Crossing the Line (Pushing the Limits 1.10)

The police officers inch toward the door and I block their path. “Whoa. Wait. You’re leaving?”

“Lincoln. . . ” Lila rubs her biceps. Her mouth scrunches to the right, calling my attention to her lips. “I. . . uh. . . was calling you. . . and I thought I saw someone. . . and I guess you answered right as I screamed. . . and I, ah. . . dropped my phone. . . then it turned off. . . and then the police came and said you called them and. . . yeah. ”

And. . . yeah. Not buying it. “Blood. Curdling. Scream. ”

Her eyes dart to the police, then away. “Well, I thought I saw something, but I was probably wrong. ” Then she looks at me, her eyes pleading, begging for me to drop it.

The muscles in my neck tighten.

“We searched the property,” says the officer with a pitying smile at Lila. “And we didn’t find anyone. Miss McCormick knows she can call us if there’s an issue. ”

They think it’s her imagination, yet I heard her terror. That type of scream can’t be created by a fear in your head. That’s death hovering in front of you wielding a bloody ax.

Lila thanks the officers and shows them out. With a click, she shuts the front door and, for the first time in my life I’m completely alone in a room with the girl I’ve fallen in love with. What the hell do I do now?

I should immediately tell her what happened with school. I should tell her my plan to fix things, how when I return home I’ll sign up for summer school. I should tell her that the thought of losing her paralyzes me. Instead, I follow my gut. “You saw somebody, didn’t you?”

Lila collapses against the door and her face drains of all color. “Yes. No. I don’t know. ”

Her head dips forward. “I can’t prove it. The police think I’m crazy. And ninety percent of me thinks everything’s okay because if there was somebody outside they would have hurt me. But ten percent of me is pretty positive that someone is messing with me. ”

I fold my arms over my chest, not liking the thought of anyone screwing with Lila. “What are you saying?”

She shrugs and smiles at the same time, making it clear she doesn’t believe the words. “Maybe I have a stalker. ”

Maybe? Knowing what to do to help calm her nerves, I hold out my hand. “Start talking, because I’m not leaving until I know you’re safe. ”

Lila

When Josh first died, my parents got close, but as time has worn on, they’ve grown apart. The worst moments are when my entire family is in the same room. With the people I should love the most surrounding me, I feel the most alone.

~ Lincoln

Lincoln assesses the orange Post-it note on the oven meant to remind me to turn it off as he stirs milk over the stove top. From the second he knotted my fingers with his in the living room and led me into the kitchen, I’ve found it impossible to tear my eyes away from him.

He grew—stunningly so. Taller. Thicker. His blue eyes are aged beyond his years, but when he smiles at me he becomes carefree and eighteen.

“That’s it?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I respond. I downloaded everything, except he’s not humiliating me with condescending looks or a lecture about overactive imaginations. I spilled about the scratching on the windows last night, the sound of shoes against the pavement tonight, and the shadow walking toward me and the sound of his breath.

The police didn’t take me seriously, but the way Lincoln’s shoulder blades tense, I can tell he believes me. “Why?” I ask.

“Why what?” He empties the steaming liquid into a mug.

“Why do you believe me?”

Lincoln slides the mug into my hands. His finger accidently skims mine. Electricity! A fantastic chill runs through me that reaches the tips of my toes.

“You don’t like liars and you’re not big into hypocrites,” he answers.

Those were my words to him a few months ago when my sort-of friend, Grace, tormented Echo. Lincoln and I share a knowing smile and stare into each other’s eyes. The world fades away and it’s just me and him and a fragrant cup of hot chocolate in the palm of my hand. Lincoln breaks the link and withdraws his fingers. I’d give anything for him to touch me again. But first. . .

“You have some explaining to do,” I say. “As to why you didn’t graduate. ”

He turns away and washes the pot in the sink. “Let’s figure out your problem first. Then we’ll handle mine. ” The water beats against the pot. “Are you still mad at me?”

My finger circles the rim of the mug. Hurt—yes. Angry—”No. ” How can I be mad at a guy who drove ten hours to see me and returned after I rejected him? “So you believe me? That someone was outside?”