Be the Death of Me Read online

  And to my surprise, she laughs. “No, its fine,” she says, placing her head back in the crook of my neck. “In fact, you should tell her that the next time you’re there. Olivia always loved being the best. She was so smart, you know? Focused. Not like me. The only thing I was best at was being a total screw up.”

  “Come on, Billie. Don’t say that.”

  “It’s the truth. I was never the sort of girl who deluded herself into thinking she would make history or change the world. I just wanted . . . to be. I wanted to be happy and show love. I wanted everything they have, Austin and Maya and Olivia. Everything you have to look forward to. College. Marriage. Kids. I know you think things would be easier if all of this went away, and you were like me, but you’re wrong, Ford. I’ve had four years of being nothing more than a fly on the wall. I watch people. I see them. I see their faces, their bodies, the laugh lines at the corners of their eyes, the bruises, the holes in their shoes. And what hits me the hardest is that no matter how down or dejected they seem, sooner or later they smile. Always. And you will too, I promise. There are days coming when you will laugh and feel and love. And when those days come, all of this will seem like nothing. Tuck. Me. We’ll be nothing. And that’s how it should be.”

  I’m startled by the sudden appearance of wetness on my cheek; the single, salty tear coursing its way down my face. It rolls silently off my chin and onto my T–shirt, leaving a tiny drop of moisture as the only sign it ever existed.

  It’s then I realize what the tear means, why it’s there. It’s because, for the first time, Billie is incapable of doing something for herself. I’m the one helping her. So in the silence and darkness of my bedroom, with a ghost on my shoulder and my heart the slightest bit broken, I cry for us both.

  “Pansy,” she whispers.

  I wipe the dampness away, chuckling against the heartache. “Sorry.”

  “For what?” she asks. “I’m here. You’re there. Things are what they are.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Maybe.” The light she casts bounces a shadow against the opposing wall. “Or maybe it’s easier to tell myself that, because if I didn’t . . . you’d probably already be dead. Just like the others.”

  The macabre response frightens me. “Others?”

  Billie climbs to her feet. “It’s not important,” she says, refusing to elaborate any further. Our moment of unguarded hearts and minds has passed, and we’re back to our uneasy cease fire, a friendship balancing on the head of a pin over a strange and murky pit. “You should get some sleep.”

  I pick myself off the floor, my back popping embarrassingly with the sudden movement. “I’m not tired.”

  “These,” she laughs, turning to face me as I reach my feet, “beg to differ.” Delicate fingers reach for my face, tracing beneath both eyes, first right, then left, tenderly outlining what I’m sure are two identical shadows of fatigue. Her gentle touch isn’t romantic. It isn’t charged by sexual tension. It isn’t anything but what I need it to be. Instinctively, almost as if acting with a mind of its own, my cheek leans into the softness of her hand. She curves her small palm to fit the shape of my face, sliding her thumb over the crest of my cheekbone, exploring the hollows beneath my eyes.

  “Well, isn’t this cozy?”

  The voice crashes around us, far too loud for our solitude.

  “Tucker.” I offer him a cold welcome, feeling Billie’s hand slide quickly from my face. What is it with this guy? It’s like his brain is equipped with radar designed specifically for ruining what few moments of happiness I have in this life.

  “How’s it going?” he asks cheerfully. Too cheerfully. He saunters forward, hands clasped behind his back. A wicked grin dances across his face.

  It’s Billie who answers. “Good,” she says, still a bit startled. “It’s good. We’re good. Separately, of course. I’m good. Ford’s good. Everyone’s good.”

  “Nice cover,” I hiss as she springs forward to join her partner by the door.

  “We were just talking,” she continues, helpless. ‘But it’s late now. Ford should probably get some sleep, don’t you think?”

  One eyebrow lifts in suspicion. “Talking?” Tucker steps forward. A challenge. “What were you guys talking about?”

  “Nothing,” I say quickly. “The weather.”

  His face turns expressionless, any pretense of a smile gone. He turns his icy gaze on the girl at his side, eyes roaming the contours of her face, searching for the truth.

