--XIII--

We were dismissed early. Cars came and go as worried parents fetched their kids. But not me.

I was left at the empty parking lot waiting for Dad. All the while, I was staring at my wrist watch. Like doing so would make Dad's truck magically appear out of nowhere.

It was ten past five. As uncaring as he was, it wasn't Dad's nature to forget his obligations. Maybe he had really lost his mind. It was so selfish of him to lose it at this point and leave me alone to figure out things on my own.

Cursing, I made my way to the road and started to head home. A yellow vehicle screeched to a halt in front of me, nearly running me over.

A vein pulsed violently on my forehead. I knew fairly well who drove that damned thing.

"What the hell!" I screamed, pounding the hood with my fist. With that, I heard a snap and I was pretty sure that it wasn't the hood that broke. "Crap!"

My middle and ring fingers were twisted the wrong way.

I heard Vincent yell a couple of curses as he got off his Cruiser. In exasperation, he ruffled his dark hair with his hand.

The unbearable pain had me doubling over in the sidewalk that I didn't even have the energy to argue with him.

He approached me and gently took my injured hand. I was so startled that I wasn't even able to hit him back or yell at him. Instead, I just stood there stupidly.

"Does it hurt?" he grunted, examining my hand which was maybe his peculiar way of saying "I'm sorry."

Sadly, it didn't work for me.

"My fingers are bent in all the wrong directions. Of course it hurt!"

It was unbelievable how thick he could sometimes get. Instead of arguing with me, he shrugged off his long sleeved shirt—I mean the outer shirt, duh—and ripped a long piece off of it.

"What are you doing?" I demanded.

Vincent didn't answer. He just towed me to the Cruiser and helped me up into the front seat. Then he started to bind the long piece of striped cloth that used to be his shirt around my hand like a bandage.

I didn't know what came over me. I didn't even give him a fight and sat there like a limp doll, staring at him as he intently dressed my injured hand.

He looked so different when he wasn't angry or being annoying.

"This is going to hurt more," he murmured, momentarily lifting his gaze to my face.

Instantly, I shifted my eyes to the dashboard, managing a bitter smirk. "Yeah, no kidding."

I heard my fingers snap. Excruciating pain shot up from my fingers to my arms, then to my temples. My vision momentarily darkened. I tried to tug my hand from Vincent's grip but he didn't let go of it.

"Let go!" I pleaded and he finally unhanded me.

When I looked at my fingers, they were back to their normal alignment. They were sore and painful but I guess I would live to see another day. I was contemplating on thanking Vincent for fixing my fingers when suddenly, his baritone voice echoed throughout the empty parking lot.

"You're such an idiot, you know that?" Vincent yelled angrily, kicking the front tire so hard that the whole Cruiser shook. "You think you're so invincible, don't you? So what's next? You'd bang your head on a brick wall?"

He cursed under his breath, his shoulders shuddering with anger.

My jaw almost dropped in amazement.

What a quick change of disposition.

"I... I should be the one throwing a fit right now, don't you think? You almost killed me there!" I retorted a bit unconvincingly.

He let out a snigger that rang of sarcasm.

"Kill you? Me? I'm the one working my butt off to keep you al—" With a gentle shake of his head, he opened his mouth, hesitated then slammed the Cruiser's door shut, cursing as he did.

Without another word, he got into the driver's seat. We spent the next few minutes in silence while he tried to calm himself down.

"I'll drive you home," he finally muttered, sullenly staring at the wheel.

I didn't bother responding to that. Instead, I kept clenching my teeth to keep my mouth shut. I was done arguing with him.

Moments later, we were speeding on the highway, most probably a few notches above the speed limit. But I didn't argue about that either.

Vincent is the most despicable, obnoxious, loathsome... Ugh! I can't even think of a word that suits him.

Sadly, as much as I wanted to make him pay, my eyes were already misty. A lump surged into my throat and I was afraid that I would end up crying if I poured my seething rage on him. I contented myself, watching the stretch of autumn brown and red pass by the window until we reached my neighborhood.

I was about to demand an explanation about the explosion earlier in school. But I almost jumped out of my seat when I saw a couple of old women in black standing in front of a familiar house.

"Stop!" I frantically yelled at Vincent.

The vehicle slowed down to a stop a couple of houses away from the Thomases' front yard.

"What now?" He threw me a scowl.

There were several cars parked on the side of the road. A gray Toyota slowed and parked just in front of us. A tall guy in black suit came out of the car and headed to the front door where a stout, old lady with grayish-white hair and puffy eyes received him with a hug.

