Inevitable

Chapter 1

The smell always hits me first.

I noticed it right when I opened the office door, and I paused. It was a lemony smell, like walking through a citrus grove. Growing up in New Jersey, I didn't know much about citrus groves, but I was sure that's what it would smell like. Every time I smelled the lemons, I knew death was in the air.

Mr. Harris looked up and gave me a smile over his dark brown glasses. I made eye-contact with his forehead, a survival technique I mastered years ago. The aroma rolled off him in waves, overpowering the scent of his black leather chair. "Ms.—" he glanced down at my resume on the mahogany desk. "Lockwood. Please come in."

I swallowed and stepped inside, the wooden door behind me closing with a swish. Just don't look into his eyes. My palms felt sweaty, and I was glad I wore a black blazer over my white button-up shirt. Clutching my spiral notebook to my chest, I sat in the chair across from him. My eyes dropped to my polished black heels. I spent a lot of my time studying shoes. Looking at the ground was safer than looking at faces.

"Thank you for showing interest in our internship position, Ms. Lockwood." Mr. Harris's voice was kind, and I knew he thought I was nervous. Little did he know that if I met his eyes, I would See his death. Lucky me. "I notice from your resume that you write the sports column at your high school. You go to Lacey Township High?"

I gave a nod. "That's right." How could I escape this? There was no point in continuing. My interest in the internship position at Lacey Patch, the online news column for Lacey Township, had vanished. I examined his desk, determined to avoid eye contact. My gaze landed on a picture of Stephen, wearing his navy blue and white lacrosse jersey. My stomach plummeted even further. Harris. I'd forgotten about his promotion to editor-in-chief. I clenched my fingers. Great. Not only was a vision of this man's death taunting me just out of eye contact, but he was the father of my ex.

He must've noticed my stare, because his fingers closed around the photograph. "You covered the lacrosse team extensively in your column. You even mentioned my son a few times. Do you know Stephen?"

Did I know Stephen? I was embarrassed he had to ask. I happened to know Mr. Harris had a small affinity to his Scotch, and that was probably why he didn't remember the night Stephen had brought me over after Jessica's pool party.

Not that I remembered much from that night, either. It was the same party where Stephen hooked up with Jessica—the little hoochie—and still had the gall to take me to his house afterwards. To Mr. Harris's credit, we'd only met briefly, saying hello as Stephen pulled me up the stairs to his room.

“Ms. Lockwood?”

Oh, right. He wanted to know if I knew his son. "Sure, sure." I looked over his shoulder, out the window. Clouds floated lazily by, and the branches of an oak tree with pink blossoms waved at me. "Everyone knows Stephen."

"I've looked over your writing samples, and they are very precise. Yet you manage to insert your voice nicely. Would you be comfortable venturing outside of sports?"

I jerked my head up. "Oh, no. I couldn't." Stop talking. Stop talking. Drop your eyes.

Too late.

The vision started as soon as our eyes met. I melted into his soul, becoming, for a brief moment, Ben Harris. Images flashed through my head of Mr. Harris with his wife, photographing Stephen in front of the mantle with his prom date. Even locked in the vision, I couldn't help feeling a stab of jealousy at the sight of the beautiful blond.

Wait. That wasn't Jessica.

The vision continued, sucking me back into Ben's mind. An ambulance, a white hospital room. A funeral. My heart clenched with the pain of the death of Ben's wife, Abigail Harris. Abigail was dead, and Stephen blamed his father, turning into a moody, rebellious teenage boy. I couldn't bear the guilt, the anger, the sorrow that suffocated me.