Inescapable (The Premonition Series) Read online

  Copyright © 2011 Amy A. Bartol

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1461072514

  ISBN-13: 9781461072515

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-4392-9697-4

  LCCN: 2011905674

  For my mom, Gloria, the eternal optimist who never allows

  anything to remain in the past tense…especially her love

  And also to Tom for everything

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  CHAPTER 1 MOVING DAY

  CHAPTER 2 ORIENTATI ON

  CHAPTER 3 ARDEN LAKE

  CHAPTER 4 REGISTRATION

  CHAPTER 5 FIELD HOCKEY

  CHAPTER 6 THE PROMISE

  CHAPTER 7 THE HISTORY OF ART

  CHAPTER 8 THE SPEED OF LIGHT

  CHAPTER 9 FOREIGN LANGUAGE

  CHAPTER 10 THE LAWS OF ATTRACTION

  CHAPTER 11 PARADISE LOST

  CHAPTER 12 THE PORTRAIT

  CHAPTER 13 COLDWATER

  CHAPTER 14 OPPOSITES ATTRACT

  CHAPTER 15 LIGHT AND SHADOW

  CHAPTER 16 FORMAL

  CHAPTER 17 DELT WARS

  CHAPTER 18 BIRTHDAY WISHES

  CHAPTER 19 ART EXHIBITION

  CHAPTER 20 REVELATIONS

  CHAPTER 21 WINTER BREAK

  COMING SOON

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Moving Day

  As I drive past the placid façade of Crestwood College’s stately clock tower, I realize that this is the building they refer to as Central Hall. It’s the trademark of the school, and they stamp its image on everything they use to represent them. My acceptance letter had been embossed with its seal. The scent of autumn drifts through my open window along with the deep, echoing bell from the clock as it tolls out the hour. The loud, desolate sound sends a chill over my skin. It is funny to me how something as harmless as a clock tower can be winsome and sinister at the same time.

  In the car behind me, my Uncle Jim gives me a couple of short honks of his horn. As I gaze at him in my rearview mirror, I see him gesturing for me to turn left at the next stop sign. His paranoia that I will miss the street to my dorm makes me smile, so I turn on my signal to relieve his anxiety. Crestwood’s campus has only a few streets; if I miss the turn, it won’t be fatal. If I manage to get lost here, then I don’t deserve the academic scholarship they gave me, I think to myself, using my mirror to refresh my lip-gloss.

  I ride slowly under the tunneling oak trees that line the pavement. I had always thought that I would go to a larger school—one in a major city, like New York or Chicago, but when Crestwood offered me a full ride with no strings attached, I couldn’t pass up such an amazing opportunity. I mean, who needs a sprawling city if you’re totally broke all the time? And Crestwood is consistently ranked as one of the top private schools in the country for academics. Plus, this way I get to stay in Michigan so I can visit Uncle Jim more often. He’ll only be a few hours away—and he needs me. I’m his only family, just as he is mine.

  Unease creeps over me as my dormitory comes into view. I don’t know a single person at Yeats Hall, or even Crestwood for that matter. I had met a few coeds on my brief tour of the school last year, but I had been just a prospective student then, so none of us really bothered to make friends. A fresh wave of panic hits me, or maybe it’s remorse for all the familiar things I’m leaving behind. Don’t stress, I tell myself while taking a deep breath. This place will be the making of you. Everything will be fine.

  I park in a spot under a shady elm tree and cut the engine, waiting for my uncle to slip into the spot next to mine. Pulling up next to me, he parks his truck and leaves it idling. With his stereo blaring Baba O’Reily, he is head-banging and playing air guitar to the raging bass.

  Normally, something like this would horrify me, especially since he is drawing frowns from the other parents hauling boxes and desk lamps out of their cars, but not today. Today, I’m trying to take a mental snapshot of this moment because it’s so quintessential Uncle Jim.

  We had basically raised each other, he and I. When my mom died soon after I was born, he stepped up and assumed guardianship of me. It couldn’t have been easy; he’d been a kid himself at the time, only twenty years old.