I was sure it was Mrs. Thomas. She wore a black dress with tons of ruffles and a black veil on her face. There were tears on her eyes as she parted with the tall guy in black suit.

"My condolences," he said before entering.

"Wait here," I said to Vincent, zipping up the black jacket I was wearing, secretly glad I somehow accidentally dressed for the occasion.

"W-wait! Where do you think you're going?" he said, catching up with me as I marched along the sidewalk.

I noticed he was wearing a black shirt, his chiseled chest somewhat noticeable. But it wasn't like I was looking or anything.

I gulped. "You're in black. Good."

With that note, I grabbed his sleeve with my good hand and dragged him with me to the house. I knocked on the door, half-expecting it to open by itself like it did a few nights ago.

"Yes?" Mrs. Thomas opened the door for us. "How can I help you?"

Clearing my throat, I exchanged meaningful looks with Vincent. "I'm Aramis Rayne. I live a couple of blocks from here. I... I—"

"We're acquaintances of your husband," said Vincent immediately when he realized that I already swallowed my tongue.

Acting had never been my forte.

Without further ado, Vincent took the old lady's hand with the sincerest façade. "We're so sorry for your loss."

He was so believable. I think my mouth gaped as I watched him. I had no idea how he knew who died but it was a good impromptu. After all, it was a small town. Everyone knew everyone.

Brushing a tear from her cheek, Mrs. Thomas nodded and let us in. "He's right there." She eyed on a bronze urn sitting beside a portrait of Mr. Thomas on a mural table, adorned with ribbons and white flowers.

Vincent approached the mural and stood in front of it for a while. There was a grave look on his face that made me wonder if he was really acting.

"He died the other day," Mrs. Thompson said.

I patted her shoulder as she wept for a while.

Just like Lindsay had said—after a visit from the people in black, someone died. But who were those people? A cult, maybe?

"H-how did he die?" I watched more old people go to see the urn.

"I was going to wake him up that morning. But he wasn't breathing anymore. I tried CPR, but I was too late. When we rushed him to the hospital, the doctor said he was already gone," her voice shook, a couple of tears falling from her grayish-green eyes.

Nodding, I pulled a table napkin from the buffet table and handed it to her. I wanted to say something. Anything. But nothing seemed appropriate. I was never good at being all emotional and consoling. All I could do was rub her back and feel awkward.

Mrs. Thomas patted her cheek with the napkin. "Heart Attack... Who could have known? I really thought he just overslept because he was up until late at night going on and on about black ghosts trying to take him."

My eyes widened. "Black ghosts?"

"Yes," she answered. "I didn't believe him, of course. Thought it was just dementia. Roger is really old."

I just about swallowed my tongue as a million questions fell in line inside my head. "D-did he say why these black ghosts were after him?"

The old lady shook her head. "No. Just that they were here to take him to a better place. Roger said they were spirits of his mother and Grandmamma fetching him."

All I could say was, "Maybe, he really is in a better place now."

"How long have you known Roger?" Mrs. Thomas asked.

I tried to think of something but my mind went blank. Did I mention that lying wasn't my forte either?

Right on cue, Vincent joined in our conversation. I threw him an urgent look that said help!

"Mrs. Thomas, I think you're out of bagels," he said, carrying an empty plate. "I'd fill it up but I didn't know where the kitchen is and I'd hate to intrude."

The old lady gave him a sad little smile and took the serving dish from him. "That's so kind of you, young man. But you're my guests so why don't you let me fill it up while you make yourselves comfortable."

We watched Mrs. Thomas shuffle down the hallway and disappear into the kitchen. Quickly, Vincent grabbed my good hand and dragged me all the way to the front porch. As we reached the Cruiser, I was already out of breath.

"Thanks," I said impulsively as we both settled inside the vehicle. "You're a lifesaver."

"A lifesaver? You have no idea."

All of a sudden, he let out a buoyant laughter while holding his adaptive glasses in place. This time I was sure he wasn't laughing just to annoy me. The permanent furrow between his brows had suddenly disappeared.

I sighed. He was a sight to look at with that infectious perfect smile on his face.

Wait. I hate this guy, I told myself.

I straightened my face and crossed my arms on my chest. "But don't think I've forgiven you, yet."

"Sure, sure," he muttered still smiling as he revived the engines.

