Page 72 of Kill Me Again: Psychics

Chapter Twenty-six

Baxter

Jamie’s house was dark and silent. I’d made a half-hearted attempt to stop Lake from coming with me, but hadn’t put up much of a fight when he’d insisted. Standing there now, surrounded by shadows and a hundred potential hiding places along the residential street, I was grateful he was with me. It was harder to sneak up on two people, right? At least that’s what I kept telling myself.

We stood across the road, surveillance seeming like the sensible first step. Only, I wasn’t entirely sure what we were supposed to be looking for.

“No lights on,” Lake said.

“No.”

“No movement.”

I shook my head.

“So, what now?”

I pulled out my phone and called Jamie. I’d already tried three times on the way over. Like every other attempt, it went straight to voicemail.

“Maybe we should call the police,” Lake suggested, eyes still fixed on the house.

“And say what?”

“Tell me again exactly what he said.”

“That someone told him to call me. He didn’t say who. He didn’t say why. Just that he had to.”

“And he sounded scared?”

“Not just scared,” I said quietly. “Terrified.”

“Maybe he was on something,” Lake offered. “Drugs. A bad trip.”

“I don’t think so.” And neither did he. I could hear the lack of conviction in his voice.

I stepped forward, intent on crossing the street. Lake caught my arm and hauled me back. “What are you doing?”

“We have to check.”

“What if it’s a trap?”

“Then I'll find out who’s doing this,” I said. “Someone’s been playing with me—the calls, the man outside my flat. I want to know who it is.” I tugged my arm free. “You can stay here if you want.”

“I’m coming with you.”

It was impressive how someone could sound both fiercely protective and deeply annoyed at the same time.

I stopped in front of the door, my heart pounding. Lake shot me a questioning look, and I mimed listening for thoughts inside. He nodded, somehow understanding my terrible mime. Lake’s thoughts bled into mine: worry about how this would end, with a bit of history thrown in to make him feel better because it was Lake. Florence Nightingale, this time. I had no idea what she had to do with anything. Fainter still were the thoughts of a neighbor who’d just gotten up to use the bathroom and was wondering what exactly their cat got from following them and supervising.

That was it.

No thoughts came from within.

“Nothing,” I whispered.

Lake pushed the door. It swung open easily, both of us staring into the dark abyss of the hallway. I’d been braver when I was dead. When escape was as simple as stepping through a wall, fear had little room to breathe. And it wasn’t like you could lose a life you didn’t have. Drawing on what resolve I could, I stepped inside. After a slight hesitation, Lake followed.

I jumped when a bright beam lit the floor ahead of us. Lake shrugged apologetically, his phone held out in front of him. “Sorry.”