Free Deadly Little Lies by Laurie Faria Stolarz Page B

mean, comas, dead-girl shrines, and death threats? It can all be such a downer.”
    “So what are you going to do?” Kimmie asks me.
    I shake my head since I honestly don’t know.
    “I think you should tell your parents,” she says. “Or go to the police.”
    “Even though Matt’s in Louisiana?”
    “Wait, is that a rhetorical question?” she asks.
    I nibble my lip, wishing I could just talk to Ben about everything, that he would touch my hand, and tell me whether or not I need to be worried. “Maybe you guys are right.” I gaze out at Debbie on the court. She stands at the free-throw line, dribbling the ball. The smacking sound of rubber against wood makes my head ache. She finally shoots, but misses.
    “Poor girl.” Kimmie shakes her head.
    “I think she still blames Ben,” I say. “You should have seen the way she looked at him in the hallway the other day.”
    “Didn’t someone catch her up to the facts after the coma?” Kimmie asks. “That her dumb-ass friends wanted her to think she was doomed. That they’re the ones responsible for her so-called stalking.”
    “Maybe it doesn’t matter,” I say. “Maybe some people will believe whatever they want, regardless of facts.”
    “Well, all I know is that when all that drama went down last fall, she did go to the police,” Wes says. “And look at what happened to her.”
    “I know,” I whisper.
    “So maybe you should wait,” he continues. “I mean, what are you going to tell the police anyway? That first you were hearing voices in your basement? And now someone’s pranking your house? They’ll give you a straitjacket and then tell you to call them when something big happens.”
    “Except if I were you,” Kimmie says, “I wouldn’t wait around for something as big as getting abducted again.”
    “Agreed,” Wes says. “Better to do something pre -kidnapping. Maybe right around the time when the stalker in question leaves a dead rodent in your mailbox.”
    “Not funny,” I tell them.
    “Who’s laughing?” Kimmie’s eyes grow wide. The jet-black shadow shading her lids accentuates her pale blue eyes. “I’m really starting to worry about you.”
    Wes snatches the newspaper clipping from Kimmie and drops it into my lap. “Why not give some of this stuff to Ben and have him touch it?”
    “Good idea,” Kimmie says.
    “But he’ll probably refuse,” I sigh. “Just like he refused to touch the note I got in the bathroom.”
    “Because it was sticky?” Wes makes a face.
    “Because the note held my energy,” I explain, resisting the urge to bean him on the head with one of the runaway basketballs.
    “And he’d rather you be in danger than get himself involved?” Kimmie asks.
    “Wow, that’s harsh,” Wes says.
    “But it’s also obviously true,” I say. “Except he doesn’t believe I’m in danger. He thinks the note from the bathroom was a joke.”
    “Have you talked to him about the whole touch-powers-being-transferred possibility?” Kimmie asks.
    I nod. “And the answer was negative.”
    Kimmie shakes her head, clearly disappointed. “So then, how do you explain the swordfish sculpture?”
    “Have you been to Finz recently?” Wes asks. “Maybe you saw the swordfish logo and just forgot about it.”
    I nod again, thinking how it was just a couple nights ago, when I went on that walk with Ben, that we ended up on Columbus Street. Is it possible that the image subconsciously stuck with me somehow?
    “Well, seafood aside, you need to do something. And sooner rather than later.” Kimmie flares out the skirt of her baby-doll dress and smooths out her leggings, commenting to Wes that his tight black jeans look rather leggingish as well. “You know I’m all for vintage,” she tells him, “but that greaser 1950s look is all wrong for you.”
    “Thanks, but I’ve had enough fashion advice from my dad for one day.”
    “He’s not into the James Dean look for you either?”
    “He’s not into my look period .