gray—a rebellion from Port Gamble’s newly enforced white interior décor edict for its historic homes. Katelyn’s animal posters had been replaced with images of wan, sad girls and ripped guys with Abercrombie abs. They were hot, hard, and probably without a single brainwave firing inside their bleached, tousled heads. Hayley and Taylor didn’t have any qualms about the way those guys looked, but like most girls in Kitsap County, they’d never seen one in the flesh.
Okay, maybe one. But Colton James wasn’t blond.
Without saying a word, they walked toward the bathroom.
Taylor knelt down next to the tub. It was a big old claw-foot, the exact same vintage as the tub in their house. It had not been re-enameled like the Ryans’, however. The surface of Katelyn’s was more cream than white, pitted in spots that made it appear dirty. Taylor could imagine Mrs. Berkley telling her daughter to “use some damn elbow grease!” when she told her to clean it.
Or was she imagining it? Sometimes she didn’t know where her thoughts came from. Other times, however, Taylor was absolutely sure they came from a source outside of herself.
Hayley left her sister alone. She was drawn toward a small desk next to Katelyn’s unmade bed. A lamp with a breaching orca as its base, some black markers, and a couple of small framed photos caught her eye, but she dismissed all of that. Even though those items had a definite personal connection with their dead friend, they didn’t beckon for her to touch them. Her fingertips were hot, moist. There was a feeling in her stomach, knotted like a bag of jump ropes, that made her feel queasy—not throwing-up sick, but the kind of feeling that comes just before the onset of the flu. She was a little light-headed too. Her heartbeat pushed inside her rib cage.
This wasn’t the first time she’d experienced being drawn to an object. Neither twin could explain the sensation or the visions that sometimes came afterward. They had little control over it.
It was Katelyn’s laptop that had lured Hayley to come closer. She drew a deep, calming breath and touched the keyboard. Nothing. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers over the screen like a blind girl might do with a book in Braille. She could feel her heart rate surge a little more. It was a peculiar feeling that had more to do with fear than excitement.
Something. She felt something. She imagined the folds of her brain tightening around something .
Taylor put her hand on her sister’s shoulder, and Hayley spun around.
“Holy crap, Tay! I hate it when you do that.”
“Then keep your eyes open. Time to get out of here.”
Hayley shook her head and felt the keyboard once more. “I’m almost there. I need just a second more.”
“Now!” Taylor said without any ambivalence in her voice.
Hayley pushed back at her sister. She didn’t want to leave. Not just then. “We can’t leave yet. I’m not ready.”
“You don’t get it, Hayley,” Taylor said, her voice rising louder, loud enough to drive the point without alerting the odd cadre of mourners downstairs. “We’re not wanted here.”
Hayley had thought the same thing, especially about Katelyn’s grandmother, but she needed more time.
“This is where Katelyn was murdered,” she said.
Taylor’s eyes widened. “Murdered?”
“That’s the feeling I’m getting. You try it.”
As Taylor nodded and braced herself, the bedroom door swung open. Both girls screamed.
“Who said you two could come up here?”
It was Katelyn’s mom, wobbling in the doorway.
“Sorry,” Taylor said, unconsciously inching back, away from her. “We just wanted to—”
Hayley interrupted her sister. “To be close to Katelyn.”
Sandra Berkley looked over at the laptop, which was still open and emitting the telltale glow that it was in use.
“Were you trying to read her private journal?” Sandra’s eyes were rheumy, and it was obvious that it was more than the effects of a mixed
Okay, maybe one. But Colton James wasn’t blond.
Without saying a word, they walked toward the bathroom.
Taylor knelt down next to the tub. It was a big old claw-foot, the exact same vintage as the tub in their house. It had not been re-enameled like the Ryans’, however. The surface of Katelyn’s was more cream than white, pitted in spots that made it appear dirty. Taylor could imagine Mrs. Berkley telling her daughter to “use some damn elbow grease!” when she told her to clean it.
Or was she imagining it? Sometimes she didn’t know where her thoughts came from. Other times, however, Taylor was absolutely sure they came from a source outside of herself.
Hayley left her sister alone. She was drawn toward a small desk next to Katelyn’s unmade bed. A lamp with a breaching orca as its base, some black markers, and a couple of small framed photos caught her eye, but she dismissed all of that. Even though those items had a definite personal connection with their dead friend, they didn’t beckon for her to touch them. Her fingertips were hot, moist. There was a feeling in her stomach, knotted like a bag of jump ropes, that made her feel queasy—not throwing-up sick, but the kind of feeling that comes just before the onset of the flu. She was a little light-headed too. Her heartbeat pushed inside her rib cage.
This wasn’t the first time she’d experienced being drawn to an object. Neither twin could explain the sensation or the visions that sometimes came afterward. They had little control over it.
It was Katelyn’s laptop that had lured Hayley to come closer. She drew a deep, calming breath and touched the keyboard. Nothing. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers over the screen like a blind girl might do with a book in Braille. She could feel her heart rate surge a little more. It was a peculiar feeling that had more to do with fear than excitement.
Something. She felt something. She imagined the folds of her brain tightening around something .
Taylor put her hand on her sister’s shoulder, and Hayley spun around.
“Holy crap, Tay! I hate it when you do that.”
“Then keep your eyes open. Time to get out of here.”
Hayley shook her head and felt the keyboard once more. “I’m almost there. I need just a second more.”
“Now!” Taylor said without any ambivalence in her voice.
Hayley pushed back at her sister. She didn’t want to leave. Not just then. “We can’t leave yet. I’m not ready.”
“You don’t get it, Hayley,” Taylor said, her voice rising louder, loud enough to drive the point without alerting the odd cadre of mourners downstairs. “We’re not wanted here.”
Hayley had thought the same thing, especially about Katelyn’s grandmother, but she needed more time.
“This is where Katelyn was murdered,” she said.
Taylor’s eyes widened. “Murdered?”
“That’s the feeling I’m getting. You try it.”
As Taylor nodded and braced herself, the bedroom door swung open. Both girls screamed.
“Who said you two could come up here?”
It was Katelyn’s mom, wobbling in the doorway.
“Sorry,” Taylor said, unconsciously inching back, away from her. “We just wanted to—”
Hayley interrupted her sister. “To be close to Katelyn.”
Sandra Berkley looked over at the laptop, which was still open and emitting the telltale glow that it was in use.
“Were you trying to read her private journal?” Sandra’s eyes were rheumy, and it was obvious that it was more than the effects of a mixed
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