Shifted [z.m au]

V. Foul Play.

◾ fo·ul play

noun:
/ foul plā /

unlawful or dishonest behavior, in particular violent crime resulting in another's death.

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I'll have to get him alone, I decided.

My parents will think I'm Zayn. They'll wonder why I am bursting in at dinner time. They'll wonder why my hair is all disheveled and my clothes torn. They'll wonder why I am so upset and out of breath.

There will be so many questions, questions, questions.

I'll drag Zayn outside. And then, I'll tell him there's been an accident.

Yes, an accident, I decided.

I won't break it to him all at once. I'll be careful and considerate. I won't just blurt out that his parents have both been murdered in their living room.

I won't tell him about the blood, the blood, the blood. I swallowed hard. Cupped my hand over my mouth as I started to retch.

I couldn't hold it back any longer. The horror I had seen was too overwhelming. Bending over at the bottom of the driveway, I vomited until my sides ached. My stomach heaved again and again, as if my whole body was trying to push away what I had seen.

My legs trembling, I sucked in one deep breath after another, uttering low moans, waiting for my stomach to stop lurching.

When I finally felt a little steadier, I made my way to the front door. I turned the knob. But it's locked.

I started to call out, "Zayn!" But I stopped myself, remembering that he was Rena now.

I rang the bell. I heard it chime once, twice, three times inside my house. But no reply.

I stumbled off the front stoop and made my way around to the back. The kitchen door was locked, too. Even though it was dinnertime, the kitchen stood dark and empty.

I knocked loudly on the kitchen door. "Anyone home? Rena—are you here?" I called.

Silence.

I pressed my forehead agaisnt the glass on the door and peered in again. No one home, I realized.

Where were they? Had they gone out for dinner?

"Zayn, where are you?" I whispered. "Zayn, you have to know what happened. I have to tell you, Zayn. I have to tell someone."

I couldn't keep it to myself much longer. I couldn't hold the horror in without exploding. Without going totally crazy.

I backed away from the kitchen door, my hands pressed to my face. I expected to feel my long, red nails pushing agaisnt my skin. But, of course I didn't have my nails. I had Zayn's short, chewed-up nails.

Picturing Zayn's parents on their living room rug, I began to feel the waves of nausea again. I knew there was nothing left to vomit up.

My mind spun widly. Who can I tell? Who? The police? How could I tell the police before I told Zayn? How could I tell them before we shifted back into our own bodies?

No, I decided. It would be too confusing. Too confusing and painful for all of us.

I won't tell the police until I've told Zayn, I told myself.

And then Harry's face flashed into my mind.

Harry. He was so smart and kind. He was my bestfriend since childhood. So thoughtful. So understanding.