Touched by Death Read online

  Touched By Death

  T. L. Martin

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by T. L. Martin

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design and Interior Format by The Killion Group, Inc.

  www.thekilliongroupinc.com

  Chapter 1

  Romeo and Juliet themselves couldn't have cast Mom and Dad better if they tried. In fact, if they’d ever had the chance to meet, my parents as a young couple splayed out on their high school stage would have been pretty tight-knit with Shakespeare's tragic duo. I can envision their first conversation perfectly:

  Talli and Steve: Ah, yes. Poison, you say?

  Romeo and Juliet: Poison, yes, yes. And a dagger, too, if you can spare one?

  Talli and Steve: In the name of love? Of course!

  Romeo and Juliet: So kind, thank you. Perhaps the two of you might consider playing us on stage in the twentieth century?

  Talli and Steve: Why, we’d be honored! Even better, we may just try to outdo you two in our time!

  Romeo and Juliet: Hahaha, how swell!

  I shake my head, knuckles whitening as my grip tightens on the picture. The pair of them had set the stage all right, Mom and Dad. Even in a decades-old photograph, their love bleeds through as they lay tangled in each other’s arms.

  “Dammit, Lou,” Bobby barks, snapping me from my thoughts. My gaze trails to the weathered porch where he’s locking up the front door for me. I can hear it in his voice, the way his frustration is getting the better of him. Originally from Fort Worth, Texas, Bobby already has a heavy southern accent, but when he’s irritated it comes out extra thick. “You can’t keep ignorin’ me. Won’t you just stop and be rational about this for a second?”

  I don’t pause to look back at him as I carefully slide the picture into my back pocket. I grab the final duffel bag from beside my feet, then cram it into the bed of my packed Toyota Tacoma before fitting a blue tarp from one end to the other.

  “I’m not doing this again, Bobby.” I can’t have this conversation right now, not while I’m such an emotional wreck.

  God. Just being at the house, seeing Grams’s small vegetable garden and getting a distant glimpse of the park I used to walk her to every morning . . . A fresh, deep ache settles in my chest, cozying up in a way that tells me it’ll be there for a while. There’s a lot more to see in Los Angeles than a beaten down park, but that didn’t stop it from being one of Grams’s favorite spots.

  I suppress a groan at the memories bombarding me. Doesn’t Bobby know how hard this is already? How I’ve almost talked myself out of it time and time again? Six whole months since I broke things off with him, and today of all days is when he decides he wants to talk?

  “Lou . . .” The porch steps creak as he trudges down them. With a reluctant sigh, I finally look at him. It isn’t until then, as I watch him drag his feet along the concrete driveway, his eyes cast downward and arms dangling hopelessly at his sides, that I begin to realize just how hard this move might be hitting him.

  It doesn’t matter that it’s not his house I’m leaving, that he never could convince me to leave Grams behind and move in with him. To Bobby, seeing me walk away from this place is more of a goodbye than when I’d walked away from our relationship.

  It’s not that Bobby is a bad guy. In fact, he’s one of the good ones underneath it all. When we first got together, he was the star of the basketball team, on his way to a full scholarship before he blew out a knee senior year. I couldn’t care less about the basketball thing, it wasn’t the game that drew me to him. We’d slipped into an easy friendship the same week he’d moved here, and eventually one thing led to another. What can I say? He was new and friendless, and the loner inside of me was drawn to it. Of course, the charming, goofy side of him didn’t hurt, either.

  But five years is a long time. Things, like people, change. We aren’t in high school anymore, and I waited long enough for him to stop staring down the bottom of a beer bottle or at the TV screen.

  He approaches me, his hat a little too snug above the newly formed creases between his eyebrows. “She left you the house for a reason, Lou. Maybe your grams wanted—” I cut him off with a warning glare, and he quickly changes tactic. “Look. I just . . . I don’t know when—if I’m ever gonna see you again. And I have some things I need to say before you go.” He scratches the unshaven scruff on his chin with his thumb.

  I know it isn’t easy for him, trying to open up like this.

  What I want more than anything is to crank the engine and slam on the gas pedal, but instead, I’m patient. Leaning my left hip against the vehicle, hands tucked into the front pockets of my jeans, I listen.

  “I get it, all right? I wasn’t the best boyfriend in the world toward the end there.” I cock an eyebrow. Come on, Bobby. You can do better than that. “I fucked up, didn’t always treat you like I should’ve. But sometimes . . . well, sometimes it takes losing someone to appreciate what you really had”—I snort. He ignores it—“I’m nothin’ without you. I should’ve begged you to come back to me then, the second you walked away, but I’m here now. And I . . . shit, I need you, Lou.”

  There it is. He’s nothing without me. He needs me.

  What about what I need?

