Page 19 of Bound By Water
He stiffens. “You never told me his name. What’s his last name, Willa?” From the way he’s holding his head, I’m getting the feeling he knows something I don’t.
“Trent Hightower,” I murmur with a frown. “His father is Senator…”
“Thomas Hightower,” Lionel finishes for me. “Fuck. If you’re not on his radar now, you will be. The second he finds out his son is dead; he’ll use his extremely considerable power to find out who killed him.” He reaches out and grips my elbow. “Is this his truck?”
I shake my head. “Tommy’s truck.” When he raises an eyebrow, I elaborate further. “His friend and fellow football player. Big guy with a vicious right hook.” My fingers ghost along the right side of my face.
Lionel’s fingers grip my chin as he turns my head to the left. “I don’t see anything.”
“The water healed me,” I tell him, still unable to believe it. “Killed them and healed me.”
Eyes wide, Lionel’s head dips in a sharp nod. “Tell me everything that happened.”
In a shaky voice, I haltingly explain about them kidnapping and beating me. When I get to what I thought was the end of my life, my voice is barely audible. “Trent hated me. His only thought was to rid the world of my kind. Up until then, all I felt was fear and anger at my impending death. But when I got to the very end, my anger twisted into hate, and it… triggered something inside me. The water rose up and answered my call.” I finish the story with how I got out of there and what I did coming home.
“And it healed you while you were sleeping,” he repeats, shaking his head, his tone full of disbelief. “That’s a new one, but we’ll deal with it later. Let me make some calls. Ditch this truck. Get a plan together.” He points to my apartment. “Right now, I want you to stop thinking about last night and go upstairs. Shower. Pack. Whatever you can fit in one carryon and your backpack. That’s it. Leave everything else behind. Got it?”
Numb, I stare at him, wondering why we aren’t calling the police, but how do we explain the whole ‘ability to control water’ thing.
He turns me around and barks, “Go!”
My feet automatically move toward my apartment. Once inside, more tears roll down my face as I realize the impact of what all this means. The life I’d so carefully planned, the career, staying here… it’s all gone. I still can’t believe it. Two days ago, I was living a normal life. Or so I thought. Trent already had me on his radar at that point.
My mind races to recall everything he said last night, but all I get are bits and pieces. Fear must have blocked some of it out. I grab clean clothes and turn on the shower. Stepping in, I flinch when the beads hit my skin, but curiosity has me raising my palm up to catch a few drops. I stare down at the transparent liquid shimmering in my hand. I have so many questions. Why me? Trent said my father’s power was air. Why did I not get his power? How does it choose?
The roar of the truck startles me, and I quickly dump the water and wash up. Minutes later, I’m standing in my bedroom, trying to figure out what to wear. Lionel didn’t say where we’re going. My shoulder throbs, and I lightly run a finger over it. There are no cuts or anything. Stepping closer to the mirror, I pull at the skin and squint. The mark on my shoulder looks darker with more defined edges, but there doesn’t appear to be any damage. Maybe I banged it on the cliff or pulled a muscle during my escape.
Shaking it off, I walk over to the closet and pull out a tank top, a long-sleeved shirt, and a sweatshirt, then layer them with my most comfortable and worn pair of jeans. Finally, I thrust my feet into some socks and tennis shoes. Since it’s cool outside, I grab a coat. Finally, I pull down my suitcase and backpack and stuff them full with my favorite clothes, shoes, and toiletries. My whole life in two bags. Will this be my life going forward—on the run with only these items?
Opening the front door, I take a moment to stare around the small apartment that has meant so much to me for the last couple of years and bite my lip. I loved this little place. Where will I end up now? The thought pangs me with a sense of déjà vu. I wondered the same after the accident seven years ago, but Lionel jumped in and took care of me. I know he’ll do the same now.
With a heavy sigh, I close the door on the past and trudge down the stairs toward Lionel’s house. I wonder where he took the truck.
It’s not until I’m reaching for his back door that it hits me. The mark on my shoulder. When we collided that day, Trent couldn’t stop staring at it. Then, last night, he said the mark made him look into his dad’s files. I step into Lionel’s house and find him running around the house.
“Where did the truck go?”
He waves a hand. “A friend picked it up. Took it to a junkyard.”
A small blue square comes toward me, and I automatically reach up and catch it. It’s my passport.
“Are we leaving the country?” I ask with a sinking feeling in my stomach.
He waves a hand. “I don’t know yet. Once Brad gets back to me, I’ll have a better idea.” Stalking over to the cabinet, he yanks out a drawer and sticks his hand inside the hole. A second later, the hutch swings open, revealing guns, boxes of ammo, and stacks of money.
“Brad, your golfing buddy? Why would he have a plan?” I quietly ask him, the magnitude of what he’s been hiding becoming more apparent with every action he takes. “Who are you?” Lionel doesn’t answer. I point toward the bag he’s filling. “Guns. Money. I told you I killed two people, and you don’t bat an eyelash. What the hell is going on, Lionel?”
Hands on his hips, he stops, takes a deep breath, then turns to face me. “We don’t have time for me to explain everything right now. Senator Hightower is more than just a senator. He leads a team of soldiers and scientists whose main job is to capture and study people with psychic abilities. If we don’t get out of here, you’ll become his next experiment.”
I shake my head. “How do you know all this? At least tell me that part.”
His eyes study me intently for a few seconds, then he slowly raises his finger and points to the cloth napkin lying on the table in front of me. A small flame appears. Fire. He reaches over and casually picks up the burning cloth and drops it in the sink, then holds up his hand. There’s not a burn on it.
“You control fire,” my shaky voice is barely a whisper, telling him how freaked out I am.
He thrusts a hand through his grey hair. “My ability is fire, but I’m not powerful enough to do much more than flames. The military knows, but because mine is a low-level psychic ability, Hightower has never been interested in me.”
He reaches out and grabs a framed photo on the hutch. “My son, though…” His voice breaks when he says those words. “He could command fire. Masses of flames, explosions, you name it. His abilities started showing when he was a year old. We tried to teach him how to control it, but he was too young to understand. The day they died… the fire got away from him.”
