Twisted Miracles Read Free

and heels, alone? I kicked through the trash collected at the base of the wall, looking for something I could use as a weapon, a bottle, a branch, anything. I came up with an empty beer bottle just as the man stepped around the side of the Dumpster.
    “Hi, Cass.”
    The bottle fell from my hand and smashed.
    I should have known. I should have figured it out as soon as my head started buzzing over breakfast. “How the hell did you know I was here?”
    “How do you think?”
    “Dammit, Shane, haven’t you heard of phones? I thought my head was going to split open in there.” I slammed my hands into his broad chest, shoving him back, shoving him away, but he caught them and held them.
    “You didn’t leave a number.” His voice had gone dangerously low. I stepped back, coming up hard against the side of the Dumpster, and he pursued me, hands still covering mine. “No address, nothing. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”
    Our gazes locked, and I went still. We both knew my number wasn’t listed. We both knew I hadn’t wanted to be found.
    My breath went shallow. It had been five years since I’d seen him, but ten times that wouldn’t have been enough for me to forget. I still remembered what it had been like to share thoughts with him as easily as breathing. I still knew his mind the way I knew the planes of his cheekbones and the café au lait color of his skin. The last night I’d spent with him went tunneling through my head before I could stop it—one hand clasping my waist, rough fingers tracing circles on my shoulder as I lay on top of him. Shane’s teeth light on my bottom lip. His eyes dilated, and I knew he could see it.
    For a moment, I thought he was about to lean in. He was that close. It would’ve been that easy. My heart pounded, but I closed my eyes and turned my head, and he dropped my hands. “Jesus, Cass.” He stepped back and ran his hands over his close-cropped black hair and down his face.
    “What are you doing here?” It was easier to look at the garbage on the ground than at him.
    “I know you don’t want to see me.” He paused long enough that I had to look up. “It’s important.”
    It finally registered that there was more in his voice than five years of anger. It took me a moment to place his emotional state amidst my own panic, but once I did, it was unmistakable. Grief. I couldn’t voice a question. I was too afraid I should be asking who was dead.
    “It’s Mina,” he said, and my heart stopped. “She’s missing.”
    His sister. It took all I had not to reach for him. Shane noticed, or maybe he read my thoughts. His lips went thin.
    “How long?” I asked.
    “Almost thirty-six hours. She went out fishing and didn’t come back.”
    Thirty-six hours with no contact. Already I suspected the worst.
    “Look,” Shane said, “you’ve got more range than the rest of us. And you were like a sister to her. Maybe you’ll pick up something I missed.”
    I sensed the hint of desperation beneath his words. For Shane to leave the search to come and find me, they must be running out of hope.
    My throat tightened with held-back tears. Mina, who’d taught me how to mindmove, how to light candles and matches from yards away. Who’d helped me sneak out of my foster parents’ house to go listen to bands in the Quarter, who’d known about my feelings for her brother almost before I had, and who’d helped me pick out a shirt for our first real date.
    Mina, whom I’d never told goodbye.
    “Okay,” I said. “Okay. I’ve just got to make an excuse to get out of here.”
    “Who’s the guy in the bar? Jackson.”
    I didn’t ask how he knew. His voice didn’t betray any emotion, but I could tell it was there. Not jealousy—more like resignation.
    “Just a friend. Coworker. It won’t be a problem.”
    Shane nodded, still expressionless, and I went back through the alley door.
    When I got to my spot at the bar, Jackson was gone, and the bartender was guarding our seats from