  “This move isn’t about you, Bobby,” I mutter. He’s so far out of the story he’s clear across the library, as far as I’m concerned. My right sandal taps on the concrete, revealing the irritation I’m struggling to hide from my voice. “I just—I have to get out of here. This house . . .” I swallow, the pain swelling behind my eyes again. “I can’t stay.”

  “So you move to Ventura. Santa Monica. Whatever. I’d understand that. But not clear across the damn country.”

  “I never said I was going across the country. I—I don’t know—”

  “Exactly. You don’t even know what you want,” he interrupts, kicking his voice up a notch. He starts pacing, lingering around my truck. I can smell the cheap beer on him now; it seeps off his skin, mixing with cigarette smoke, the habit he must have pic
ked back up again since the last time I saw him.

  “I know what I want,” I say. And it’s true. Kind of. I bounce my hip off the truck and maneuver my way to the driver’s seat, yanking the door open and climbing inside without a second thought.

  My throat is thick, the nostalgia heavy in my chest. Grams is gone; her home is all I have left, and even though I know I have to leave, it isn’t easy.

  “No,” Bobby says, his voice muffled by the cracked window. “What you’re doin’ is runnin’ away.”

  Trying to save face, I roll my eyes and start the engine.

  “So what?” I exclaim. I hate that tears are forming, threatening to spill over my bottom lashes. I just want to stay angry. Anger is so much easier than grief. “What’s so wrong with running away? Grams is dead. Mom’s been dead. And Dad made sure he wasn’t too far behind her.” The engine’s low hum is already beginning to soothe me, a subtle reminder of how close I am to getting away from my cursed life. “I’m so over it.”

  Things are never as simple as we make them out to be. An uneasy, cold feeling snakes up my skin at knowing my entire life is packed neatly into the back of my truck. Here I am, leaving behind the only home I’ve known, about to come face to face with the unknown, and every second that passes only expands the vulnerability building inside me.

  I brush the back of my hand under my eye, catching a tear before it falls, and shoot a final glance at Bobby. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his worn jeans, shoulders hunched forward, eyes still pleading with me. The truth is, it’s not just me who’s dodging a bullet here. We both are. One day, he’s going to get himself cleaned up. One day, he’ll remember who he used to be. And that guy, he deserves to be with someone whose whole heart burns for him. Unfortunately, that person isn’t me.

  “Goodbye, Bobby.”

  Bobby says nothing as he watches me shift the pickup into reverse and back out of the driveway. His frame is still fixed in my rearview mirror as I drive farther and farther away, but it isn’t him I’m looking at. It’s the faded blue shutters, the rectangular window beside the porch I’ll always remember looking out of, and, lastly, the ‘For Sale’ sign propped up in the front yard.

  Home.

  From the corner of my eye, I watch the faded white house until it’s small enough to fit into my pocket, and still as it shrinks into a tiny speck behind darkening grey clouds and dim streetlamps. I watch it until it disappears completely, imagining the shutters bright and blue, with Grams sitting at the breakfast nook at the other end of that window, waving me farewell with one wrinkled hand and sipping the cup of tea in the other.

  I hardly notice the tears as they slide down my cheeks, though I taste the saltiness between my lips.

  “Goodbye, Grams,” I whisper.

  One hotel stay and way too much caffeine later, heavy rain pelts my windshield, giving my worn wipers hardly a fighting chance. I narrow my eyes at the dark skies. Of course I’ve driven straight into a storm. How poetic. My thumb taps the steering wheel as my mind races. I still haven’t fully convinced myself I’m really doing this. A single destination looms in the back of my mind, and I know nothing of the place except that it’s the town Grams was born and raised in. Mom was born there too, but she was still a young girl when Grams uprooted their lives to LA.

  I keep my foot on the gas and my vehicle heading east.

  I know Bobby’s right. I am running away. I’m also being irrational and spontaneous—two words I’d never have associated myself with just two weeks ago. Is it really so wrong of me, though?

  I have no ties.

  No family.

  No goals.

  Hmph. I give my head a shake.

  I never thought I’d wind up like this, twenty-two years old and still no concept of what I’m doing with my life. All my friends have gone off to college, pursued a career in the industry, or gotten married and started families of their own. Even Jamie—my free-spirited, party-till-you-drop, I’m-never-settling-down-for-anyone lifelong friend—just had baby number two last spring. She still refuses to get legally married because, in her words, no piece of paper is going to tell people how much she loves Daniel, but they’re as good as hitched.

  Bobby and I never even talked about marriage. He brought it up once while completely wasted on his twentieth birthday, but it’s easy to brush something like that off when you know he won’t even remember it the next day. Fine by me—just because my legs are a little longer now and he can finally grow a full beard doesn’t mean we aren’t still kids, underneath it all.

  Besides, I always had Grams to take care of. Cooking her meals, taking her out daily to stretch her joints, helping her bathe and dress. My kind of life is the simple kind—or it was—but I didn’t mind. Not when she sacrificed so much to raise me on her own. It felt good to return the favor, being the one to look after her for a change. Even if she did argue with me about it and insist I deserved more, that was just Grams, always thinking of everyone else.

