Twelve (The Naturals, #4.5)

by Jennifer Lynn Barnes

You danced. In the dark, you danced. For hours and hours. When you had no control over anything else, you had control over the motion. Over your own muscles. Over the decision to repeat the same moves—familiar moves—again and again and again.

I suspected, but didn’t know, that when Mackenzie had danced, she’d gone to a place in her mind where other things—the bad things, as Laurel would say—couldn’t touch her.

You know bodies. You know motion.

Sloane knows that the security guard’s usage of the word stunt is a fairly recent linguistic innovation—late nineteenth century, origin unknown. Personally, she prefers the terms exploit and feat.

“If Shaw says anything, you can tell him that it’s not my fault she’s a genius.” It is not Sloane’s mother’s fault that Sloane is Sloane. That hurts, and it is not precisely true.

“It’s not exactly normal.” You’re different, Mackenzie, but so are we. We see you. You aren’t alone.

“Cassie.” Hearing him say my name sent a wave of something like relief—with a side of anticipation—through my body. “Strangling someone is intimate,” I said, well aware that was not the way that normal girls started conversations with their boyfriends.

“You with the righteously indignant, yet distinctly guilty expression on your face! Hands in the air!” The psychologist’s gaze darted from me to Michael to Lia. “Batman said to put your hands in the air,” Lia told her. “And while you’re at it, repeat what you just said about the death of Kelley Peterson.”