My mother practically pranced towards the bottom of the stairs when she heard Christian and I shuffling down one after the other. There was a hopeful gleam in her eyes targeted at Christian. She waited until we reached the bottom step to fire her question, "Christian? You're not staying for dinner?" I could hear the plea in her voice. Christian and I shared a brief glance.

"Thanks Jen, I'd love to"—his smile was apologetic—"but I need to get home." Her hope instantly fizzled into disappointment as expected.

I'd noticed having him here eased her worries some. Unfortunately for her though, Christian had a life to live, and a job to maintain outside of us; a job that we just happened to get caught in the mix of. If he could drop everything and stay with us, I was sure he would.

"Hey mom, is it okay if I head out to Mr. Jefferson's diner for a few? I won't stay for more than an hour." I looked between her and Christian. He furrowed his eyebrows at me to which I responded with a signal I hoped he interrupted as, please help me out this once.

My mother frowned and shook her head. "Tyler, you know I really don't want you going out by yourself with everything going on. . ."

"I won't be by myself! I'll have an officer with me," I argued.

"Tyler." Her tone was firm.

I readied myself to accept defeat when Christian chimed in, "It's okay, Jen. I'll drop him off, then I'll make sure one of the officers is keeping a close eye on him and will return him home."

I cheered under my breath and thanked him internally. If Christian was backing me up, there was no way she'd say no. She wouldn't argue with the detective for Pete's sake (I hoped).

"One hour. That's it," she said, finally.

"Thank you!" I ran up to her, enveloping her in a hug and smacking a kiss on her cheek.

"I mean it, Tyler. Don't play with me today." She narrowed her eyes and turned, wagging her finger at Christian. "Christian he needs to be back in an hour. No ifs and buts about it."

"He will be back in an hour. I will make sure of it," Christian confirmed.

I ran upstairs to retrieve my things. As I returned, I heard my mother finishing off the last of her demands about me returning. Christian nodded along to every single word. When he spotted me, he nudged my back towards the door as if he couldn't get out of there fast enough.

"One hour. Or your mother will kill both of us. Don't try to persuade the officers either. They have strict rules to follow and they'll let me know," Christian warned me the minute we stepped foot outside. I backed away, holding my hands above my head.

"Of course, I know," I said, my voice raising a pitch.

"Now, let's go." He gestured towards his car. Not before pausing at the officer's patrol car and notifying them (I assumed) of the plan.

From there on, we were pulling up to Mr. Jefferson's diner before I knew it.

"One hour." Christian felt the need to reinforce the idea in my head. I was convinced he thought I was five-years-old sometimes, and not seventeen. Give me a break. Would it kill him to have faith in me? Even just a little bit. Maybe that was too much to ask for the likes of me.

"Roger that." After saluting him, I rolled myself out of the car. Thick heat consumed me, forming a barrier of sweat around my forehead. The sun was blazing at its highest today. That left little room for comfort, but more desperation for me to get the hell inside the diner.

"Is that my favorite visitor?" The bell had barely finished chiming when Mr. Jefferson's voice bled into my ears. I shot him a grin, sliding into the first stool across from him. It was then I noticed the atmosphere around us was quiet. The sound of dishes clashing in the back was the only thing capable of splitting the silence in two.

"It's pretty empty here today, isn't it?" My face bunched into wrinkles.

He huffed and nodded. "That's a good thing. It's a little too hot for business."

"This late in the day though?" I checked my phone.

"What're you complaining for? You don't work here." He chuckled. "So, what brings you here anyway? I hear you're on lockdown. Shouldn't you be home? It's safer there."

"Well, sure. But I got the okay to visit for an hour."

Mr. Jefferson nodded his head in understanding. "You got something to tell me?" he said, leaning forward. His warm breath fanned my face as he stared. Those big brown eyes of his knew just how to work me like a clock.

"Something weird's been happening lately and I don't know what to make of it." I pulled out my notebook, setting it in front of me.

"I hope you wrote it in those notes," he said, folding his hands.

"Right here." I opened the notebook and pointed to the page.

"Let me see this." He twirled the notebook around to get a better look. As he skimmed my messy handwriting, his eyebrows bunched together. The more he read, the closer they bunched. I tapped a rhythm against the counter as I waited for him to finish.

"So, this Adam man. . ." Mr. Jefferson paused as though he was phrasing his words in a proper manner. "You bumped into him here, right? And that triggered the vision."

"Right."

"But he's not dead," he filled the gap, confused.

"Also right," I said. "What does that mean?"

Mr. Jefferson frowned. "Your gift seems to be . . . expanding."

"Expanding?" The hell did that mean? Up until now, Mr. Jefferson and I had always figured the gift was more complex than either of us could imagine. But expanding wasn't in my cards. That meant the gift was learning or better yet, adjusting.