  Billie draws back from his intense stare. “What?” she glares up at him from under her lashes. Typical Billie stubbornness. It almost makes me laugh. Even when she’s the one caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar, she still refuses to back down.

  “Nothing,” Tucker says with borderline contempt. “Don’t mind me. Just trying to keep Ford alive.” He turns to me, eyes expectant.

  “Yeah . . . great.” I’m lost in my own thoughts and unsure as to what turn our conversation has taken. “I’m sorry. What were we talking about again?”

  “The weather,” Tucker supplies.

  “Right. The weather. Well, there’s supposed to be a cold front moving in across Cincinnati this weekend, and thunderstorms over Dallas.”

  Billie pinches the bridge of her nose, using her hand to cover an emerging grin as Tucker takes a step in my direction.

  “Don’t test me, Ford,” he says. “Because I promise you’ll regret it.”

  “If you want to hit me that badly, just do it already.”

  “You really want me to hit you?”

  “Not particularly, but if you’re set on it, there’s probably nothing I can do to stop you. And I do want to point out that it might actually be in your best interest to hear us out before you get on with the whole rendering me unconscious thing. We really were just talking. I swear. So why don’t you calm down, pal, before you say something you’ll end up regretting?”

  “I’m not your pal,” he whispers through an icy sneer. “Truth is, if protecting you didn’t go hand–in–hand with protecting Billie, I’d probably let whoever’s trying to kill you take their best shot.”

  The room grows deathly quiet, save for the persistent, unyielding wind outside.

  Billie turns slowly to face her partner, revolving like a ballerina in a child’s music box. “Protecting Billie?” she repeats with narrowed eyes and an inquisitive tilt of her head. Her hair falls in blonde and white ripples over her neck and shoulders. “Why would I need protecting, Tuck?”

  “You don’t,” he says, but even I can tell he’s being dishonest. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just being stupid.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Billie says.

  “It’s nothing, okay?” he grumbles, sweeping to the side in a blur of blue–gray light.

  Billie’s faster. She whirls on him, placing a hand to his chest, preventing him from taking one step further. “No,” she says, a hint of anger in her voice. “Tell me, Tuck.”

  Coward. I watch him continually avert his gaze to keep from having to look her in the eyes. He concentrates on staring at a spot over her head, his thick eyebrows drawing together.

  “Tell me,” she growls at him.

  “Let it go, Billie. Forget it.”

  “Tell me, Tucker!” He balks at the sound of his true name on her lips. “What are you protecting me from?”

  Tucker’s jaw looks tight enough to break. “From yourself! Okay? I’m protecting you from you. Happy now?”

  I observe, silent, forever a spectator. Billie frowns in confusion. “Why would I need protecting from myself?”

  “Because,” he says as if explaining something to a child. “Given your history as a Guardian . . . I shouldn’t even be telling you this! Given your history, the Elders have decided this is your last chance.”

  “I know that already. Cap told me. But how bad could it be?”

  “You don’t get it.”

  “So why don’t you explain it to me?”
r />   “If Ford dies . . .” Tucker’s eyes finally lock with hers. “. . . they’ll take you.”

  I have no clue what his words mean. I don’t know why Billie’s history is important or what being taken is. What I do understand, however, is the look of absolute, unspeakable terror that washes over her face. Her eyes drift out of focus, seeing the unseen. Her mouth falls open as she turns from Tucker, moving to the window to keep either of us from seeing any more of her fear.

  “Billie,” he and I say at the same time, both taking a single, determined step toward our lovely tormentor. Tucker looks at me, though his expression is free of the loathing he exhibited earlier. Oh, the disdain is still there, but almost entirely obscured by something more pressing, more important than whatever rivalry we’ve created.

  “Go,” I mouth, relenting with a silent nod of my head.

  He does without a second’s hesitation or backward glance, moving in a blur of light to be at her side. He rests his hands on the windowsill while she remains perfectly still, unmoving in the gray glow of the night. The pair of them shine white beneath the sliver of moon, and from my place across the room, I catch snippets of their hushed conversation, the comforting words he bends to whisper in her ear.

