cause listed for her heart failure. As I’d known all along, she’d simply died. Period.

      Frustrated all over again, I turned off the computer and dropped the home phone into its cradle on my way to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, showered, blow-dried, and dressed, I sat at the bar in the kitchen with a glass of juice and a granola bar. I’d just ripped open the wrapper when Aunt Val wandered in, wrapped in my uncle’s terry-cloth robe, rather than her usual silky one. Her hair was one big blond tangle, yesterday’s styling gel spiking random strands in odd places, like a leftover punk rocker’s. Eyeliner was smeared below her eyes, and her skin was pale beneath lingering blotches of blush and foundation.

      She shuffled straight to the coffeepot, which was already full and steaming. For several minutes, I chewed in silence as she sipped, but by the time she brought her second mug to the counter, the caffeine had kicked in.

      “I’m sorry about last night, hon.” She combed one hand over her hair, trying to smooth it. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of your boyfriend.”

      “It’s fine.” I wadded my wrapper and tossed it into the trash can on the other side of the room. “There was too much else going wrong to worry about one drunk aunt.”

      She grimaced, then nodded. “I guess I deserved that.”

      But watching her wince over every movement—as if contact with the very air hurt—made me feel guilty. “No, you don’t. I’m sorry.”

      “So am I.” Aunt Val forced a smile. “I can’t begin to

      explain how sorry I am. None of this is your fault ”

      She stared down into her coffee, as if she had more to say, but the words had fallen into the mug and were now too soggy to use.

      “Don’t worry about it.” I finished my orange juice and set my glass in the sink, then headed back to my room, where I texted Emma to make sure she was still coming to the memorial.

      Her mom said she’d meet me there fifteen minutes early—at a quarter to one.

      The rest of the morning passed in one endless stretch of mindless television and Internet surfing. I tried twice to get my uncle alone so I could pass along Tod’s information, but every time I found him, he was with a very somber, clingy Sophie, who seemed to be dreading the memorial as badly as I was.

      After an early lunch I could only pick at, I changed out of my T-shirt, hoping my long-sleeved black blouse was appropriate attire for the memorial service for someone I’d failed to save. On my way out the door, I saw Sophie sitting on the bench in the hall, her hands folded on the skirt of a slim black dress, her head hanging so that her long blond hair fell nearly to her chest. She looked so pitiful, so lost, that as badly as I hated to spoil the drive alone with Nash, I offered her a ride to school.

      “Mom’s taking me,” she said, briefly meeting my gaze with her own huge, sad eyes.

      “Okay.” Just as well.

      I pulled into Nash’s driveway five minutes later and waited nervously for him to get into the car. I was afraid talking to him would be weird after his middle-of-the-night fight with Tod, and his reluctant discussion of it with me. But he leaned over to kiss me as soon as his door was closed, and from the depth of that kiss—and the fact that neither of us seemed willing to end it—I was guessing he was over the awkwardness.

      The school parking lot was packed. Overflowing. Lots of parents had come, as well as some city officials, and according to the morning paper, the school had called in extra counsetors to help the students learn to deal with СКАЧАТЬ