  As my eyes rove over him, lip-syncing with his mouth curling in a rocker-like scowl, I smile, knowing he is doing it for me. He is trying to make me laugh so that I won’t be nervous.

  As I climb out of my old jeep, I pretend not to notice when small pieces of the rusted door flake off as I close it. “You rock a mean air guitar,” I say after he cuts his engine and grins at me through the truck’s open window.

  “I know—missed my calling. I was born to rock,” he replies with hubris, climbing out and joining me.

  “Undoubtedly,” I agree. He slips his arm around my shoulder, trapping my long, auburn hair beneath it as he gives me a quick squeeze before letting it drop.

  “You ready to check in?” he asks me as he runs his hands through his dark-brown hair, which immediately falls back over his forehead again.

  “Yeah,” I nod, handing him a comb from my purse.

  He smiles, taking the comb from me. “You know what I like most about you, Evie?” he asks me.

  My eyebrow arches. “Umm, I’m not sweaty?” I ask.

  His grin deepens, reaching his gray eyes as he shakes his head. “Well, that, and the fact that you think of everything. It makes me worry less about you because I know that you’ll cover every angle before you attack a problem,” he answers.

  I give him a furtive glance as I retort, “You know what I like most about you?”

  “My musicality?” he asks with a straight face.

  I grin because we both know he is completely tone-deaf. “Well, that,” I agree, “and the fact that you always manage to say just the right thing.”

  “You liked that?” he asks me while we walk up the sloping sidewalk to the entrance of my new residence. “Good, because I practiced it in the car all the way here.”

  “It sounded very parental,” I compliment him as he holds the door for me to enter.

  “That’s what I was going for,” he acknowledges, approaching the wide mahogany table in the lobby.

  “Evie Claremont,” I say to the perky brunette seated in a wing-backed chair behind the table.

  She scans the roster before looking up and asking, “Genevieve Claremont?”

  “That’s me,” I breathe nervously, “but everyone just calls me Evie.”

  She glances from me to my uncle, and her smile becomes toothy. My Uncle Jim and I both pretend not to notice when she begins flirting with him: me because it skeeves me out and him because he isn’t pervie. Anyway, I’m used to it—it happens often; I think that every one of my female friends was in love with my uncle at one point or another.

  As she begins outlining all of the upcoming dorm activities for him, I take the time to gaze around at the old building. I know that it was once a home to a wealthy Crestwood family, but they had donated it to the school around the turn of the previous century. The interior is elegant, with ice blue, silken wall-coverings, crown molding, rich deep-brown wainscoting, and leaded-glass windows.

  Uncle Jim nudges me before handing me my new keys and motioning with his chin toward the stairs.

  “She was friendly,” I tease him as we climb up to the second floor.

  He nods his head and feigns ignorance, muttering, “Very nice.”

  Locating my room, we open it, and I set my purse down on the low table by the door as I enter. The room comes fully furnished with a single bed, a desk, a dresser, a bedside table, and a small lamp. A bathroom-style sink and a closet a
re the only other appointments to it.

  “Home,” Uncle Jim says with a sanguine glance at me. He must be reading the dark excursion my mind is taking because he adds hurriedly, “Don’t worry; when we get your stuff in here, it won’t feel as strange.”

  “I’m not worried,” I say, flashing him a faux grin.

  “C’mon,” he says, putting his arm around me and tugging me to the door. “Let’s go get your stuff.”

  We get to work unloading my swag from his truck. After bringing a few boxes up several flights of stairs, I stay in my room and begin unpacking them. “Where do you want me to put this box?” my Uncle Jim asks me, breathing heavily and staggering through the doorway.

  Narrowing my eyes, I murmur, “Umm, let me think,” while looking for available space on the floor. “What’s in it?” I ask, sifting though the box in front of me.

  He grunts before saying, “Judging by the weight, I’d say it has to be either your ex-boyfriend’s dead remains or…books.” Pressing the front of the box against the wall, he tries to keep from dropping it.

  “Ah, it must be books—all of my exes are buried in the backyard at home, so pleasant dreams when you get there tonight,” I reply with a smirk, putting my alarm clock on the nightstand near my bed. “You can just set it down by the desk, thanks.” Shuffling across the room, he heaves the box down with a loud thump.

