Intrinsical - Lani Woodland [49]
“That’s why you didn’t show up?” He nodded, and I chewed my lip. “So ever since then it hasn’t been you?”
Brent shook his head.
“Then who has it been? Why did he kill you? And why kill me, too?” I asked in a rush of words.
A grim and determined smile carved itself into Brent’s face. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
My fingers drummed on my leg as I waited for Brent to continue but he didn’t. “And the answer is?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Really? That’s it.”
Brent nodded, resting his back against the trunk of a tree. He stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles.
“Any theories?”
“No. But I’m starting to wonder exactly how my brother died.”
I slinked down to the bumpy ground as I asked. “Do you think his . . . death—”
Brent swallowed hard. “You can call it what it was.”
I averted my gaze and licked my lips nervously. “Do you think his suicide is connected to this?”
“I have no proof, but my instincts say yes.”
“What do you mean?”
“For some time after . . . my body was shanghaied, I had company.” Brent scratched the back of his head.
“Okay . . .” I drawled out.
“Phil Lawson.”
I leaned toward Brent stopping myself from taking his hand. “That isn’t possible, Brent. He killed himself right after your body was snatched.”
“That’s just it— he didn’t.” Brent brought his knees to his chest. “Someone had stolen his body and had it for a long time before I joined him.”
“Is he still around?”
Brent’s voice sounded feeble when he answered, “No.”
“What happened to him?”
“The mist got him, probably about the time of his so-called suicide. After his body died, the light and mist came for him, just like they did for you. I tried to help but . . . he didn’t stand a chance. It wasn’t pretty.” Brent’s voice was barely audible.
“But it never tried to get you?” My stomach lurched and it felt like my tonsils doubled in size.
Brent shook his head. “The mist knocked me on my butt a few times, but other than that, it never noticed me at all.” Rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, he added, “The whole thing got me thinking— maybe that’s what happened with the other suicides. Maybe their spirits got evicted and were stuck here like me. Maybe they didn’t really kill themselves. Maybe Neal didn’t choose to die.”
He was quiet, his last words lingering. I lifted my hand and started rubbing his back, imagining Phil Lawson being captured by the mist. “Thank you for saving me. Maybe I’m stuck in Limbo but at least that . . . thing didn’t get me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t thank him so soon,” Brent’s voice said from behind, not beside me, as a chill crept into the air.
I spun in confusion, squinting against the now seemingly denser dark of the night. There stood Brent, his brown eyes edged and flecked with green, dressed in the same dark suit he had worn at the party. It took a moment for my mind to register that I wasn’t looking at my Brent, but a fake Brent in a stolen body.
Fake Brent was watching me closely, and as soon as he saw a look of comprehension cross my face, he smiled in satisfaction. It gave me the creeps; I didn’t like seeing Brent’s face looking like that. I shoved the acid that was rising in my throat back down, but I couldn’t keep it out of my tone as I questioned him.
“What do you mean? He saved me. Why wouldn’t I thank him?”
Fake Brent smiled even more greasily than before, if that were possible. “Isn’t it obvious?” He taunted. “If it wasn’t for him, you might still be alive. I might never have noticed you if you hadn’t saved him from choking that day. And then, after he died, he tried to pass messages to you. I was left with no choice; I had to get rid of you. Well, and I have a few personal reasons, too.”
After recovering from his shock, Real Brent hurled himself toward the imposter, his face full of fury. Fake Brent easily sidestepped Real Brent, his eyebrows slightly raised, with a look of light amusement on his face. “Feel