Sleep No More

  “Charlotte,” Smith says, and his patronizing tone makes me clench my fists. “You attend a tiny high school. Of course you know everyone.”

  “It’s not that small,” I say defensively.

  “I don’t have time for crazy theories,” Smith says, and I can hear the nerves in his voice. My role is finished; he’s still deciding if he should play his. “We just have to wait and see,” he finally says.

  “Yep.” I glance back up at my clock and see that it’s only been three minutes. “It’s going to be a long night of clock-watching,” I say as much to myself as him.

  “I guess we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I say, pushing to my feet in the jumble of bedding I totally messed up while revisiting my vision. “And Smith,” I add just before hanging up. “It’s cold out there tonight.”

  I pass the next few hours fighting the urge to go to the train station and watch, but even if I could get out of the house without anyone noticing, I’m terrified that any little change could erase what I did.

  I briefly consider trying to break into Sierra’s room, but she’s already been gone for over an hour—I can’t risk it. It’s killing me to have the book ten feet away and completely inaccessible. But it can’t help Clara now.

  Besides, there’s a decent chance they’ll catch the murderer tonight and then I won’t be so rushed for time. I’ll be able to wait until she leaves her door unlocked again.

  Finally I go sit in my mom’s office. She’s behind on work because of all of the drama, so she just gives me a smile and keeps on working.

  I have a half-hour-long text-versation with Linden, but it feels shallow compared to spending time with him in person, and when I finally say good night to him, I’m no calmer than I was before.

  I think about Clara. And Eddie and Jesse and Matthew and Nicole. I don’t care what Smith says; I think it’s weird that they’re all people from my life. Bethany breaks the pattern . . . but ever since? It’s weird. Who would know me well enough to know the people that mean something to me—or used to mean something to me? I had practically forgotten about half of them. But someone remembered. How crazy of a theory is it really?

  At eight thirty I know the attack is over and I keep glancing at my mom as she watches a TV show, waiting for the news to break in and report something. I mean, if I did save Clara, it would be because the police came. And they would report that, right? When the front door opens, I’m so on edge I almost shriek, but it’s just Sierra.

  I look up at her and hate that I note the time and realize Sierra could easily have been at the train station. “Where were you?” I ask before I can stop myself. I just want to hear her answer. That’s all. I’m not actually suspicious.

  I’m not.

  “Out,” she says without elaborating. “I tell you,” she says as she slips out of her coat, “it’s cold out there tonight.”

  The exact same words I told Smith.

  Coincidence? How could it be anything but? Unless I really think she’s . . . what? Spying on me?

  And yet I wonder.

  I hate that Smith has planted this seed of doubt, but he’s right about one thing: there does seem to be another Oracle involved who’s compelling the victims to go meet the killer.

  And didn’t I just ask myself who might know me well enough to be aware of who was involved in my past?

  The news finally hits about an hour later. I watch with a strange mixture of disappointment and anticipation as I hear that the killer got away—but only after a long chase during which he dropped his bat. The Feds are all over that and their spokesperson is talking about trace evidence from the scene and testing for DNA and stuff.

  Where was Smith? Maybe he ended up not going after all. Maybe I sounded overly confident during our phone conversation and he changed his mind.

  But that’s not the part I’m most focused on. Clara’s condition is critical. Judging by the doctor-speak I only partially understand, I suspect the killer got in one more good hit to the head after I “left.” She’s in surgery right now and I don’t like the tone the spokesperson at the hospital uses when questioned about her chances of survival. He says only that it’s “still too early to speculate.”

  Her parents aren’t at the scene of course—they’re with Clara at the hospital—but things went exactly like I figured they would. Her dad received a call, heard screaming, and called the cops. They were able to trace Clara’s phone because it was still connected, and they arrived just after I lost consciousness.

  Ten seconds too late.

  They play a clip of her dad repeating over and over again that he has no idea why his daughter would leave the house. That he was there, just upstairs, and didn’t hear her go out the door.

  One more picture flashes on the screen of Clara’s parents sobbing and holding each other for support, and my stomach is sick with guilt.

  I could have saved her. Even if I couldn’t have stopped her from leaving the house, I could have slowed her down enough that she wouldn’t have made it to the tunnel.

  Did I do the right thing? Or did I make it worse?

  If the killer had been caught, I would have comforted myself with the old “the ends justify the means” thing. But in this case, did they? Will the evidence the killer left behind be enough?

  And what if she dies?

  I tremble a little as I remember the feel of those blows falling on me. Clara took more of them than I did. How long would it take me to recover if that had been my physical body? Even if she wakes up, she’ll have the memory of that nightmarish experience to haunt her for the rest of her life.

  I stare unseeingly at the television as the reporter rehashes everything all over again. It seemed much simpler when Smith and I came up with the plan. I figured Clara would get injured—like a broken bone or two. That she would be lauded as a hero even more than Nicole was. That would be worth it.

  But now? I thought the worst-case scenario was death. Maybe it’s not; maybe it’s this.

  For the first time since all of this started, I doubt everything Smith and I have done. I wonder how much we’ve screwed things up. I thought this was my purpose—my destiny.