  “Don’t worry, Billie. Ford’s not going to . . . .”

  “How could Cap?”

  “I know . . .”

  “I didn’t think . . .”

  “I won’t let anything . . .”

  “. . . not fair . . .”

  “. . . I promise.”

  I can’t help but imagine what I would have told her if I were in his place. What could I have possibly said to comfort her? How could I help her when I don’t even understand what she’s afraid of? My throat closes in on itself as I watch Tucker place a reassuring hand on her shoulder, as I watch her lean against him, as I watch his fingers linger in the strands of her shimmering hair. I suddenly feel achingly, unbearably alone, and I can’t help but envy Tucker for his undying affection for the girl he loves. I wish I had someone to make promises to, someone to fight for, to protect instead of always being the one in need.

  Reluctantly, I slump to the floor, sliding my back along the supporting wall. As I let my head drop in exhaustion, I catch sight of something I hadn’t noticed right away, a plain, beige folder, stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey, resting unobtrusively at the base of my bookcase. It’s filled with papers, the edges curved in on itself, trying its best to hold in the contents. Across the top is a familiar string of words, printed in thick, black ink.

  “What’s this?” I ask, reaching for the folder. But the paper is a blur, sliding across the floor and into Tucker’s outstretched hand, drawn to him like a magnet.

  “It’s nothing,” he barks.

  “Well, it has my name on it.”

  “It’s your file.”

  “My file?”

  “His file?” Billie says from the window, her face changing from masked fear to outright incredulity. “His complete file?”

  Tucker nods. “Didn’t I say I wouldn’t let anything happen to you?” he gives her a modest grin.

  She smiles back. “Yeah. I guess you did.”

  “That’s swell and all,” I point out, not sorry about interrupting their magical moment. “But what’s the big deal? It’s just a file.”

  Billie shakes her iridescent head. “No . . . I mean, yes. I mean, it’s not just any file. It’s your complete file. Your history. Everything from the moment of your birth up to now.”

  “So what?” I say, still not understanding. “I thought you guys were given information on me when you started the job.”

  “Not like this. This isn’t just basic contact info. When I say it’s everything from your birth to now, I mean now. If we were to open that folder, this conversation would be written on the last page. It isn’t just who, or why, or what,” she goes on, clearly excited. “It’s the what–if’s. It’s the missed encounters, the butterfly effects. It’s every thought you’ve ever had, or the thoughts you’ve thought about having, every word, every blink, every drop of sweat. Everything.”

  “That’s . . . that’s . . .” I stammer, completely horrified, “. . . impossible.”

  “You’re talking to two dead people, and this is the part you have a hard time wrapping your head around?” Tucker rolls his eyes.

  “Go easy on him, Tuck,” Billie says. Her wry smirk is back in place, a perfect cover for the panic and fear I see buried in her eyes. “I didn’t believe it was possible either the first time I heard about it. Speaking of which . . .” she cocks an eyebrow, “. . . how did you get it anyway? Because I know the Elders didn’t just give it to you with a handshake and a, ‘Go get ‘em, tiger.’ So that means . . .” she pauses for dramatic effect, “. . . you stole it.” I’ve never seen Billie’s smile look quite so brilliant. “I’m so proud,” she beams up at Tucker. “My little boy’s all grown up and stealing from authority figures.”

  “I didn’t steal it,” he laughs. “The Captain gave it to me.”

  “Liar!”

  “I’m not lying! He said it was a gift.”

  Her eyebrows raise skeptically. “Really?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “So what does it mean?” I ask, growing more impatient and irritable by the second. “How do we use it?”

  “We search, plain and simple,” Tuck says. “This may give us a clue as to who’s trying to kill you. It won’t tell us directly. You don’t know, so the file won’t tell us outright. But if we dig, we might be able to figure it out.”

  I hate to admit it, but the idea isn’t half bad. “Okay,” I say, rubbing my hands together, “let’s get to work then. We can split the file into thirds.”

  “Actually,” Billie derails my runaway train of enthusiasm, “I’m not sure you should see it. I mean, it’s probably not a good idea. All the things that could have been if you’d just done something a little differently? A person could go crazy thinking about that.”

