Shade and Clearwater

Chapter Eleven

 I just lay there for a moment, in the real bed now, in the basement under the safehouse, trying to make sense of what the other me had said. I knew she was wrong, could feel it in my bones, and yet... I couldn't come up with a rational argument against it. We were outlaws. Rebels. Troublemakers, even. Where did I get off thinking I was one of the good guys?

I went back upstairs to talk to Jon but the house was empty. Or was it? Thing was, Jon could pretty well disappear whenever he wanted. He could be less than a foot away from me and I wouldn't see a thing. I was about to call his name when I heard a knock at the door.

I froze.

I didn't hear anyone's thoughts. Reaching out with my mind I got nothing. Not even static. Either whoever was at the door was completely immune to my powers, or worse, my powers were still fried from whatever was going on with the other me.

Thing was, as I was looking around for Jon, I had come all the way to the living room. If I made a run back to the trapdoor, I'd have to cross in front of the window that looked out on the front step, meaning that the federal agents who had no doubt come back would get a good glimpse of me. And sure, if they were searching an empty house, they might miss the trapdoor, but if they had seen a known fugitive in said house, then they'd probably tear the place apart and find it. And me.

"Jon?" I called out in a quiet voice. There was no answer.

Someone knocked on the door again, louder this time.

This was it. The agents were back and I was on my own and I'd rather die facing my death than being shot in the back trying to run. I couldn't even really fight because my powers weren't working, and I'd forgotten where I'd left my gun. Maybe the other me was right. Maybe this was the only possible ending for an outlaw.

I walked slowly to the door. Then I took a deep breath and opened it wide. At the last second, I closed my eyes, lacking the courage to face my death otherwise.

There was no resulting gunshot, no rough hands wrestling me to the floor. Instead, I heard a gentle voice. "Excuse me? Miss?"

I opened my eyes, then had to look down. There stood a girl with chubby cheeks, thick glasses, and straight brown hair that came down to her waist. By the way she was dressed – worn jacket, simple dress, holes in her dirt-stained tights – I figured she must live in the neighborhood.

"Are you okay?" asked the girl, giving me a concerned look. "You don't look so good."

I let myself smile. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting you. What can I do for you, honey?"

"I mean, you look bad," the girl pressed on, ignoring what I'd said. "Do you want me to get help?"

I looked down at myself. My dress was crumpled from being soaked with water and then lying down in it. I'm sure my breath still stank of vomit and I didn't even want to know what my hair looked like. "I'm fine, really," I said, waving a hand. "Just had a rough day."

The girl hesitated, probably wondering if she should get help anyway, then shrugged. "Okay, so, like, I know I shouldn't come over and just talk to a stranger but my cat went under your back porch and won't come out. I wasn't sure if anyone was living in this house because it's always empty but my grandma said I should probably ask before I just went crawling around under there. So ... can I?"

It took me a moment to process what she was saying. "Your cat is under my porch?"

The girl nodded.

"And you want to go get her?"

She nodded again.

"Okay, so... um... why don't you let me help you?"

The girl gave me a suspicious look. "You're not a bad guy, are you? My grandma has a gun. She'll come get you if you do anything to me."