Free HIGHWATER: a suspense thriller you won't be able to put down by T. J. Brearton Page A

both hands again. He pointed the muzzle at the ceiling. As Tom advanced, Christopher retreated. They moved back into the kitchen like this.
    “How do you know about that night? What has it got to do with you? Who have you been talking to?”
    “I know about the things you see, Tom. The ideas you have that you don’t like. You followed me tonight because I remind you. I remind you of what you could’ve done, what you should’ve done, and what you never let go of.”
    Tom stood still.
    “It’s hard, keeping an open mind,” the kid said softly. “Doesn’t take long before the system can grind you down. Most things are incidental; most things have a simple, easy explanation behind them. People are predictable. They get drunk, they get in fights or wreck cars. They have weapons in the home; someone gets shot accidentally. They’re poor, they squabble over petty things. They’re wealthy, they squabble over petty things. People are simple. Sex and money is near the heart of everything, and the core itself, is that everyone is afraid of dying.”
    Christopher’s words had drained him. He’d said more than he’d said in the entire time they’d been together. Tom felt like a bomb diffused. The kid was still talking. The lookout was still burning. What in the hell was going on?
    “Energy can only go from usable to unusable. When an organism stops taking in energy, it dies. That is the law of entropy, the law of thermodynamics, the law of the universe. The only possible way to resurrect is to go back to the source, through time, through space, and be re-made. That’s all I know. Look, come here and look.”
    Probably a gang , Tom thought, his autopilot switched on again. Another one of these Goth things, with witchcraft and séances and black magic at its core. Only this time there was more than role-playing cards and Ouija boards and tattooing involved . This time they’ve gone after me personally. Gone through my personal things, somehow gained access to my private life. This time . . .
    This time there was a kid burning, with little comets shooting off him in spirals and dying out in the snow out on the lawn. He was fireworks.
    “Here, take one of these. I’ll keep the other for now.”
    Christopher had something in his hands. Tom had no idea exactly when the kid had grabbed them down from the top of the hutch by the cabinets, next to the phone, but he had one in each hand. They were drinking glasses Stephanie had left behind, ones that had fancy patterns — they looked like prisms, like glasses that had been smashed and glued back together in a stylish way. “Crystal,” Stephanie had called them.
    “So what’s happening to him ,” said Tom referring to the burning kid, numbly playing along. “He going back to the source?”
    Christopher held one of the crystal glasses out to Tom. The kid stood there, his brow furrowed, making him look apologetic. Tom realized the odor of the kid had evolved from stale to mountain-air, from a cloistered scent to a nostalgic blend of childhood days, snowball fights, and ice forts.
    “No,” said Christopher. “I think he’s being taken by the other side of things. We’ll try and ease his pain.”
    “What’re you doing with those?”
    Christopher said nothing. Instead he held the glass out closer to Tom’s reach. Tom almost started to say how they couldn’t take Steph’s good crystal, but stopped himself. Saying that, for some reason, would threaten to break him right on the spot, would at last make all that was happening too real or too unbearable, or both. Instead, he reached out and took the glass.
    “Where does your water come from?”
    “It’s well-water,” said Tom.
    It made him think again of the kid who’d placed the call from the convenience store.
    “Good,” Christopher said. “Fill it up.”
    Tom was starting to get it. He looked at the kid with a raised eyebrow in return. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
    * * *
    The garage smelled of oil and