I pop the trunk to toss my bag in. Quickly, I drop it in there and reach up for the trunk to close it.

That’s when it happens. I feel a thump on the back of my head. I open my mouth to scream, but a hand comes over it. I bite down so hard my jaw hurts, but the person holding on to me doesn’t let go.

I try dropping my weight like they tell you in street defense class. A hand on my back shoves, and I fall into my own trunk. My legs scrape against the car, and I feel like I can’t breathe from the force of the fall.

Blinking against the pain and trying to push myself out, I look up and see someone standing there. Then the trunk closes, and it’s all dark.

I’m shaking so hard that I feel like I’m going to be sick.

“Eva?”

“I saw you get shoved in a trunk,” I whisper. “I saw Nate die, and my dad, and you.”

“What? Eva, what are you talking about? You’re scaring me.” She looks over her shoulder, and I realize she’s going to call for someone.

“No!” I grab her arm. “Please . . . just take my hand. I need to know.”

My best friend is looking at me like I’ve taken a leap into the land of needing massive meds, but she doesn’t question me yet. She simply does as I ask.

I’m braced for it, ready to fall back into her death, prepared to stare at the face of the person who shoved her into a trunk. Grace’s hand touches mine—and nothing happens.

“Again,” I say desperately.

Silently, she pulls her hand away and then after a moment I reach out to touch her again. It doesn’t work. I’m still here in my own skin, not in the middle of her death. I don’t know whether to be grateful or not. The hallucinations are starting to feel too realistic and fit too much of a pattern for me to keep thinking that they’re medical or simply my fears at work in an overactive imagination.

“It’s not working,” I mutter.

“What’s not working?”

And in that moment, I make the decision. There’s no one I trust more than her. “Since the accident, when people touch me, I see their deaths,” I say.

Her mouth gapes open as I quickly fill her in on what I just saw.

She says nothing.

I stare at her face as she squats down in front of me, but despite the pain I see in her eyes, I have to keep going. “I think they may be right—the police, the newspaper. I think there’s a killer, Gracie. First me, then Micki, and then he’s going to go after you or Nate. I couldn’t see his face when he struck me. The killer, I mean. I couldn’t see it when I saw him attack you or Nate either. If I can’t see who it is, how do I stop him?”

I realize I probably sound crazier than I’d like, but right now, I can’t keep telling myself that this is a side effect or something. It feels real. If it is and I ignore it and they . . .

I don’t even finish the thought. It would destroy me.

Grace crouches down in front of me. “Are you dizzy? Headache?”

“Every day,” I admit.

Mutely, she continues studying me from where she is crouched in front of me. I know the sort of thoughts she’s probably having because I’ve had them since this started. She’s likely thinking my TBI has lingering symptoms that the doctors ought to hear. She might even be right. I am willing to admit as much, saying, “I know I had a head injury. Maybe it’s some sort of symptom. I want it to be, but . . . Tell me you’ll be careful, that you won’t walk out of the library alone, and that you’ll help me try to figure this out.”

“Of course I will,” she says. “Whatever it is, I’m here. You know that.”

I do. I can count on Grace, and she can count on me. If I’m wrong and these are hallucinations, we’ll deal with it, but if they’re not—if I’m seeing deaths before they happen—I’m going to figure it out. No one is going to hurt Grace or Nate if there’s anything I can do to save them. That alone is reason for me to see where these visions lead me.

DAY 13: “THE ADMISSION”

Grace

I REALIZE MY FACE is readable to Eva. Sometimes, I find it helpful. Right now isn’t one of those times. Eva is the closest friend I’ve ever had, and I’ll let her see my supposed death if she wants, but I don’t think it’s real. Carefully, I say, “Everything I’ve read on TBIs says that there are a lot of weird symptoms, that different patients can have widely different responses. My guess is that you have some injury to a part of your brain that’s making you think you’re seeing these things.”

“I’m not crazy, Gracie. I thought I was at first, but I think this is real.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” I correct her.

“But you don’t believe me,” she adds. It’s hard to see the hurt in Eva’s face, but we don’t lie to each other. It’s a rule between us. No matter how weird or cruel the truth is, lies are banned.

“I don’t think you’re crazy or lying. I just think there’s probably another explanation. When you say you see our deaths, does it look like we rot or fall or something? Maybe it’s an optical problem,” I suggest. “Maybe when you look at us, what you’re seeing is a distorted image from optical damage.”

Eva laughs in a way that sounds like tears are just as likely as laughter right now. “No. Not at all. It’s like I fall into someone else’s body. I feel things, and I hear them, and I know things as if I am that person, as if I’m inside of them.” She goes on to summarize experiencing a heart attack, alcohol overdose, and some sort of chronic health issue, and then adds, “It only happens if it’s skin-to-skin contact and the other person initiates it. At least that’s what I think so far. I thought I was hallucinating, but . . . it keeps happening, and it feels so real.”