Read Online Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) by Courtney Cook Hopp - Free Book Online Page B

balance. Quentin reached out to steady me, but I pulled away, working to control the wave of tears threatening to escape. “You can’t say it.”
    “I need an explanation.” His tone was chilling, his face a mask of intimidation. “Now!”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “The lost girl in the dark routine is getting old, CeeCee,” he hissed, taking a step closer. “What kind of game are you playing at? People are dead.”
    He was searching my face for an answer, but I had none. No answer racing through my mind seemed remotely plausible.
    The rain continued its assault on the roof and filled the painful quiet.
    Moments.
    Ticking.
    He pointed to the newspaper lying accusingly on the art table. “How were you able to see that shooting before it happened?”
    “I already told you, what I saw was too fuzzy,” I sputtered. “They were shadows acting out a play with no lights or sounds. It could have been anyone.”
    “Which means, it could have been the Tates.”
    “Oh, no.” I recoiled from his words. “THAT is not even remotely possible. That is something that only happens in teen vampire novels.”
    “I’ve known you for what, a month? And it has already happen three times. Three times you’ve nearly passed out from seeing random visions.”
    “They. Are. NOT. VISIONS.” I was unwilling to venture down this slippery slope of possibility.
    “How do you know?”
    “Because nothing like this ever happened before I met you,” I said as I grasped onto my thin accusations of last night. “It’s you. Maybe you’re the one causing this to happen to me.”
    “You do not want to mess with me.” His tone turned deadly. My heart threatened to thump out of my chest. “I moved to Seattle to get away from idiots and lies, and crap like this. The last thing I need is your fucking mind trip.”
    “Me? Mess with YOU? No one asked you to come here today,” I spit out defensively, backing toward the window. “No one asked you to lie to my dad. Or, invite me on the art walk. Or heap your stupid opinions on me at the SAM. That. Was. All. YOU!”
    “What the hell are you doing to me?” The words were barely audible as he pushed both his hands through the dark waves of his hair. I wasn’t even certain they were meant for me. With renewed vigor, his eyes darkened and pierced through me. “From the moment I saw you staring all teary eyed at those Picasso women, I knew something was off. Every instinct told me to ignore you and your strange, not normal . . .I don’t know what.” His hands flailed the air in front of him. “But every time I did, a hard, nagging feeling of dread took over, leaving me overwhelmed with the need to check on you.”
    Hurt by his words I knew as truth, “strange, not normal,” my throat strangled my voice silent. There was no way to recap this spinning bottle of truth.
    I dropped down on the bench seat in the window and pulled my legs up tight against my chest. I leaned my head against the glass, streaks of rain sliding past my eyes, rolling time forward. I wanted it to stop. To run backward. To erase the art walk, the alley, the images from my mind. To erase the warmth I felt sitting next to Quentin on the ferry.
    “Are you psychic?” he asked, interrupting my thoughts. “Can you read minds?”
    “No.” I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the question.
    “Can you see into the past?” There was an edge to the question.
    “No,” I whispered under my breath. I rested my chin on my knees, my arms wrapped tight around my legs in an attempt to keep them from extending and running out the door.
    “Are you sure this has never happened before the night at the SAM?”
    I nodded my head yes, too drained to say anything more. Too scared I might break down. I would not cry. I would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he got to me.
    “Does anyone else know about this?”
    Something inside me snapped. “No. No. And no. I can’t read minds. I can’t see the past