Fractured by Lisa Amowitz Page A

remained unruffled.
    â€œI did try to warn him,” she said. “But he insisted on handling things his way. And since he is still a minor, I could do very little without his father’s consent.”
    On the floor, Pendell had begun to writhe and rave, as if he were speaking in tongues. The flywing girl rose from her corner perch and began to run frantically back and forth.
    â€œStop!” Pendell screamed hoarsely. “The ring belongs to Brendan Wavestone!”

17
    Bobby
    Saturday: 6:10 PM
    â€œS top!” I cried. But it was too late. The vision crashed back into my memory, sweeping me out to sea with the pull of its violent swells.
    â—†
    Brittany Byers spills out of the limo, shoeless and still a bit wobbly. She stumbles aimlessly through the streets of Harlem, not really sure of her direction. It’s late, and there’s no one around to notice one lost and half-dressed girl. And it’s cold. Ball-freezing cold.
    Again Brittany fishes in her bag for her phone, and again it’s nowhere to be found. Cursing her terrible luck, her next plan is to hail a cab home to Queens. At least she still has her credit card. But there are no cabs, so Brittany decides that an all-night coffee shop is her best bet to find a safe haven.
    Then she sees it, shining like a beacon of hope in the night. Riverside Church at 122 nd Street.
    Miraculously, the door to the sanctuary is open. She slips in and sits in one of the pews at the back. Votive candles flicker at the altar, casting the space in shimmering red light. The air is thick with incense. Brittany decides that this might be a good time to pray. She closes her eyes, head bowed in meditation. It makes her just a little homesick for Tennessee and Mama’s homemade fudge.
    That’s when she feels the hand that comes to rest on her shoulder. She looks up, thinking it’s a priest or some other kindly person who’s come to look in on her.
    But the person in a black cap, bandana, and dark glasses does not look kindly. Silently, he claps a hand over her mouth, and then drags her from the pew and into the church basement before she has a chance to cry out.
    â—†
    The probes that invaded my every orifice were nothing compared to the inferno that raged in my skull.
    â€œHold on, Bobby,” said a voice. “We’re almost done.”
    I’d recognize that voice anywhere. It was the voiceover to all my latest nightmares.
    Agent Reston. Here .
    I wanted to run. But I couldn’t even move.
    â€œYou’re going to thank me for this,” she said. Someone jabbed a needle into my arm and the sudden warmth spread from the entry point straight to my head. “But the relief is only going to be temporary, Bobby.”
    The room came into focus, wavering and blueish as if we were underwater. Agent Reston sat on one of the kitchen counter stools, drumming her shiny red nails on the countertop.
    â€œWhat are you shooting me up with?” I gasped. My voice sounded harsh and raw to my ears. My throat felt like splintered wood.
    â€œIt’s a temporary antidote for your condition.” She turned to me and smiled, her dark glasses reflecting the overhead kitchen lights. I realized with a shock that it was night. I’d lost a big chunk of time.
    â€œWhat condition?”
    â€œIf you’d have heard me out, I could have warned you. But of course we had no definitive way of knowing you’d develop this problem.”
    Little by little, the room’s curved lines began to straighten. The ragged strips of color that overlaid my vision had faded to vague impressions.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with me?”
    â€œOn the rare occasions when a patient’s psychic ability remains intact after the tumor is removed, certain conditions can trigger seizures. For lack of a better name, we call your affliction Psychic Epilepsy Syndrome, or PES for short.”
    â€œYou sure like your acronyms,” Jeremy Glass said. I’d