“What’s your gift?” the woman persists.
“Gift?” Pastor Linton’s eyes narrow, and he glances at Dad.
My father grips my upper arms so tightly, I wince. “I think you’d all better go now,” he declares. “My family owns this business, and we have the right to refuse service to anyone. You aren’t welcome here.”
The pretty blond man laughs, lazily getting to his feet. “I’ve been kicked out of shittier places. Come on. We got what we came for.” He grabs the hand of the tattooed woman, and she follows him to the BMW.
Past Dad’s shoulder, I catch the eye of the blond woman. She’s still staring at me, like she sees right down to the screaming, howling, tempest-torn core of my spirit.
“Daisy,” says the brown-haired man softly, laying a hand on her arm. With a final sympathetic glance in my direction, she goes with him to the Rivian, and both cars glide out of the parking lot and disappear down the road.
Dad squeezes my arms until I whimper, then shoves me away. “Get inside, Cathy.”
As the side door closes behind me, I hear Pastor Linton say, “Bob, we need to talk.”
Shit. He heard what that girl said about my gift. Heknows. All these years of cleverly hiding the secret, and now…now it’s just out.Naked. Exposed. And that can only mean trouble for me.
“Who were those people?” Aunt Nellie calls across the store, handing off a bag to a customer.
“Five-minute break,” I gasp in response.
I cut through the storage room and out the back doors of the building. That blond’s voice set my skin crawling again, and so soon after my last episode, too. But there’s no name or fate or vision attached to the sensation—just a relentless scrabbling and squirming right under my skin, wriggling through my flesh. I hope it subsides. If not, I might have to fuck Edgar Linton on our first date, just to get some relief.
I walk quickly, cutting across the gravel area behind the store, hurrying through the grass into the belt of trees beyond. I’m not sure why trees are such a refuge for me. There’s something steady and sheltering about them—something that sings to the core of what I am—the long-lost daughter of a green isle far away, descendant of the wild gods who once walked the world.
Breaking into a half sob, I run until I find a tall maple. I embrace it, press my forehead to it, scrape my bruised arms against its gray bark as if that will relieve my torment.
In the rustling quiet of the woods, someone speaks. “Don’t be afraid.”
At the words, I yelp and spin around, my back to the tree.
The tall, serious man who drove the Rivian is pacing cautiously toward me, one hand extended. The pale golden light of the autumn afternoon shimmers through the leafless trees, glinting in his brown hair and glancing off a thick silver bracelet on his wrist.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says quietly. “Daisy asked me to give you her phone number. She would have come to you herself, but she didn’t want her voice to affect you again.”
I see it now, the slip of folded paper between two of his fingers.“Why does she want me to have her number?”
“Because you’re one of us—or something similar. I don’t know your situation, but it seems like you could use someone to talk to. If not now, then later. Please take it. Text Daisy anytime.” He hesitates, puckering his lips briefly. “I’ve always had trouble asking for help. I like to do things on my own. But sometimes you need other people around you, people who get what you’re going through.”
“Like any of you could understand,” I whisper. Angry tears pool in my eyes, but I’m not really mad at him, just mad at everything—mad at my curse, at my dad, at the unpredictability of my life.
He shrugs. “Maybe we can’t understand. But we can listen. Daisy’s a great listener.” He smiles, affection in his eyes. He loves her.
For some reason that gives me enough courage to reach out and pluck the paper from between his fingers. “Fine. But you should go. My dad always has a gun in his car, and he’ll use it if he sees you out here.”
Instead of looking alarmed, the man flashes a grin. His canines are unusually long and sharp. “I’d like to see him try. Listen, if you hear of anything strange going on—monsters in the woods, people being attacked by something mysterious, disturbances at Old Sheldon Church—text or call, would you?”
“So now I’m your informant? I thought you wanted to help me.”
“Who said help can’t be reciprocal? Take care, Cathy.”
“What’s your name?” I ask as he’s turning away.
He turns back, giving me a smile that warms me right down to my bones. “I’m Jay Gatsby.”
Then he’s off, running through the forest at a pace that would astonish an Olympic track star.
I’m physically shaken and my legs are wobbling, so after a second, I sit right down in the crunchy fall leaves, trying to understand whatjust happened.
