Deadly Little Secret by Laurie Faria Stolarz Page A

he says.
    “What did?”
    He palms a polished rock and squeezes it hard, as though it gives him the courage to speak. “I know you’ve heard stuff about me.”
    “Are you talking about your girlfriend?”
    “Julie,” he whispers, his voice all scratchy, as if speaking her name were like glass in his throat. “I know what people say. But I didn’t kill her. What happened was an accident. It’s important to me that you know that.” His eyes bear down on mine, as he checks to see if I do believe him. But I avoid his gaze.
    “We were hiking up on a cliff that day,” he continues. “There was a beach below and lots of rocks. We had just gotten into an argument.”
    I nod, remembering how Matt said he’d heard Ben had a temper.
    “I grabbed her arm,” he says. “But she pulled away, toward the edge of the cliff. I tried to lunge at her, to stop her from moving back, but it was too late.” He looks back out over the water, his voice barely above a whisper now. “She fell.”
    I glance at his forearm, where his long-sleeved T-shirt covers the scar, wondering where the gash came from—if maybe the argument got physical and Julie put up a fight. Or if maybe he climbed down after her and tried to save her life.
    “Why were you grabbing on to her?” I ask. “Why was she backing away from you?”
    “Because I’m different than most people.”
    “Excuse me?”
    He puts on his sunglasses, so I can’t see how upset he is—how his eyes have reddened and the skin around them has gotten blotchy. “Remember that day in the parking lot, when I pushed you out of the way of that car?”
    I nod.
    “I touched you that day—on your stomach. And I got this weird sensation—like something bad was going to happen. It was the same thing in chemistry—when I touched your hand—only the feeling was stronger.”
    “Wait,” I say, my face bunching up in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
    “I sense things,” he explains, “when I touch people. Sometimes I see things, too. It’s why I took off in the parking lot after I knew you were okay. I didn’t want to deal with what I was sensing. I wanted to pretend like it never even happened—like I never even saw you.”
    “Are you trying to tell me you’re some kind of psychic?”
    “Just think about it,” he says, ignoring the question. “Why do you think I’ve been touching you so much lately? I had to be sure.”
    “Sure about what?”
    “That your life is at stake,” he reminds me.
    I take a deep breath, my mind spinning with questions.
    “I felt something that day with Julie, too,” he continues. “Not danger, though. I sensed she was lying. When I touched her, I could picture how she was seeing somebody else, how she had cheated on me that very same day. I asked her about it, too, and she confessed to the whole thing. Only, I wouldn’t let it go there. I had to know with whom and for how long. And so I gripped her harder, the picture becoming clearer. I could see my best friend. I could picture the two of them together—lying in the sand, kissing by the shore . . .” He takes a deep breath and lets it filter out slowly. “No matter what anybody says, I never meant to hurt her. The thing is, I gripped too hard. And that scared her.”
    “Which is why she backed away,” I say, putting the pieces together.
    “It’s called psychometry,” he explains. “The ability to sense things through touch. People who have it practice it differently—for some, it’s about placing an object up to their foreheads and getting a picture; for others it’s about hearing sounds or smelling scents when they touch something. For me, there’s a fine line between touching someone and hurting them—and I can’t let myself cross it.” He swallows hard and looks down at his hands.
    “Once I reach that point, and get too close,” he continues, “something inside me switches gears, and I lose control. I even lose the ability to reason. It’s like my body’s