  A burst of lightning reflects in my side mirror before striking the ground loud enough to make my fingers dig into the steering wheel. Pools of water flood the long, narrow bridge I’ve just veered onto, and I let off the gas to prevent hydroplaning.

  The permeating sounds are nothing new to me; Grams and I sat beneath plenty of storms while relaxing to old movies and sipping hot cocoa by the fireplace. I swallow, my lungs tightening as seeds of doubt seep into my mind. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. Bobby may be Bobby, but at least he was safe. Familiar. I wasn’t alone. Right now, with the howling winds tugging against the body of my truck and the cackling thunder only growing with each turn of my tires, I have never felt so aware of how alone and lost I really am in this vast, empty shell of a world.

  I barely recognize it when it strikes—white and blue streaks of lightning shoot down from the sky, hitting an enormous tree at the opposite end of the bridge. The ear-splitting crack reverberates throughout my head. Eyes squeezing shut from the pain, my foot slams on the brake and my left hand reaches up to block one ear.

  That’s all it takes for the truck to spin out.

  My eyes snap toward the window, breath hitching in my chest as my surroundings blur into obscure clouds of darkness.

  A collision against the parapet slams my head back into the seat. With a smash and a crack, the windshield shatters. Pain shoots through my left shoulder; the vague sensation of warm blood trickles down my skin. My stomach burns as the seatbelt tightens around me, pulling all of my focus to the truck’s sudden halt. I’m frozen, vehicle midair, staring straight at the sky with my back pressed against the seat. As the truck teeters in place, a terrifying creak filling my eardrums, I know.

  I’m halfway off the bridge.

  Hair whips around my face as the whirling wind pours into the broken window. Rain smacks against my skin. Dammit, Lou. Think! My phone, I need to call for help. Ever so slowly, I unbuckle my seatbelt. I know the rules of the situation I’m in. Seen it enough in the movies: move, vehicle slips, fall to your death. Inhaling a shaky breath, I turn toward the passenger seat. The phone’s silver casing glints against the leather. Just . . . a little . . . further . . .

  CREAK.

  Freeze. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. There’s some kind of lake below; I’d glimpsed enough of it earlier to know it’s enormous. A fresh sliver of terror slides up my spine, climbing into my throat and squeezing my insides as I try to stop shaking enough to form a cohesive thought.

  Then I drop.

  A scream escapes my throat, disappearing in the harsh wind. I lean my upper body out of the shattered window just before my skin slaps against the chilling waters. The storm has the lake in a howling frenzy, and my truck is yanked away from me.

  I choke back another wave of terror, kicking hard and throwing my head back to keep my mouth above the surface.

  The water’s push and pull is stronger than I’d anticipated, too strong, sucking me down and sending my body every direction but up. Lungs closing, I force my m
outh open for air, but only icy water fills my throat. I swing my arms and push my legs to get my head back to the surface. Just a foot or so away from my face now, I can see it—even skimming the fresh air with the tips of my fingers a few times. Air. I need air. The ache in my lungs is stretching into a fiery burn.

  The thunder drifts, distancing itself as I sink farther and farther, watching the bubbles from my last breath rise. My body convulses, each constriction of my lungs mocking me.

  The burning dissolves, and soon all feeling abandons my body. I plummet into a world of darkness.

  Chapter 2

  Dark eyes. Dark hair.

  It’s a shadow. No, a man. An angel?

  It’s coming closer, floating, steadily closing the gap of blue-black water between us. The silhouette becomes clearer, revealing the definite form of a man. The edges of his large frame are blurred, almost convincing enough to be a dream. Still, I know the truth.

  I’m dying . . . if I’m not already dead.

  I can feel my life wasting away with each second, disconnecting me from my frozen heart. Something’s tugging at me, calling my name. A magnetic force trying to yank me away from my body.

  The closer he gets, the stronger the pull.

  I don’t know why I fight it—after everything I’ve lost, everyone who’s already left and won’t be waiting for me to come back. Still, I tug, twist, and writhe, struggling to free myself from the mental hold he has over me.

  He’s too strong; I’m a tiny puff of smoke going up against a wall of stone. Though hardness masks the man himself, there’s a vibrating warmth in his pull. The invisible thread roping me toward him may as well be made of sunlight. It’s a sweet, sugary sensation, reminding me of the comforting caress I used to feel as a child, when Grams would tuck me in and stroke my hair.

  I want to be wrapped up inside it and coddled, lulled into a blissful sleep.

  He’s here, right in front of me, heat radiating from his body to mine. His eyes—cloudy pools of grey and black—finally meet mine. I don’t care that the irises are cold, empty. There’s something enchanting on the outskirts that beckons me.