"Yes. Your visions were triggered by objects mostly. As were mine. But now, they're triggered by anything you come in contact with that serves a strong connection. Specifically people. All of the people you mentioned are direct connections to the victims and such, correct?"

"Yes, that's how it appears."

"Tyler, your ability is capable of something I've never experienced with mine." Mr. Jefferson's tone made it hard for me to tell if he was concerned or curious. It could've been a mixture of both, for all I knew.

"I'm still lost. . ."

A thoughtful expression crossed Mr. Jefferson's face. "I think your ability is no longer limited to the events that led to the victims' deaths. I believe you've opened the door to all kinds of visions. No matter the person or the time. As long as they're linked together."

It made sense. Then again, it didn't make sense. How was that even possible? The more I thought about it though, the more I realized I'd missed the connection several times before. Back then, as I solved Emerald Lynn's case, there were several instances where I saw connections I shouldn't have. I never put much thought into it because it didn't strike me as odd.

Now, it was a different story.

My sweaty shirt stuck to my skin, adding onto the suffocation I felt. I removed it and fanned myself to give me some release. Was I hot because of the weather or was I hot because I'd finally hit my breaking point? Hell, I didn't know. I felt like I was sweating bullets though.

"Why do you think this is happening?" I asked.

"I don't know. It could be taking on a mind of its own." Mr. Jefferson shrugged.

"It's learning to adapt. . ." As I thought.

"Precisely," he said.

"Well, I'm not really sure what to do with this information. . ."

"Use it to your advantage. . . Make it worth your while."

When he said it like that, it sounded so simple. But it was anything but.

* * *

My mother barely gave me time to register my surroundings when I walked into the house. As I locked the door behind me, she met me halfway. A big brown envelope rested in her hands.

"What's that?" I shouldn't have asked. Figured I'd feign ignorance though.

"For you." She sighed.

Great. Another package.

I groaned. "What now?"

"Open it." She gestured, then walked away. I sighed, following her into the living room, where Junior was playing with his toy Tonka truck and lego men. Sensing our presence, he glanced up. His engine noises came to a stop as he froze.

"Junior, do me a favor, and take that upstairs please?" My mother flopped onto the couch, kicking her legs up beside her. Junior mumbled out okay before vanishing up the stairs, the living room clean of any traces he was here. All the while I caressed the package; my failed attempt to figure out what was inside without opening it just yet.

"What the heck is this?" I murmured, more to myself than anyone else, while tearing the sticky lining apart on the envelope. A cover with blue, greens, and yellow's greeted me from inside the large rips. A book title I recognized, The Ugly Duckling, reflected back as well.

"The Ugly Duckling?" I repeated, baffled.

"The children's book?" My mother's face scrunched with displeasure.

"Sure, or fairy tale or whatever." I shrugged.

"Tyler, you dropped something." My mother bent down, picking up the blue card that seemed to have fallen from the envelope. She handed it to me then leaned back again. I flipped the card both ways. The back was blank. But the front said thinking of you in cursive writing. I felt chills.

"What does it say inside?" My mother asked.

I cleared my throat, forcing myself to focus. "One second." I unfolded the card only to find myself caught in a bigger web of confusion. "People will always tell you to stand up for yourself but they'll stand on the sidelines when you get punished for it. . ." I read the quote off the card, tagged under the name Barbara Thatcher. Who the hell was that?

"Sounds like poetry," my mother said, a long soft breath filling her lungs.

"Mom, who's Barbara Thatcher?"

"Excuse me?" she said, taken aback.

"That's who the card says quoted this line."

"Barbara Thatcher. . ." My mother lifted her fingers, tapping the bottom of her chin. "Sounds like a woman I remember seeing on TV."

"On TV?" Leave it to her to leave me with more questions.

"Barbara Thatcher," she repeated again. "Wait. Holy shit! Wow, excuse my French, Tyler. But I think that's the woman from a documentary I watched recently."

I reeled back, looking between her and the card. "What? A documentary?"

She snapped her fingers. "True crime or something like that." Sure, that sounded like my mother's type of television. "Barbara Thatcher was convicted of brutally slaughtering a few of her fellow high school classmates in their homes in 2009. She claimed the staff ignored her and multiple other people's claims that they were being harassed and beaten. So, she took matters into her own hands to protect herself, and other victims. Horrifying story, I tell you."

An unlikely hero, she sounded like she was portraying herself as. How did The Ugly Duckling and a mass killer even come remotely close to being linked together? It didn't get any stranger than that. Though, I guess I might've been thinking far too small. It made perfect sense if the duckling had enough and snapped. That would've been quite the twisted tale.

A twisted tale that was surely spilling into reality, if true.