Aftermath (44 page)

Then a pang of guilt sets in, and I think better of it.

Mrs. Jackson had been kind enough to let me spend most of my summer there, helping at times, or just devouring the new books. As I’m rummaging through nearly barren cabinets, my cell rings.
Putting on the Ritz
, Carlos’ ring tone, echoes through the house. I snatch it up.

“Hey Carlos. What’s up?”

“Not much. How are you feeling? I called earlier, but your mom answered. She said you were still sleeping.”

I stifle a yawn. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I don’t know what happened. Panic attack or something?”

Yesterday’s events seem so surreal; I can’t make sense of any of it. I suppose grief does weird things to the body.

“As long as you are feeling better now.” His voice is hesitant, like he’s waiting to gauge my reaction.

I cringe and drop the bag of Cheetos I’m holding, as I remember my scene at the viewing.

“Oh shit. How bad is it?”

There is a short pause at the other end of the line. “Not terrible. Though, you started quite a trend. About thirty girls threw themselves on the coffin and wept like idiots after you left.”

I sigh as relief settles into my chest, releasing the tension. “Well, I suppose that’s good at least. Better to be considered an attention whore than a lunatic, right? Any viral videos yet?”

“A few of the other girls posted pics, but none of you.”

I frown and switch the phone to my other ear.

“I can hear you frowning, Zoe.”

Now I grin. He knows me so well.

“Would you really rather be a crazy, attention-grabbing, wannabe?”

I pull open the bag and stuff a cheesy puff in my mouth, crunching on it as I answer.

“Better than being invisible. I could strip naked and ride a horse down the hall in Lady Godiva style, and no one would even notice.”

I can hear him laughing. “Oh, honey, you don’t have the figure for nudity.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks for that.”

“Well, if you’re quite done with the pity party, I could use some help picking out my back-to-school wardrobe. I’m driving to the city to hit Bloomies. Wanna join?”

“When are you going to get over your crush on the hot guy at the Bloomingdales’ counter?”

He huffs. “When he quits looking so good in a pair of slacks. Come on; don’t crap out on me. If I go alone, he will think I’m stalking him.”

“You are stalking him,” I say around another Cheeto.

“Well, yeah, but I don’t want him to
know
that I’m stalking him.”

I shake my head and take my bag of powered cheese awesomeness back to my room. “Sorry. You’ll just have to go with your plastic.”

“Fine. I will let my credit card be my guide. But you owe me one.”

“Put it on my tab,” I say, unable to keep the smile off my face as I end the call.

Brimstone, my lean, black kitty, leaps onto my desk and demands affection the way only cats can.

“Well, Brim. We both knew this day was coming. Today is the day I stay in my pajamas and do nothing but glut myself on Cheetos and read books.” I say it as if it’s the first time that it’s ever happened, rather than being a semi-regular occurrence.

She rubs her head against me, unimpressed by my slothful declaration. I grab my dog-eared copy of
The Collected Works of Edgar Allen Poe
and settle in. It’s a bit darker than what I’ve been reading lately, but it’s by far one of my favorites. As I curl into my comfy, old reading chair, Brim leaps up and curls into a ball on my lap. Soon, I’m lost in the pages. I don’t look up again until a clap of thunder shakes the house. Carefully moving Brim onto my bed, I pull back my sheer curtains. The sky is dark, and droplets of rain cover the glass.

I glance at the clock. It’s almost seven now and my stomach growls, taking advantage of the break in my reading to remind me that one can’t live on Cheetos alone. Setting my book beside the still sleeping cat, I head back to the kitchen.

The kitchen light flickers but manages to stay on. I grab the long, black flashlight from the junk drawer, just in case. A flash of light bursts through the windows over the kitchen sink, followed quickly by a roll of thunder so loud that the tiny hairs on the back of my neck jump to attention. I shiver and pour myself a glass of milk, tossing a few slices of leftover pineapple pizza onto a plate. As I turn back to my room, the light flickers again. When the flickering stops, I’m no longer alone in the kitchen. I don’t scream. I think I’m too startled for that. I can’t even draw in a breath. I’m frozen, unable to think beyond the face staring back at me. The glass and plate slip from my fingers, crashing to the floor and shattering at my bare feet. Logan stands in front of me with his hands held out.

“Don’t move,” he says urgently.

Then,
I scream.

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