Page 82 of A Winding Wave of Magic
“What?” I snapped. “What do you ‘suspect?’”
Jonathan’s sigh seemed to deflate his entire body. “The man who killed Penny is my father.”
My throat was suddenly parched and turning inside out. I coughed, hacking out my surprise.
“Did you know?”
“Did I know what?”
“Don’t play dumb, Jonathan. Did you know the killer might have been your father? Before I showed you, I mean?”
“I—”
I didn’t let him finish speaking before I sprang again across the couch to grab him—any part of him—to See the answer to my question. He dodged out of reach, but not before my fingers grazed his shoulder. I toppled over the back of the couch and landed on the floor, an awkward pile of arms and legs. Jonathan watched warily from the other side of the kitchen island as I sat up, rubbing my head.
His normal poker face was etched with guilt from what he undoubtedly knew I had Seen in his thoughts.
Yes, he had known from the moment I showed him those memories last night. He might not have been able to identify the killer directly, but he had known of the potential even before arriving here. Why he was masquerading as Gran’s friend was beyond me, but somehow he had gotten into her good graces enough to understand her secrets. Secrets that, as far as I knew, were the reasons why the shadowed man—Jonathan’sfather, I realized again with a punch in the gut—would have wanted her dead.
“Get out,” I said as I got up from the floor, trying for quiet menace, but once again unable to conceal the telltale quiver of my voice that wouldnotbe hidden.
“Please, Cass, I’m not trying to trick you. I didn’t know it until now. I had no idea who it was until you showed me that vision last night.”
“Bullshit. You had some idea. I just Saw it.”
“Cassandra—”
“Your father kills my grandmother, and you suddenly show up?” I rattled on. “You’re somehow best friends with the woman your closest kin wanted dead? Just how naïve do you think I am?”
I was on my feet and running around the kitchen island before I even knew what I was doing. I grabbed one of the steak knives out of the wood block next to the stove and held it in front of me, keeping the island between us as Jonathan placed his hands carefully on the counter.
“Please, let’s just take a moment?—”
“Get out, Jonathan.” I waved the knife around even knowing he could turn the steel edge into a noodle.
There was a loud snort. “Believe me, it takes a bit more than a knife to threaten me.”
I scowled at the knife, then tossed it on the counter with the clatter. “I said get out!”
“Cassandra, really.”
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” I roared as I raced around the island and shoved him squarely in the chest.
A crack of lighting soared across the sky just above the horizon, and a clap of thunder answered with a boom that shook the house. Rain began to fall, the drops hitting the roof like nails on a tin can, deafening our voices, our breaths, even our thoughts.
I’d Seen his condescension and fear when I had shoved him, but it was all replaced by shock when Jonathan’s limbs obeyed my command. He turned on shoeless heels, opened the front door, and directly into a puddle in the middle of the driveway, standing in half an inch of muddy water in just his socks.
There he looked over his shoulder at me, kiwi-colored eyes wide and disbelieving.
Go, I thought.
It wouldn’t work. Not without direct contact. But nonetheless, he didn’t try to come back. Instead, Jonathan shook his head with something between fear and respect, then got into his car and drove away. I picked up his boots and jacket, still drying on the front porch, and hurled them onto the gravel after him.
A cold line of sweat had broken out over my brow as I closed the door. I slumped onto the rough floorboards and buried my head in my arms, shutting my eyes against the lights of the living room and the storm brewing outside and the confusion taking over my thoughts.
Another bolt of lightning lit up the sky, followed by another bout of thunder rumbling in the distance like it too had been banished by my touch.
It was a reminder of what I’d just done, breaking the cardinal rule of every good seer. I’d turned a mind against itself.
