Made for You
Page 48
Grace startles, but Nate says, “I won’t let them out of my sight when I’m here.”
My father shoots Nate a look of approval before offering, “Why don’t Nate and I walk you out to your car?”
Mrs. Yeung nods. “Let me text David, so he knows I’m on the way.”
After they walk out, the detective sits quietly for a moment. Then she says, “Did Michelle also have a relationship with Robert?”
“Micki?” I want to laugh at the absurdity of that. “She wore a purity ring, and she meant it. The only way she’d have been with Robert would’ve been after a church-made vow of forever. I’m pretty sure she never even dated. No one at Jessup was up to both her standards and her parents’ standards.”
“The Adamses have a history of marrying within their station,” my mother offers mildly. “Prenups and fidelity clauses are required, and Micki wouldn’t have risked dating anyone her father didn’t approve of. I expect she planned on finding a husband at Duke in a couple years.”
The detective looks at my mother for a moment, and then merely nods before telling me, “You need to be careful, Eva. No going out alone.” She turns to my mother. “How sure are you of Mr. Bouchet’s honesty?”
“We’ve known him since he was in elementary school. His family was here all the time when the children were younger.” Mom clasps her hands tightly together, and I can see by her expression that she’s thinking carefully. “He’s a good boy.”
“I trust him,” I interject. “I was with him when we saw the news about Micki. He was shocked and upset.”
The detective nods. “If anything he says or does alarms you or if anyone’s actions alarm you, you contact me immediately.”
“We will,” my mother promises. “We want you to catch this person. This . . . killer.”
“We all want that, Mrs. Tilling.” The detective stands, and my mother shows her to the door.
Then I am left alone in my house thinking about the words carved into Amy’s skin. I thought that Micki’s death tore me up, but I am horrified by Amy’s. It’s disgusting, what he did to her.
I hope she was already dead when the killer cut her.
I start to think of my classmates. I can’t think of anyone who could do this. Maybe they’re wrong to think it’s a teenager. Teachers? I picture Mr. Sweeney and Miss Ferguson. They’re not killers. I’m pretty sure Mr. Sweeney couldn’t kill a bug much less a girl. I start to picture my friends and classmates. I picture Robert. No. There’s no one I can think of who would do this.
None of it makes sense to me. Micki did nothing to me, and although Amy slept with Robert, that’s not reason enough to wish this on her. Neither of those things explain why the killer attacked me. I sit on the sofa trying not to think that someone wants me dead—someone who has now killed two girls I know.
DAY 14: “THE FLOWERS”
Eva
I SLEPT HORRIBLY AFTER Detective Grant left. I don’t remember most of my nightmares, just vague images from the death visions I had of Nate’s and Grace’s possible ends. I think that Amy and Micki’s killer is the same person who pushes Grace into her car trunk and makes Nate choke on liquor. I have no actual proof—just a feeling. The odds of two killers in my small town seem impossible. Truthfully, even one seems impossible, but I know there is one. We all know that now. What I don’t know—and need to figure out—is what it has to do with me.
As I lie in my bed, thinking over what I know about the visions and murders, I realize that there is one more thing I know: I can’t see faces in my visions. I’m not sure why that is. I can see them in my own life, but when I fall into someone’s death, the sense that’s least reliable is vision—or maybe cognition. I grab my laptop and I try several search terms, but it’s not until I enter “face blind” that I get useful results: prosopagnosia. Basically, as I read I learn that some people can’t recognize faces, even people they see regularly and know. Prosopagnosia is either inherent, or it’s acquired from a brain injury. Although my brain injury didn’t cause me to have trouble recognizing faces in the waking world, it has in my death visions. I try a few more searches, but not surprisingly, there aren’t any articles that explain altered perceptions in death visions. The most useful information I have is that people with face blindness—prosopagnosics—have to use other characteristics to identify people. The bit that I learn isn’t much, but I’m not sure where to learn more. I can’t expect any insight from my doctor, especially as I’m not interested in sharing my new ability.
I spend a few minutes thinking about it, and then I close my laptop and start slowly working my way downstairs. Some coffee and food will help me think. At the very least, it’ll distract me from this nightmare for a few minutes. I thump into the kitchen, where I find my mother. It’s odd seeing her so determinedly domestic, but it’s also comforting. If there was ever a time when I was willing to admit to needing some extra TLC, this is it.
She puts her hands on her h*ps when she sees me and tsks. “Why didn’t you call for help? Your independent streak has to be some latent Tilling gene.”
“Says the black sheep of the Cooper clan,” I tease without thinking.
