Visions (Forest Secrets Book 1)

Chapter 4

My jaw cracked on a big yawn. I rubbed my hands over my face and stared at the ceiling, thinking that just yesterday, everything had seemed like it was all fun and games. But then last night happened.

            Why the hell had I said those things?!

            God damn-it!

            I pushed back the covers and swung myself off the bed. Walking to the bathroom, I grabbed the towel hanging on the door. I turned on the shower and got in.

            The ice cold jets hit me and made me shiver, covering my skin with goose bumps and reminding me of that horrible feeling from yesterday. Images from last night swam in my head as the water began to warm. My skin, though, still felt ice cold. But then a thought occurred to me.

            I shouldn’t be freaking out.

            It was just a game.

            Carter’s not going anywhere. He’s going to spend the next three months trying to get into as many girls’ pants as he possibly can.

            I snorted, realizing the truth in the statement. After all, I must have been the first girl of the summer that he’d hit on. Personally, it lifted my spirits considerably. Top ten is a pretty high ranking spot. But number one? It’s a frickin’ noble prize. I must have looked hot last night.

            I felt my lips curve into the smile from when I talked to Carter last night, minus the flirtatious part. Just plain, good old wickedness.

            It felt good.

            I finished shampooing and conditioning, and shaved my legs right after I’d used the lufa. I washed everything off, running my hands through the silky smoothness of my cleanly wet hair. It fell together down between my shoulder blades. I sighed, regretting the fact that just when the shower had become a warm blanket around me, I had to get out. To be perfectly honest, though, it wasn’t that hard of a decision, since today was the first day of summer.  

             I toweled off and got dressed quickly, leaving my hair damp as I went down the stairs, taking them two at a time and causing my combed, wet hair to sway from side to side, hitting me in the face every now and then.

            I got to the kitchen, turned the light on, and then proceeded to cook one of the breakfasts that only a person who couldn’t cook, would make: cereal. Corn flakes to be exact, with vanilla soymilk. I got out a bowl and spoon, and began to make my “masterpiece”. When my bowl was full and sloshing, I put my tools of the trade away and headed for the living room. I usually cooked with my Grandmother during the summer, but she wasn’t up yet, and I was too tired to throw together a whole breakfast when I didn’t know what time she’d be up.

            The living room was bright and open, and the soft leather couches as comfortable as ever. I leaned over and set my bowl down on the table in front of me, grabbing the remote closest, which turned out to be the right one. Score. Taking a spoonful of now softening flakes into my mouth, I turned on the TV. It was on the news channel, and their current headline stopped me in my tracks before my finger even flickered toward the channel changer.

            TEEN VIOLENTLY KIDNAPPED FROM BEDROOM

            My eyes stared, transfixed, as the newsman began reporting.

            “High School Junior, Carter Hill, disappeared from his bedroom last night,” the newsman said, his white hair seeming to have more color than his worried face. “The parents reportedly told the police that they saw Carter go upstairs, alone, and said that he had no way of getting out of the house without their knowledge. They said that they heard rough-housing, and were about to dismiss it when, while continuing to listen, heard angry voices, and their son’s cry for help, followed by a crash. The mother phoned the police while Carter’s father raced up the stairs, only to find his son gone, the window broken, and no sign of anybody in sight.

            “Policemen report a hastily whipped up blood spill and signs of a serious struggle. The police department would also like us to tell you that whoever did this is fast, dangerous, and until caught, still out there. They caution highly against involving yourself if you’re not a trained professional. Please keep an eye on your kids, and, if you can, a spare eye out there for Carter. His family would very much appreciate it, not to mention friends who know Carter. I, personally, hope we find him quickly, and find him safe…”

            I removed the spoon from my mouth, the soggy flakes still resting on my tongue, and stared, unbelievably, at the smiling picture of Carter Hill on the screen. It was his yearbook picture.

            I swallowed convulsively, raising my hand to my mouth, covering it as my face twisted into a bewildered horror. This couldn’t be happening.

            No. Carter was safe. He was at home. He wasn’t kidnapped, and tomorrow, I’d see him hitting on some other girl, who’d be laughing and falling for every one of his charms.

            He couldn’t be gone!

            My spoon clattered to the floor, and I heard a rough, pounding knock at the door.

            It took a minute before I could get my brain to signal the need to move to my legs. Everything seemed slow as I got up a walked over to the door. Every part of the room was both detailed and blurry, which, when you think about it, is impossible, but when you see it happen, completely probable. The words, “Stuff like this doesn’t happen here. Nothing happens here! Carter’s fine…” beat against the inner sides of my skull, back and forth, back and forth, like that ancient torture machine that Ms. Lancer told us about in history, the one with the swinging blade that get lower and lower, slowly cutting into you, deeper and deeper.

            Before I could tell myself to stop being so morbid, the hand pounded again, and I wondered if the trip I taken from the sofa to the door had really been as long as it felt, or if the person I was about to receive was incredibly impatient. I didn’t really want to think about why they were in such a hurry.

            I turned the knob and let the door swing a graceful arch toward me. Standing on my porch were two men, both in black suits. The one on the left looked young, early thirties most likely. He had curly strawberry-blonde hair that was almost the same color as mine, and set, smooth lines to his face that men sometimes got when they were good at serious jobs and shaved every day. He looked ready to do damage. Not in the mean, scary way, but just in the: I’m-not-someone-you-want-to-mess-with kind of way.

On the right was an older man, with wilted looking brown hair that had a dusting of gray. His face was lined and drooped in a grim expression.

The guy on the left spoke, “Are you Jenifer Lee Andrews?”

“Yes.” My gaze flickered between the two of them. Just the way his voice sounded as he said those words set off alarms.

            “I’m Detective Reeve, and this,” he pointed to the older man, “is Agent Martian. We need to talk.” He flipped out his wallet and showed me his ID card. There is was: Detective Reeve. He was a homicide and missing persons detective. Oh god.