Read Online Touching the Surface by Kimberly Sabatini - Free Book Online Page B

utter kryptonite—rendering all my best snarky retorts useless in his presence. My brain rattled around like a squeaky hamster wheel. I closed my mouth for fear of drooling and giving him more ammunition.
    “I imagine you’re wondering what I’m doing up here,” he said, as his fat fingers molested the fuzzy blanket tossed over the end of my bed. He plucked one of Julia’s cranes, sending it flying into the limbo space between my bed and the wall. I could feel cold sweat pooling in very unattractive places.
    “Mel asked me to check on you since she’s busy spending time with Trevor. You remember Trevor?”
    “Trevor and Mel are together?” I choked out the words.
    When I looked up, David’s bushy mustache could barely disguise a smirk. The twinkle in his eyes showed how much he enjoyed my distress.
    I stared at him but found myself sliding backward toward the headboard of my bed, bracing myself for his next verbal attack. I didn’t have to wait long.
    “You seem confused, Miss Turner. Did you expect her to come and corection. ̶

12

    still
waters
run deep
    I’d killed Oliver. But then there was Trevor. I hadn’t made the connection until now: two boys were dead from one family. Thinking about it caused my stomach to twist and knot.
    I pinched myself, forcing my mind to focus on something else besides the horror film in my head. Taking a deep breath I glanced around once more. David had disappeared, but the overpowering scent of his cologne lingered, polluting my safe haven. It didn’t really matter. The truth was that no place was safe anymore. I hightailed it to the stairs.
    Common sense dictated that I couldn’t hide from any of this, but my feet seemed to have other ideas. I walked down to the water and followed the shoreline away from the Haven, Mel’s Workshop, and the smell of David.
    I was gagging on my guilt as I headed for the lake. I needed to escape, get out of my own head. I seriously thought about taking up drinking, but I was already too aware of how revealing my sober bursts of emotional creativity could be. Drinking at the Obmil could cause quite a show. I didn’t want to be a sloppy mess. As it was, I could barely meet the eyes of the people who’d Delved with me.
    I plodded forward. The soft, sandy beach was getting progressively rockier. Before I knew it, I was climbing boulders and hugging sheer rock walls. Sweat dripped from my brow, and my thoughts narrowed to a pinpoint of focus. My palm stung from gripping a knife-sharp handhold.
    I tried to increase my speed and slammed my knee into the wall of granite. I could feel a bruise rising to the surface. I let out a hiss and rubbed the tender spot. I’d have to concentrate more in order to move forward safely. A chuckle escaped at the thought. “Hello, dummy, you’re dead and can’t be injured.” I said it aloud to myself. Old habits die hard. The living are wired for self-preservation and I’d never been able to shake those instincts over the course of my visits.
    Once when I’d been eighty-year-old Arty, I was goofing around, trying to make silly faces at a child who wasn’t?mime=image/jpg" width="3suunderstand interested in eating her dinner. In the middle of my theatrics, I tipped over my glass and it shattered on the floor. In thescramble to pick up the broken pieces, I’d sliced open the palm of my hand. Blood oozed through my fingers. Spots danced across my vision. Just as I began to panic, Mel asked me to stop for a moment and picture the wound healed. The image was in my head no more than a few seconds before the cut and the blood were gone. I asked her what would have happened if I hadn’t pictured myself fixed. Would I have sat there bleeding and suffering forever?
    She’d laughed, assuring me that the process was automatic and would kick in by itself. We simply had the capacity to hasten our own ability to be healed.
    A sigh escaped from my lips. I could create weather and buildings. I could make the world around me