Page 8 of Twisted Shadows
“Don’t say it.” Reece pulled the gift basket closer. “Ooh, gelatin-free gummy bears.”
“And this is the problem, right here,” said Jamey. “No, I don’t trust Parson anymore, but I trust Grayson even less. He’s sending housewarming gifts when I know he’d slap handcuffs on Reece again without hesitation.”
“Maybe we should be glad about that,” Reece said pointedly, meeting her eyes as he pulled the gummy bears out of the basket.
It had been just Jamey and Reece for years, until Jamey had started dating Liam. He’d gotten a crash course inputting up with your girlfriend’s high-strung empath half brother, but unlike any of her prior boyfriends, he’d accepted their weird, messy world—and become part of it. He was Jamey’s confidant now; knew all about her enhanced strength and senses, her innate resistance to empathy.
But Liam didn’t have any of those defenses. Reece wanted to believe that even if he became fully corrupted, he would still never hurt Liam, but how could he know for sure? He needed Grayson between him and the world, willing to do whatever it took to protect Liam and others from Reece.
He frowned harder than he probably needed to at the gummy bears, still sealed away in their packaging, which slipped uselessly against his gloves.
Liam gestured at his hands. “You know I don’t care about the gloves, right? You don’t have to wear them just because I’m here.”
“What if I trip and accidentally touch you without them?” Reece said. “I would know every single thing you’re feeling.”
Liam shrugged. “I think it would bother you more than me.”
Not a lie. Reece frowned. “How?”
“I’m really into your sister.”
Jamey laughed and leaned in to kiss Liam as Reece groaned. “You two are so gross.”
There was no response, because they werestill kissing.
“Oh my God, getout,” said Reece. “Thank you for carrying my stuff, now go slobber on each other somewhere else.”
The studio felt very empty after they’d left. Reece pulled off his gloves, tossing them on the kitchen counter before grabbing the basket and carrying it over to the couch. Outside the rain-streaked windows, the nearby buildings were shiny black against the wet, gray afternoon. He needed to start unpacking, but instead he pulled out his phone.
If you need me, call me, Grayson had texted, when he’d left Seattle three weeks ago.
Any reason?Reece had asked.
Any reason.
Reece was taking him at his word and texting him daily. Maybe it was weird, and a little bit pathetic, but the Dead Man wasn’t the bogeyman anymore; these days, he was the only thing that seemed to make Reece feel better.
But as he unlocked his phone, he found he had an email: a single line from a gibberish address.
We’re watching you.
Reece frowned. Threats and hate mail didn’t usually make it to him. People tried to send them, he knew that much, but Jamey routinely added all kinds of filters to his accounts to screen it out. But someone had gotten through to his email address to send this; maybe a reader of theEyes on Empathsblog—their whole schtick was, after all, that they had theireyes on empaths—or maybe it was still fallout from having his face plastered all over the news the day Hathaway died.
It was a shame that people got so worked up about empaths; Reece was way too familiar these days with how bad stress was for your body. If the sender of the email had used a real email address, he had lots of good websites for meditation and mindfulness he could have shared.
As he went to hit Delete on the email, Grayson’s voice echoed in his mind, words he’d once said from the passenger seat in Reece’s car as they’d driven to a coffeehouse.
If anyone’s ever bothering you, you should tell me about it.
Reece paused. Then he shook his head. Even Grayson probably couldn’t find this person so that Reece could recommend a therapist.
He opened his texts, but just sent a quick message instead.
Reece: Gift basket?
He kept his ears open for any sounds of people around, maybe footsteps overhead or a voice in the hall, as he settled into the couch. But beyond the occasional honk or shout from outside, it was quiet, like the high-rise’s residents were at work—like he was in a building with normal people who could keep a job, who weren’t just anxious, unemployable pains-in-the-ass.
Reece set his phone on the coffee table and picked up the remote, opening his favorite streaming service on Liam’s television, the one that had recommendations tailored for empaths. Actors faking recorded emotions paled in comparison to the real thing, but at least it would be noise. He flipped through shows, letting the previews play.