  Maybe it’s just my downfall.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  TWENTY-THREE

  I’m a prisoner in my own house.

  Even when my mom lets me go to the store with her—in broad daylight of course, minors have a town-wide curfew now—I’m not allowed to leave her sight. Everywhere I look I see cops. They’ve brought some kind of backup in from other towns in the vicinity and I’m sure every single officer hopes they’re the one who catches the killer. Not simply for accolades, but because everyone truly wants to end this nightmare.

  And that’s what it is: a living nightmare.

  Without Linden.

  We text a lot, but I haven’t done a ton of texting before and I’m just not good at it. I don’t understand the shorthand, and Linden spends half our conversations explaining them. We talk. Generally once a day, and that’s better . . . but it’s not the same. I want to be able to feel his hands, his skin. To see his easy smile that makes all of my worries wash away. It’s weird to miss someone who lives just a couple of miles away, who wants to come see you as much as you want to go see him.

  This is my third day without a vision. Even before all of this started, that was kind of a long time. Smith says it’s because the killer has to be careful. Not only with the extra cops around, but because now the Feds have evidence on him.

  I’m not sure why that should stop me from having visions of ordinary things. The lack of visions is a little disconcerting in the face of everything else.

  “Maybe he’ll just leave town,” I suggested yesterday when Smith called to check on me.

  “I doubt it,” Smith said. “He’ll see this as a challenge.”

  Based on DNA
from the bat that match two tiny strands of hair from Clara’s coat, the cops have confirmed that the killer is a man. I breathed a tiny sigh of relief when that happened and wanted to throw Smith’s ridiculous insinuations about Sierra back in his face.

  But the vacant look on Clara’s face when she got up and left the house still haunts me. Because it looked like Jesse’s face when I pushed him back to his house, and Nicole’s face when she left to go to her friend’s house. Just because a woman isn’t the one wielding the weapon doesn’t mean she can’t be an accomplice.

  I hate that I have to even consider it, but it’s true.

  It doesn’t have to be Sierra. I refuse to believe it is Sierra, but somehow, there’s got to be an Oracle involved.

  Sierra hasn’t left the house since that night. No opportunity to try to get another look at the book. For the last three nights, I’ve managed to get into the supernatural plane, but it’s harder to focus when I’m sleeping deeply so I just chased images of Linden and sometimes gotten sidetracked watching other people. It’s more like a combination of soap operas and Choose Your Own Adventure than a supernatural realm. I always try to catch a glimpse of the killer, but just like that first time, his face eludes me as though it has a mind of its own.

  The door is still there. I haven’t tried to reach it again. When I’m sleeping soundly, I don’t seem to have the concentration to pursue one task for very long. But at least I can always get to the plane now—sleeping heavy or light. It’s some kind of improvement.

  Maybe I’ll chase the door tonight. It bugs me. It feels like it doesn’t belong there. But then, what the hell do I know? I’ve scoured the little bit of text I have for mention of a door, but there’s nothing.

  I’m lost in my thoughts, plodding beside my mom down the baking aisle and pushing the cart when I hear my name.

  “Charlotte, hold up!”

  I’m nearly bowled over by Linden pulling me into a violent hug. I throw my arms around him. I’m so happy to see him. Face-to-face. Holding him chest to chest. Hearing his life-declaring heartbeat.

  “I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers in my ear, squeezing me until it hurts and I don’t care. It feels so good to escape from everything into Linden’s arms for a few seconds.

  I hear my mom clear her throat, but I can’t let go of Linden just yet. He represents more than soft kisses and skin-tingling touches. He’s the embodiment of everything our lives simply aren’t anymore. And the hope that someday they can be normal again.

  I finally manage to allow Linden to let go of me. I give him a beaming smile. “I am so, so happy to see you.”

  “Me too,” he whispers, and squeezes my hand.

  “Linden, this is my mom,” I say, turning to gesture to her. “She’s mostly responsible for the cinnamon rolls the other day.” The other lifetime.

  “Mrs. Westing,” Linden says with a touch of formality, and I’m relieved that he doesn’t either speak loudly to her, or do something schmaltzy like lean down and get on her level like you might do to a small child. Mom hates that. He just holds out a hand. Yet more reasons to adore him.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you, Linden,” she says, and the smile that hovers around her mouth tells me that she approves of the person Linden has grown into. Much more dreamy than the twelve-year-old I used to point out during school music programs when we were in junior high.

  “I know this is kind of sudden,” Linden says, still addressing my mom, “but my parents hired me a personal security guard.” He pauses to scratch the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed and then gestures to a guy in a plain blue uniform. I force myself to stifle a laugh because, truly, it isn’t funny, but I understand why he’s embarrassed. “And I wondered if you would mind if I . . . well, invited myself over. I was going to text later today anyway,” he continues, “but running into you two is . . .” His face breaks out in a big, wide grin and he throws an arm around my shoulders. “It’s more than lucky.”

  “That would be great,” my mom says. “I hope you understand why I can’t let Charlotte go to your house.”