  “I was wondering what happened to the last one. The one that took you to the movies…” he replies. He wipes the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his Ramones t-shirt. Poor Dee Dee Ramone on the front of it looks a little soaked.

  Giving him an ironic smile I shrug, “His name was Greg, and like I said…backyard.”

  “Good, I never liked him,” he says with the same kind of smile. “Do you want help unpacking these?” he asks, indicating the boxes strewn around the room.

  “I’m not sure where I’m going to put everything yet. Maybe I should just do it myself,” I say almost as a question.

  “I’ll set up the Internet connection so you can send email and surf,” Uncle Jim says as he finds my laptop and places it on my desk.

  “Thanks. I register for classes tomorrow, so I’ll email you— let you know how that goes,” I promise.

  He bypasses the dormitory’s LAN and gives me my own Internet access and firewall so that I can maintain my privacy. I can probably do it myself because he taught me how, but I’m grateful that he is taking care of it.

  Finishing the set-up, he turns his grayish-blue eyes to me, smiling in triumphant. I think my mother also had the same color eyes as her brother and I do, but I have to rely on old, grainy photos of her in order to see them. As for the rest of my physical characteristics, like my auburn hair and my tall, slender frame, they could’ve come from my father’s side of the family, but since neither of us knows who he is, it makes proving that theory slightly difficult.

  Uncle Jim loses some of his smile as he looks around and sees there isn’t much left for him to do now. “So, you have your cell phone,” he states as if going over a parental checklist in his head. “If you need anything, you can call me. Do you need any money?”

  “You already gave me money,” I say, seeing him reach into his pocket for his wallet. I put my hand on his arm to stop him. “I have more than enough money for all of the beer and drugs I plan on experimenting with,” I tease him gently. “When I blow it all on Internet gambling, I’ll call you.”

  He smiles back at me, and I watch the way his eyes crinkle in the corners. I love that. I like to think that I’m responsible for most of the laugh lines around his eyes. “Did I tell you how proud I am of you, Evie?” he asks, his voice soft with affection.

  I feel a blush creeping into my cheeks. “Oh, once or twice,” I reply. “Anyway, with me out of the house, you can focus on all of those things you’ve been putting off—maybe check out the Internet dating scene. But…don’t do any background checks on your dates, it takes all the mystery out of it,” I tease him.

  It’s sad that I can’t even remember his last girlfriend’s name. Uncle Jim hasn’t had a date in a while. I believe I know the reason for this and it has to do with his line of work. He’s sort of a computer nerd. Working primarily for private investigators, Uncle Jim handles mostly divorce cases, specifically, cheating spouses.

  He gains access to the alleged cheating spouse’s computer and clones the hard drive, always with the express permission of the suspicious spouse, since it’s usually considered joint property. Then he delves through emails and bank accounts at his leisure. So, one can make the argument that infidelity keeps our little family afloat, if one is so inclined. I like to think that it’s the reason why he doesn’t really date and not that he took himself out of the game to raise me.

  Taking my comment in stride, he replies, “Just for that obnoxious crack, I’m turning your room into a home gym. You’ll have to sleep on the weight bench when you come home to visit.”

  “How dare you!” I reply with mock outrage, but I’m trying not to let him see my anxiety. He will be leaving soon and I will be staying here. It has always been just the two of us; I’ve always had him to count on. Tears immediately spring to my eyes at the realization that things will be different.

  “I miss you already,” Uncle Jim says, seeing my tears.

  I begin to panic at his words, so I run down my own parental checklist. “I did the grocery shopping yesterday, so you should have enough food to last you at least a week. I bought you new razors, and I put them in the drawer in the bathroom. Oh, and I took your suit to the dry cleaners. You have to remember to pick it up on Wednesday because you have to be in court for the Henderson’s divorce case on Friday.”

  “I’ll remember,” he says with an indulgent smile.

  Inhaling deeply so that I can hold in my tears, I whisper, “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” he replies. Seeing the hint of anxiety in his eyes, he adds, “I want you to call me, you know, if you start having those nightmares again.”

