Page 84 of Kill Me Again: Psychics

“Baxter,” Lake warned.

I understood what he was trying to say. There were still things we needed to know. I couldn’t afford to lose my temper yet.

“Things were good at first,” my mother said.

“At first?”

“It turned out the baby wasn’t his. He wanted it to be, but that didn’t make it true. They had a blazing row. She left. He changed after that.”

“Changed how?” Lake asked.

“He withdrew. Sometimes he’d call in sick to work and stay in his room for days at a time. He refused to talk about the past, but we got the impression it wasn’t pleasant.”

“He got meaner,” my father added. “He used our thoughts against us.”

So that explained how they’d learned to block me.

“He blamed us for being taken,” my father continued.

“We don’t know that,” my mother said quickly. “He never said it.” Her fingers tightened around her mug. “But he never said he didn’t either.”

“When he moved to Scotland for work,” my father said, “it was a relief. No more dealing with mood swings. No more treading on eggshells.”

Lake’s hand fell from my back as I sat forward, coffee be damned. “Where is he now?”

They stared at me blankly. My father folded his newspaper. “Scotland. We just said.”

I shook my head. “Not anymore. He’s back in London.”

“We need to know where to find him,” Lake said, urgency creeping into his voice. “So anything you can tell us… hangouts, friends he might be staying with, ex-girlfriends, old jobs… anything.”

“You’ll probably get a visit from the police,” I added. “They’ll be asking the same questions.”

My mother blinked. “The police?”

“I already told you he was the one who stabbed me nineteen years ago.” I held up a hand as she opened her mouth. “I know you don’t believe me. You’ve made that clear. That doesn’t change what happened. And last night, he tried to kill Jamie. You remember Jamie, right? Much as you tried to ignore his existence back then.”

They nodded stiffly.

My father frowned. “Let’s say we believed you, why would he attack Jamie?”

“Because we saw each other last week,” I said. “And he was probably watching.” A part of me recognized how crazy it sounded. It wasn’t, though; it was all true. I felt it to my core. “He intended it as a message. And before you tell me that’s ridiculous, tell me who else looks and sounds like me, but is older.”

My mother shook her head. “This is… it’s all too…” Her words failed her, and she looked smaller and more fragile than I’d ever seen her.

“Help us out here,” I urged. “Tell us how to find him. For his sake and mine. He’s not well, and he needs help. If we can find him, we can make sure he gets that before something terrible happens.” Like him finding me first. “He must have been in contact.”

“He hasn’t,” my father said. “We thought he was still in Scotland.”

I studied their faces, searching for tells instead of thoughts. I didn’t see any.

“When was the last time you heard from him?” Lake asked. “A month? Six months? A year? A frame of reference would be useful.”

They exchanged another look. “He sent you a birthday card,” my mother said.

My father nodded. “He did. But it didn’t have a return address or anything useful.”

A loud knock cut through the room. My mother frowned and stood, Lake and I both following suit. “That’ll be the police,” I said.