Pretending He's Mine Page 13

  “You do. Every time you come,” I replied.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  My face burned. I was almost afraid to say the word out loud, afraid to spoil it. “A friend?” I knew it sounded hokey, but it was true, at least from my perspective. I hoped maybe it was true for him, too. It had been a really long time since I’d had someone my own age to talk to.

  “A friend,” he said, and his cheeks changed in the subtlest of ways. Suddenly he seemed sad and serious. I worried that it meant he wasn’t interested in being friends with a freak like me—that he was struggling to find some polite way of blowing me off.

  “Please don’t run away,” I said. “I won’t bother you.”

  “You don’t bother me,” he whispered, avoiding my eyes.

  “If I ask something you don’t want to answer, just say so. It kills me to have to wait days to find you again.”

  “How do you… know when I’ll be here?” he asked.

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to freak him out, make him feel vulnerable. And I still felt scared about revealing my own secret. “It’s part of the connection to The Hollow,” I said.

  “Do you know when anyone is here?”

  I shook my head. “Only some.”

  “Why me?” he asked.

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Because I’m … different,” he said.

  “Sort of,” I replied.

  He scooted away from me a little more. “Sorry.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “I should go,” he said.

  “What are you sorry for? Zach, you promised.”

  “Don’t you get it? I’m dangerous.” His body seemed to tremble.

  I wondered if it was that he understood about my sensitivity, how much his pain could take from me. But that wouldn’t explain why he’d be shook up about it. “To me?” I asked.

  “To everyone,” he whispered. And in the moonlight his eyes lit up with a scary sort of anger.

  “To everyone?” That didn’t make sense at all. “How could you be dangerous?” He didn’t respond. “Is that why she keeps you locked up?” My mind raced trying to imagine how he might be a danger to anyone.

  “You won’t want to know me anymore if I tell you,” he said.

  “I’ll always want to know you,” I promised.

  And then, as if the pressure to hold in his secrets had finally become too much, he spilled. “I’m a murderer,” he whispered, “and the son of the devil.” His eyes bulged like he couldn’t believe what he’d admitted. And then, promise or no promise, he was running.