She stops moving, her hand midway to the pitcher of orange juice, and I wonder if it was wrong to try to tease her. I thought we were trying to be closer. I thought it would be okay. Hurriedly, I start, “I’m s—”
My father shoots Nate a look of approval before offering, “Why don’t Nate and I walk you out to your car?”
Mrs. Yeung nods. “Let me text David, so he knows I’m on the way.”
After they walk out, the detective sits quietly for a moment. Then she says, “Did Michelle also have a relationship with Robert?”
“Micki?” I want to laugh at the absurdity of that. “She wore a purity ring, and she meant it. The only way she’d have been with Robert would’ve been after a church-made vow of forever. I’m pretty sure she never even dated. No one at Jessup was up to both her standards and her parents’ standards.”
“The Adamses have a history of marrying within their station,” my mother offers mildly. “Prenups and fidelity clauses are required, and Micki wouldn’t have risked dating anyone her father didn’t approve of. I expect she planned on finding a husband at Duke in a couple years.”
The detective looks at my mother for a moment, and then merely nods before telling me, “You need to be careful, Eva. No going out alone.” She turns to my mother. “How sure are you of Mr. Bouchet’s honesty?”
“We’ve known him since he was in elementary school. His family was here all the time when the children were younger.” Mom clasps her hands tightly together, and I can see by her expression that she’s thinking carefully. “He’s a good boy.”
“I trust him,” I interject. “I was with him when we saw the news about Micki. He was shocked and upset.”
The detective nods. “If anything he says or does alarms you or if anyone’s actions alarm you, you contact me immediately.”
“We will,” my mother promises. “We want you to catch this person. This . . . killer.”
“We all want that, Mrs. Tilling.” The detective stands, and my mother shows her to the door.
Then I am left alone in my house thinking about the words carved into Amy’s skin. I thought that Micki’s death tore me up, but I am horrified by Amy’s. It’s disgusting, what he did to her.
I hope she was already dead when the killer cut her.
I start to think of my classmates. I can’t think of anyone who could do this. Maybe they’re wrong to think it’s a teenager. Teachers? I picture Mr. Sweeney and Miss Ferguson. They’re not killers. I’m pretty sure Mr. Sweeney couldn’t kill a bug much less a girl. I start to picture my friends and classmates. I picture Robert. No. There’s no one I can think of who would do this.
None of it makes sense to me. Micki did nothing to me, and although Amy slept with Robert, that’s not reason enough to wish this on her. Neither of those things explain why the killer attacked me. I sit on the sofa trying not to think that someone wants me dead—someone who has now killed two girls I know.
DAY 14: “THE FLOWERS”
Eva
I SLEPT HORRIBLY AFTER Detective Grant left. I don’t remember most of my nightmares, just vague images from the death visions I had of Nate’s and Grace’s possible ends. I think that Amy and Micki’s killer is the same person who pushes Grace into her car trunk and makes Nate choke on liquor. I have no actual proof—just a feeling. The odds of two killers in my small town seem impossible. Truthfully, even one seems impossible, but I know there is one. We all know that now. What I don’t know—and need to figure out—is what it has to do with me.
As I lie in my bed, thinking over what I know about the visions and murders, I realize that there is one more thing I know: I can’t see faces in my visions. I’m not sure why that is. I can see them in my own life, but when I fall into someone’s death, the sense that’s least reliable is vision—or maybe cognition. I grab my laptop and I try several search terms, but it’s not until I enter “face blind” that I get useful results: prosopagnosia. Basically, as I read I learn that some people can’t recognize faces, even people they see regularly and know. Prosopagnosia is either inherent, or it’s acquired from a brain injury. Although my brain injury didn’t cause me to have trouble recognizing faces in the waking world, it has in my death visions. I try a few more searches, but not surprisingly, there aren’t any articles that explain altered perceptions in death visions. The most useful information I have is that people with face blindness—prosopagnosics—have to use other characteristics to identify people. The bit that I learn isn’t much, but I’m not sure where to learn more. I can’t expect any insight from my doctor, especially as I’m not interested in sharing my new ability.
I spend a few minutes thinking about it, and then I close my laptop and start slowly working my way downstairs. Some coffee and food will help me think. At the very least, it’ll distract me from this nightmare for a few minutes. I thump into the kitchen, where I find my mother. It’s odd seeing her so determinedly domestic, but it’s also comforting. If there was ever a time when I was willing to admit to needing some extra TLC, this is it.
She puts her hands on her h*ps when she sees me and tsks. “Why didn’t you call for help? Your independent streak has to be some latent Tilling gene.”
“Says the black sheep of the Cooper clan,” I tease without thinking.
She stops moving, her hand midway to the pitcher of orange juice, and I wonder if it was wrong to try to tease her. I thought we were trying to be closer. I thought it would be okay. Hurriedly, I start, “I’m s—”
