Okay, well, if he wants to stand there, that’s fine. Bob goes from quiet to barking his head off instantaneously, desperately trying to drive Nico away with the sheer power of sound. I scold him to be quiet, and hedoesstop barking, but doesn’t calm down, still glaring at Nico from his perch on my bed.
Goddamn. Bob doesn’t even hate Dylan this much.
Nico doesn’t seem bothered by it, not moving from his position in the doorway. I back up until I hit the edge of the bed and sit down, then sip the soup. It’s heavenly. Warm and salty and exactly what my body needs right now.
“What happened today,” Nico says, “wasn’t normal.”
I lower the mug, wrapping both hands around it like it can protect me from whatever he’s about to say. “I kind of figured that out.”
“I think you can make neural connections not only to entities, but also to bodies,” he says. “To all energy left behind.”
The soup suddenly feels like eating straight heavy cream. “Does that mean I’m going to feel every murder victim’s pain whenever I get near a body?”
“Possibly.” His shoulder shifts against the door frame. “You’re more sensitive than anyone we’ve ever had on the team.More sensitive than anybody Donny has ever met. I want to find a way to dull your sensitivity when you go into the field. Until we understand exactly what you can do and how to control it.”
My whole body goes tense. “Dull it how?”
“I could rig something to make you less vulnerable to picking up things you’re not trying to pick up.” His fingers drum against his arm. “I’ve never dealt with someone who picks up this much unintentionally, so I don’t know exactly what would work.”
“Don’t dull anything,” I say. “We wouldn’t know about the taxi lead if I hadn’t?—”
“I know.” His voice is firm, but not unkind. “Donny doesn’t want anything to happen to you.”
The words hit me sideways. I focus on the steam rising from the soup because crying in front of Nico would be the cherry on top of this already humiliating day. Donny caring more about what happens to me than about what I can do makes me want to do everything I can to be useful to him.
“I can’t learn how to control anything if it’s dulled,” I say, leaning forward. “If you block what I feel, how am I supposed to learn what I can really sense?”
He narrows his eyes. “Youwantto expose yourself to other people’s pain?”
“The Game Master is out there now, and this—whatever this thing is that I can do—could help us find him.”
He studies me. Maybe he’s trying to figure out if I actually believe what I’m saying or if I’m trying to prove something. Honestly? I’m not sure myself.
There’s no way to undo what’s already been done to my brain. It was bad enough knowing I was going to see dead people for the rest of my life, but this? Experiencing every victim’s pain, feeling what it’s like to be tortured and killed, for the chance of tracking down their murderer? That will be myjob?
I close my eyes against the burning sensation building behind them, reaching under the sleeve of my hoodie to draw back the hair tie. The sting from the elastic sends a tingle all the way into the tip of my middle finger.
Bob has people here who would take care of him. Donny seems to like him, anyway. Donny would probably do a better job keeping him safe and happy. I could take my car and disappear. Do what I couldn’t finish before. Third time’s the charm, isn’t that what they say?
The thought wraps around me like a weighted blanket, and a lump forms in my throat. Not because I’m scared of dying. I’m not. I’m scared of how easy it would be. I can almostseethem waiting for me. Mom with her gentle hands and her nurse voice that made me feel like I could do anything. Rosie bouncing on her toes, pigtails swinging, waving at me to hurry up already. Dad with his arms open wide, ready to scoop me up the same way he did when I was little, telling me, ‘It’s okay, princess, you did well.’
Dad told me to never give up, but I’m so tired of fighting all the time. So tired of waking up every day and having to convince myself that being alive is worth it when I can’t even figure out what I’m supposed to be doing here, and things are different now. Would Dad really want me to live a life filled with so much pain?
A tear slides down my cheek. I swipe at it fast.
Nico’s quiet for a long time. Here it comes. The part where he reminds me exactly how far down the totem pole I am and how my opinions and abilities don’t actually matter.
“I killed myself when I was seventeen,” he says.
He pushes off the door frame and steps fully into the room. My hand flies out to comfort Bob, desperately hoping he does nothing to ruin this moment.
“Swallowed pills,” he continues, his voice as level as Dr. Kimura’s. “Was dead for four minutes before they brought me back in the hospital.”
I try desperately to think of a good thing to say, but I don’t know what. ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t enough. ‘Me too’ feels like I’m making this about myself when he just told me something so personal.
“At least doing this job, something good can come out of all the bad,” Nico says. “It doesn’t fix what happened to me, but it does mean my pain wasn’t for nothing.”
I nod, putting the mug on the nightstand because I’m not hungry anymore.