"Ugh. I liked you better when you were trying to run me over," I muttered under my breath, the broken digital clock catching my attention once again. Unconsciously, I ran my fingers over it. "Why is there only twelve, really?"

"You were saying something?" The sneer on his face was rubbing me the wrong way.

"Nothing!"

Shrugging, he drove in silence, glancing at me once or twice. I kept looking down instead of meeting his eyes.

"Why did you do that?" Vincent asked, briefly gazing up at me through his lashes.

I seemed to have lost my voice. Words didn't form easily in my head. Weird. It seemed to happen more whenever I was talking to Vincent.

"D-do what?" I stuttered.

"Back there," he answered, slighting tilting his head to the direction we came from. "In Old Man Thomas' funeral. You don't really know them, do you?"

Pursing my lips, I stared out the window, thinking if I should tell him. Something in me screamed to let him know. But what Lindsay told me in my first day in North Schuylkill prevented me from doing so. Still, maybe I could find out if he was really one of the people in black Lindsay was talking about by seeing how he would react.

"I was... investigating."

When I turned my attention back to him, his expression had turned dark. Other than that, he was unreadable. "Investigating what exactly?"

"You see," I began, taking a deep breath to keep my voice steady. If I was going to lie, I might as well make it believable. "I... have this f-friend and she believes that the deaths in this place are somehow connected."

I kept my eyes fixed on him, noting for any change on his expression, any mannerism that would tell me he was guilty. To my disappointment, he didn't even move a facial muscle.

I continued. "S-she thinks that some people are causing the deaths. I don't know if they kill their victims or if they are some kind of cult that uses dark magic. B-but my other friend... she saw them with her own eyes. And she thinks she knows some of them."

"Well?" He tried to sound interested. Honestly, he didn't look like he gave a damn. Maybe this was the part where he would laugh at me and tell me I was crazy. "Did your other friend tell you who they are? These cult people?"

"I..." Shaking my head, I bit my lip. "I can't tell you."

"Why?" he sniggered softly. "Do I know them? Wait. Am I on the list?"

My breath caught on my throat and I started coughing. Nervously, I reached into my pockets for my inhaler. My hand was trembling as I put the mouthpiece into place and turned away from Vincent before taking a dose. Even as the coughing subsided, it felt like I still couldn't breathe.

Vincent looked flustered. He was about to place a hand on my back but thought better of it. It was like I had this contagious skin disease that he couldn't stomach touching me. In the end, he just gripped the wheel so tight the back of his hand paled.

"I'll take you to the hospital." He stepped on the gas, about to do some drift maneuver you only see in the movies.

"No. I'm okay." My voice was rigid. I clasped my fists on my lap and they were still shaking. "Just... Just take me home. Now."

He didn't make a fuss this time. The vexation must have shown too much on my face. In a few minutes, we reached my house. When I reached for the door handle, Vincent cleared his throat.

"So... Are you going to tell me?" he started to ask again.

I didn't say a word. I just stared at my lap.

He sighed. "Okay... So how's your dad doing?"

As I slowly turned my head to look at him, my mouth gaped. But no words came out. This was exactly what Carter warned me about: Vincent Sinclair asking about the family members, how things were going—the talk. Then somebody would die.

Vincent threw me a confused look. "I mean, how're things going?"

Before I realized it, I was gawking at him. I must have swallowed my tongue because I couldn't speak. The truth just dawned on me: I am going to die! I'm gonna freaking die!

"Why? Is there anything wrong?" He looked a bit worried.

"Oh, God. So it's true then... I'm going to die," I muttered rashly. When I realized how wrong that must have sounded, I immediately managed a resentful smirk.

"What're you talking about?"

"You realize there are rumors about you. Like everyone who talked to you died—" I cut myself in midsentence. Considering—hopefully— it was just a rumor, I had sounded really rude. Massaging the bridge of my nose, I shook my head. "I think all this talk about dying is driving me nuts."

Out of the blue, Vincent's expression hardened. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as his jaws tensed alternately. The most frustrating part was the fact the he didn't even defend himself. And silence means yes, so that was probably his way of saying "Yes, you are in fact and without a doubt, going to die soon," or maybe he was just really pissed off because I really offended him.

I voted for the second option.

A discomfited silence filled us for several moments and that was when I decided that I had to go. Without so much as making an eye contact, I let myself out of the Cruiser and hurried to the front door.

My whole body was trembling when I reached my room. I just felt so messed up.

And that was the last time I talked to Vincent Sinclair.