Always Watching by Brandilyn Collins Page B

toward the door, as if realizing he’d overstepped his bounds. I stared after him as he slipped out into the hall.
    The door clicked shut.
    I turned to Brittany, feeling violated all over again. “We already made the news.”
    “Yeah. Terrific.”
    I focused on the black screen of the TV. The last thing I wanted was to see the coverage and be reminded of those awful minutes in the mall. But to not know what reporters were saying …
    Striding to the nightstand, I snatched up the TV remote and punched the
on
button.
    From the table, the smell of pasta and cream sauce wafted up my nose. My stomach flip-flopped.
    “Go ahead and eat.” My face scrunched up. Gripping the remote, I flipped channels to find the news stations.
    “That’s okay, I’ll wait for you.”
    “No, Brittany.
Eat.”
    I pushed the channel button.
    A car commercial.
    Brittany sat down at the table and angled toward the TV.
    Punch.
    A sitcom.
    Punch.
    MTV.
    Punch.
    News. Something about the economy.
    Come on!
    My index finger worked feverishly, my stiff arm thrust toward the TV. With every channel, the dread inside me grew. I’d shouted at the reporters and burst into tears. They’d probably shown it over and over — made me look as bad and weak as possible. What great drama for all the watchers across America.
    Had I hurt the band? Would Mom be mad at me?
    Brittany took a few bites, then clacked down her fork. The sound shot right through me.
    “Wait,” she said. “Maybe it’s not on at all.”
    “Then how would he know?”
    “Maybe he was
there.”
    My hand dropped, the remote dangling from my fingers. A cell phone ad played on the TV. “But I don’t remember seeing him. Do you?”
    “No. Not that it means much. There were so many people …”
    We locked eyes, trying to think it through. If the waiter had been there — what could it mean?
    “Wouldn’t he have been here, working?” Brittany asked.
    “I don’t know. Maybe he works dinner to closing.”
    My gaze traveled to the connecting door to Mom’s room. Mentally I rehashed the conversation with Detective Furlow. Pictured him turning over the “always watching” photo with his gloved hand.
    I blew out a breath. “I’m going to keep checking.”
    Brittany ate. I sank onto my bed and channel surfed between the news stations.
    Suddenly, there we were on the screen. I gasped.
    “Leave me alone!” I watched myself cry. The cameras flashed, the crowd pressed in. Microphones were thrust at me. And the expression on my face! I looked so scared, like some homeless child with nowhere to run. Just watching the scene, I felt the claustrophobia crowding my lungs.
    I shuddered.
    The camera panned over Bruce as he pushed through the crowd, then focused on Brittany. Her features were pinched and white.
    “Oh, no.” She pushed her plate away. “My mom’s going to freak.”
    My throat tightened. “Will she make you go home?”
    “Probably.”
    “But you said you
can’t.”
    “I know. I won’t.”
    “What is it, Brittany? What’s going to happen to me if you leave?”
    “I told you I don’t know for sure. Just … something. Some danger.”
    I huffed. “What good is sensing the future if you can’t be a little more specific?”
    “Maybe,” she said grimly, “we don’t want to know.”
    I cast her a long look, then turned back to the TV. A camera captured the three of us bursting out the door and jumping into the black limo. The last scene showed the car driving away.
    “Did you see the waiter anywhere in that crowd?” I asked.
    “No. But the footage was pretty fast. He still could have been there.”
    A blonde female commentator filled the screen, relating the known details of Tom’s death and the investigation. A detective was interviewed — not Detective Furlow. He didn’t say much except that they were “following a few leads.”
    The report ended.
    “We could call the hotel restaurant,” Brittany said. “Ask somebody if that waiter was working this