  Looking down at the floor, I mumble, “I think now that I’m here they’ll go away.”

  “If they don’t, I want you to call me,” he replies, touching my cheek.

  “Okay,” I reply in a small voice, and he drops his hand.

  “I should get on the road now—I want to avoid the rush hour traffic near Ann Arbor,” he says with forced cheer in his voice. “Everything’s going to be great here. You’re going to love it at Crestwood, Evie,” he says with a reassuring smile.

  “Yeah, you’re right. It’ll be stellar,” I reply with forced enthusiasm. “Anyway, you should go—beat the traffic. I’ll walk you out,” I say, pretending that I’m not about to bawl my eyes out.

  Holding his hand, I walk with him out to his truck. He gives me a huge bear hug before getting into it. “I’ll come for Homecoming, okay?” he asks through the window.

  “Can’t wait,” I say with a ghost of a smile.

  As he starts the engine, I bite my lower lip so it won’t tremble. Seeing him smile at me through the glass, my heart accelerates in fear. Uncle Jim gives me a small wave, and I mirror the action, although my hand shakes just a little. When his car drives out of sight, I walk slowly back upstairs.

  Turning the key in the lock to my single room, I push the door open. About to step through the doorway, I freeze when I see a shadow move quickly across the wall. It startles me. “Hello?” I inquire, but no one answers me.

  Rubbing my eyes, I blink a couple of times before I close my door. I hurry to the windows on the far wall, looking for someone outside my window on the fire escape. It’s empty; the heavy iron grate of the landing is rusty in spots from disuse, appearing as if no one has been out there in a while.

  Sighing, I turn from the window and scan the room, taking in the bare walls and empty shelves—it can belong to anyone. It’s like looking at a blank canvas; as if the person that I was prior to this moment with all of the vibrant colors, intricate shapes, and textures that were painted on
that canvas throughout my life has no voice here—no future. I just need to unpack my stuff, so I can feel normal, I think to myself.

  I choose a box near the sink and begin unpacking it. As I set a picture of Uncle Jim and me on the bedside table, the clock tower of Central Hall scares me by loudly tolling out the hour. Bong… bong… bong… three o‘clock. The deep timbre of the bell churns the air ominously. I hope it doesn‘t do that all night because that could get really annoying, I think before trying to synchronize my clock to reflect the clock tower’s pronouncement.

  Unpacking some of my clothes next, I finish putting them in the drawers. I have more time to kill before I have to walk to the Sage Center. Freshman orientation starts at four o’clock. My plan is to get there just in time to slip in the back of the auditorium and find a seat because the thought of milling around alone in the lobby before the orientation seems very awkward and unappealing.

  After making my bed, I feel a little bit better as I lie on the soft coverlet, smelling the scent of home that clings to the blanket. Yawning tiredly, my eyes droop because I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I avoid sleep. When I sleep, I dream, and my dreams make me feel like I’m drowning. Yawning again, I push myself up, looking for another box to unpack so I won’t crash yet. I want to be utterly exhausted when I sleep so that there will be less of a chance that I’ll remember my nightmare.

  Finding a small box by the sink, I pick it up and wrestle with the sticky packing tape, trying to rip it off. The tape sticks to my hand as I carry it to my desk, setting it down near the lamp. Pulling the box cutter from the pocket of my denim skirt, I expose the blade.

  A shadow darts in front of the window, blotting out the sunlight for a moment. It distracts me so that I look up. In the next second, searing pain registers in my mind as blood runs onto the box. I hiss in pain, dropping the stupid box cutter with a clatter on the desk. As I inspect my finger, blood wells up from a deep cut. Walking to the sink, I run it under the cold water.

  It’s not too deep. Maybe I can get away with just putting a bandage on it when I get it to stop bleeding, I think to myself. Finding a small towel to wrap around it, I open the medicine cabinet over the sink that I had stocked earlier. As I fumble with a box of bandages, I apply pressure to my cut. It’s throbbing like I had opened an artery while splotches of red soak through the bone-colored terrycloth.