  He nods. “I do. And it’s okay.” Then he gives me such a smoldering look that if it were possible to literally melt into a puddle, I would, right there in the middle of the grocery store. “On top of that,” he says, breaking our eye contact to look at my mom again, “my guard guy will drive me to your house and then stay out front the whole time, so both you and Charlotte will be safer too.”

  “Win-win,” my mom says cheerfully, but with a touch of melancholy that I know comes from having to even consider such a thing.

  “Maybe tomorrow?” he says. “I know a great Italian place and I can bring takeout.” He looks over at me again, one eyebrow raised. “And then a movie?”

  “Sounds perfect,” I say, feeling better than I have since Clara’s attack. We hash out some times, and Linden says he’ll leave us to our shopping. He hesitates for a second and his eyes dart to my mom, but before he pulls away he gives me a quick kiss right on the lips in front of everyone.

  Awe. Some.

  I’m completely unashamed as I turn and watch him walk all the way down the aisle until he disappears out of sight, seeming to take some of the daylight with him.

  “Well, Charlotte,” my mom says, and I turn back to her, having almost forgotten in the moment that she was there. She gives me a light punch on the arm. “You done good,” she says with a sappy grin.

  That’s the night I reach the door.

  I see it as soon as I step out onto the reflective floor. I start to sprint, but it seems to fall away from me even faster when I run.

  So I stop and walk instead, keeping a steady pace. It’s changed, I realize, as I draw near at that same odd two-steps-forward-one-step-back kind of thing. When I first saw it, it was a rough-hewn but solid door made from long, thick beams of heavy wood. Lately there’ve been windows. Two nights ago one, and last night there were two. Now the door is filled with four long, thin panes of glass that cover nearly the entire surface.

  I’m three feet away when I lean forward and make a grab for the doorknob.

  Only to have the door retreat and widen the distance.

  So I wait and walk, and soon I’m so close I almost can’t not touch it. I don’t stop walking, but I raise my hand and slowly bring it toward the doorknob. Only when my fingers are wrapped all the way around the knob do I finally let them close into a fist.

  And the door stops, as though anchored to reality by contact with my hand.

  One thing I know for sure; I am not letting go.

  I turn the knob and it’s locked. Should have figured.

  But those windows. I step closer to the door and peer through the beveled-glass panes.

  On the other side is a similarly domed room, but infinitely smaller than mine. Not to mention darker. There are a handful of scenes cast onto the ceiling, but I can’t make out any details from here. A strange energy pulses right at the door—almost like vibrations from loud music—and I have no clue what it means.

  I see a stirring of movement behind the slightly wavy glass.

  Is someone in there? Somebody else on my supernatural plane? That doesn’t make sense. But someone locked the door. I pound on the door’s rough surface and the movement retreats until I can’t see it anymore.

  “Hey!” I shout. This is my world; at the very least I should be able to boss the people in it around.

  In an effort to get whoever’s in there to come back, I raise both hands to pound even louder but as soon as my skin loses contact with the doorknob, the door slips away.

  “Damn it!” I yell. I stand staring at the door, wondering if I can catch it in a shorter time if I start walking right now.

  But before I can make a decision, the dome around me darkens. Not darkens—dims. Just enough to notice. There’s one glowing square high above, and with no focus or effort on my part, it rolls down the spherical wall and comes nearer until it stands right in front of me, inviting me to enter.


  “Linden,” I breathe, and step into the scene, forgetting the door.

  It’s tomorrow, I think. Linden is walking into my house, a grin on his face, steaming take-out cartons in his arms, and lacy bits of snow in his hair. As my mom wheels up and offers to take something, I see myself slip my hand into his, twining our fingers. I look at those fingers, wishing I were living the scene, not just watching it. Wishing and wanting so hard that I start to feel warmth against my palm.

  And then I look up into Linden’s eyes as he squeezes my hand.

  He leads the way into the kitchen, leaving me standing there with the chilly air blowing snowflakes into the foyer.

  I’m in the scene. Living my own role. I lift a hesitant hand to push the door closed and am a little surprised when it moves. A smile curls across my face. The only thing better than a perfect date is getting to experience it twice. Without another thought, I throw myself fully into the scene, desperate to enjoy myself for once.

  I can hardly believe this isn’t real as I fork a buttery mouthful of Alfredo sauce into my mouth, bite into a crispy crust of bread, taste the bitter tinge of espresso in the tiramisu. There’s nothing that doesn’t feel real as the meal ends and the movie begins. Not that Linden or I see much of the movie. That’s the beauty of a dream world. I feel the scene subtly shift to my whims.

  Of course I pick the choice with the most kissing. What can it hurt? I know that tomorrow when we’re actually at my house, on my couch, with my mother only a room away, I won’t be bold enough to do all of the things my dream self did, but tonight I revel in it.

  “It’s my parents,” Linden says when his phone chimes out a text message. “Time for Mr. Bodyguard to bring me home.” He pulls me close and lays his lips against my neck. “I’d rather stay here.” He kisses me again, long and lingering, before standing and pulling me to my feet.

  “I’ll walk you out to the car,” I say, stretching.

  “No,” Linden says so quickly it startles me. “The guy will come to the door,” he says.