Oblivion (Nevermore #3)

Oblivion (Nevermore #3) Page 10

Even though she hadn’t made any origami since she was Danny’s age, Isobel found that her hands still remembered every fold, and the final product took less than a minute.

“There,” she said, scooting the paper butterfly across the table to him. “Hand me another piece and I’ll show you ho—”

“Dad’s home.”

Despite the warning, she still jumped when she heard the motor for the garage door kick on.

Swallowing hard against the familiar lump that lodged in her throat like a stone every time her father came within twenty feet of her, she leaned down and hefted her book bag into the empty seat beside her. Hurriedly she began pulling out more books, surrounding herself with binders and anything else that would make her appear too absorbed to interact.

“You lost your watch, didn’t you?” Danny asked. Picking up the paper butterfly, he twirled it between his fingers. “The one I got you for Christmas. You used to keep it clipped to your backpack.”

Isobel spared a quick glance at her bag, knowing better than to act surprised he’d noticed. What didn’t he notice?

“I . . . didn’t mean to.”

He shrugged like it was no big deal, though she could tell by the knitting of his brow that it was.

“I dropped it by accident,” Isobel said, remembering how the trinket had slipped from her fingers while she’d been in the rose garden of the dreamworld. “I needed to run and . . . it fell out of my hand.”

Danny looked up, eyes narrowing.

Footsteps on the wooden stairs and the muffled sound of their father’s voice on the phone sent Isobel’s heart skipping. She forced her head down and her gaze squarely on her papers.

“She said that?” her dad asked whoever was on the other line as he approached the door.

“I knew you still remembered everything,” Danny whispered, still twirling the butterfly. “I’m not as dumb as the adults.”

I know you’re not, Isobel mouthed as their dad entered the room, a cold breeze wafting in from the garage.

“Hey, listen. I just got home,” he said, his volume dropping. “I’ll . . . have to call you back after I discuss this with my wife. Just . . . don’t do anything until then, okay?”

Isobel heard the snap of her dad’s cell, followed by the sound of the door shutting.

She frowned at the unusually abrupt way he’d ended the call, then blinked as her father set a plastic bag of Chinese food on the table between her and Danny.

“Hey, you two,” he said, actually giving Isobel’s shoulder a squeeze. “I need you both to stay here while I talk to Mom. Just . . . go ahead and eat.”

Isobel’s hand twitched, and she wanted so badly to place it over his. But her father didn’t stay long enough for that to happen. He swept from the room, dropping his keys on the long hallway table and trudging up the steps.

“Jeannine?” he called. Upstairs, the vacuum went silent.

“Wanna take bets?” Danny asked, extracting an egg roll from the yellow, smiley-face-stamped bag and aiming the fried cylinder at her.

“Bets?” Isobel murmured, wishing the fading sensation of her father’s warm, forgiving, protective squeeze could remain on her shoulder forever.

“My vote is that they’re making plans to donate you to a government study.”

Isobel scowled at her brother as he bit into his egg roll, but she knew that on some level he was right. Even if Danny had been teasing, the phone call definitely pertained to her.

3

Disillusions

Midday sunlight streamed through Trenton’s tall hall windows.

All around, lockers slammed. Girls laughed, and sneakers screeched against linoleum. Two boys shared a fist bump before splitting off in separate directions.

Isobel recognized faces and voices. Even the sensation of her own breathing.

But she knew she was in a dream. She knew it the moment she saw him.

Because she saw him.

With his back to her, he walked down the center of the crowded hall, his gait even and slow, as graceful as ever.

Unable to move or look away, she watched him while her mind scrambled to come up with an answer as to how she’d gotten here, and how real “here” actually was.

The dusty hem of his long coat swayed at his ankles. His once-black combat boots, now white with ash—as white as the crow emblazoned on the back of the coat she’d come to hate—left tread marks of soot on the floor.

Ahead of him, the other kids stepped out of his path, most without daring to give him more than a sidelong glance. Then the crowd folded around him.