  Of course. The one time I may get some insight, and I’m shot down. “So I don’t get to help?”

  They’re both silent, eyes shifting uncomfortably until Billie speaks a second later. “I’m trying to think of a way to say no without hurting your feelings.”

  “I’ll say it,” Tucker bounds into the conversation. “No. You’re supposed to sit there while Billie and I do the work. If we have a question, we’ll ask you. Other than that, there’s really nothing for you to do. So go to sleep.”

  “Yeah, right. Like I could sleep now.” I fluff a pillow between my back and the headboard. “I can’t believe you’re investigating me now.”

  Tucker and Billie claim the wall across from the bed. “We’re only doing this to keep you alive,” he says. “There’s really nothing to worry about. Unless, of course, you’re hiding something from us.”

  “I don’t have anything to hide,” I say. “Just ask, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Name, Benedict Bartholomew Ford. Age, seventeen. Height, six feet. Birthday, September twenty–fourth. Favorite color, green.”

  “Boxers, not briefs,” Billie says with a sly wink.

  “I think we’ve gotten off track somewhere,” Tucker mumbles. “Now if you don’t mind,” he addresses me with a hurried glance, “Billie and I have a lot of work to do.”

  I grit my teeth, but stay silent. It doesn’t help matters, watching the pair of them sink to the floor, sitting close, smiling as they open the folder and begin rifling through its contents. The glowing numbers on my alarm clock flicker as they change, morphing into new digits as the seemingly unending hours pass. They work through the night while I try my best to stay awake, counting sheep, counting the cracks in the ceiling, counting anything I can think of. Occasionally one of them asks a random question, the answers to which get them nowhere and only succeed in keeping me from dozing off. I catch minutes of sleep, and by the time a thin shaft of morning light breaks through the curtains, I’m more exhausted than I was when the never–ending
night began.

  “Find anything interesting?” I mumble incoherently, tipping drowsily to one side.

  “Depends on what you mean by interesting,” Tucker says. “Other than a particularly amusing anecdote about your first kiss, it’s been pretty slow going.”

  Billie giggles into her hand. “How did you manage to get your braces caught in her hair?”

  I flush red. Maybe Billie was right. Maybe I shouldn’t read my own file, because if I could, I would definitely like to know how that moment could have gone better.

  “Oh, and this bit here.” Tucker clears his throat and pulls out several sheets of white, loose–leaf paper, splaying the pages in front of his face like a Chinese fan. “This part about your dad.”

  I’m abruptly, painfully awake. “What about him?” My voice comes out strangely flat. Every muscle in my body tenses. My hands, resting complacently in my lap, are white at the knuckles.

  Tucker looks up at me, his expression blank. “Was he really shot to death in a gas station parking lot?”

  “Tuck!” Billie reprimands from her place on the floor.

  He cocks his head innocently to the side. “What?” he asks, not taking his eyes from my face. “I’m just reading what it says. Marshall Clayton Ford, age thirty–nine, shot by one Milo Kastanellos, who was later apprehended. One witness, Benedict Bartholomew Ford, son, age eleven.”

  I remain frozen, held in place, too angry or afraid to even breathe. For the first time in years, red, blistering hatred pulses its way through my veins, a fury I’ve tried to push far behind me, to leave in the past. Hatred for Tucker, for his callousness, for Milo Kastanellos and for everything he took from me. I’m almost sickened by its return. Disgusted, yes, but the revulsion only covers so much. Revulsion. Rage.

  What comes next?

  Tucker

  If looks could kill . . .

  The tired cliché pops to the forefront of my mind the instant I meet Ford’s cold stare with one of my own. If looks could kill, they would do little to change my current situation. Still, the way he stares at me, I can’t help but imagine that maybe Ford wishes he could have been the one to put me here. I know throwing the past at him was a bit below the belt, but it’s not like the guy hasn’t taken a few cheap shots of his own. Every moment he spends alone with Billie is like a sucker punch to the gut. Every smile she shows him, every laugh, every inside joke or touch of the hand, those all hurt more than any comment about his father ever could.