Sleep No More

TWENTY-NINE

Lights flash across my eyes as I blink them open slowly.

“She’s alive!”

“Miss, miss, can you tell me your name?” A flashlight is shining in my eyes and a rubber-gloved finger lifts one eyelid and then the other before I can finally focus on the bright light.

What happened?

He pushed me out. Smith pushed me out of my own supernatural plane.

Or is it his now? That thought makes icy terror pump through my veins.

“I’m fine,” I say, pushing the hands away. I can’t stay here. I have to go to Sierra.

But what will I say?

“Miss, what is your name?”

“Charlotte,” I say, pressing my body up to sitting. “Charlotte Westing.”

“Please lie still,” the guy with the flashlight says, trying to push me back down.

“I’m not hurt.”

“You may not feel hurt now, but when the shock wears off you could be seriously injured,” he insists, pushing harder.

“Do you think shoving me down is going to help?” I ask loudly, flinging his hands away from me. “I’m not hurt.”

Then another voice. “Miss—”

“Charlotte,” the EMT offers oh so helpfully to the cop that just walked up.

“Charlotte,” the cop amends, “you’ve just survived an attack—I think you should stay put.”

I open my mouth to tell them I wasn’t attacked, but realize the humongous can of worms that would open and close my mouth again. No memory, that’s what I’m going to have to say.

And I do. Over and over again. To every cop who comes within earshot. I don’t know how I got here, I don’t remember leaving my house, the last thing I do remember is lying in my own bed. I hear the press start to gather and I turn my face away, hoping beyond hope that the backs of all the cops have been able to block me from the cameras.

Smith isn’t nearly so lucky. I’m not sure if he beat me out of the supernatural plane or not, but he’s sitting in the snow, handcuffed, with two officers pointing their guns at him.

Seeing Smith here in the physical world jolts me like a blow from an enormous hammer, shaking me from head to toe. He peers up and meets my eyes and I freeze. I feel like he should be looking at me with hatred, betrayal, anger at the very least. But he looks complacent. Almost like he’s won. I have to turn my face away. Even being looked at by him feels like a thrust from a knife.

The knife!

Where is it? I don’t have it. I don’t think I have it. But where did I put it?

If they find the knife—my life is essentially over.

I try to look around the scene while the EMTs take my temperature, blood pressure, pulse, and do everything but pull out the little mallet to tap my knee. But I don’t see it anywhere. I shiver on the tailgate of the ambulance and since the EMT seems to be done, I shrug back into my coat. Michelle’s coat.

And feel an unfamiliar weight. I carefully pat an inner pocket to be sure.

There it is. Hidden. The things my unconscious self does. I can’t suppress a shudder and it catches the EMTs attention.

“You okay?”

“I just want to go home,” I mutter. “I’m fine, right?” He hesitates before admitting that he can’t find anything wrong with me. I toss the pastel-blue blanket aside and walk over to a cop before the EMT can stop me.

“Officer,” I ask, tapping the shoulder of a man I think I recognize as an actual Coldwater cop. “Can you please take me home before the cameras find me? I need to tell my mom I’m okay.”

And tell Sierra that I know.

“Yeah, we should do that,” the officer says kindly, and I hope and pray I’ve found the right person to get me the hell out of here.

The cop checks with some of the other officers and they look at me askance until I bring out the words that always work on television. “I’m a minor,” I say, trying to sound confident, “so I can’t say anything else until I’m with my mom.”

The younger officer doesn’t try to disguise rolling his eyes and I can tell several of the other cops are thinking something along the lines of “smart-ass kid,” but they know I’m right.

“I’ll take her,” a cop who looks close to retirement offers. “My cruiser’s parked near the back.” He gestures to another officer who joins him and they flank me on each side. I don’t escape totally unscathed—the media are taking pictures of everything that even moves—but I think my face may have stayed blocked by the two cops and the windows of the cruiser are tinted pretty dark. I keep my head pointed down at my chest anyway.

Once we’ve pulled away from the crowd, I lean my head against the headrest and try to figure out what in the world I’m going to tell my mother.

I don’t have long to find out. It’s all of a four-minute drive from the park to my doorstep. “You can just drop me off,” I attempt, but as I suspected, they don’t buy that for even a second.

My mother’s face is white when she opens the door to see me standing between two cops. The moment I see that terror in her eyes is the closest I get to regretting everything I’ve done.

Until I see Sierra too, her bathrobe hastily tied, hanging back with her arms crossed over her chest.

Anger and empathy fight to rise up inside me. I don’t know what to feel.

But the most important fact at the moment is that Smith is behind bars—or will be shortly. I caught the Coldwater Killer. My mother’s very temporary fears are a small price to pay for that. “I’m fine, Mom,” I say before either cop can get a word out.

“More than fine,” the older officer says, his tone downright jovial. “Your daughter survived an attack by the Coldwater Killer and has been central in his being caught and arrested!” I can practically see him jamming his thumbs through his suspenders, he’s so excited.

“Thank you, Lord,” my mother says with her hand over her heart, even though it’s clear she doesn’t really understand.

“We’ll leave you alone tonight, but you’ll be seeing lots of us in the next few days. We’ll need to get an official statement and I’m sure the Feds will want to talk to your daughter,” he says.

“Thank you,” my mom repeats, mostly automatically.

I slip past my mom’s chair and into the house. After the door closes, my mother turns around. “Well,” she says, and even in that single syllable, her voice is trembling.

I don’t know what to say. Do I go with the same story I told the cops? I guess I’d better. I’m going to have to tell that story a lot.

“Whose coat are you wearing?”

Well, shit. “I don’t know.” It comes as easily as all the lies about my “condition” have. I guess I’ve gotten good at lying after so many years. Not really something I’m proud of.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” my mom asks, clearly not buying it. I chance a glance at Sierra and she is staring at me calmly, her eyes glittering in alertness.

“All I know is that I went to my room to go to bed; I went to sleep, and when I woke up I was at a park surrounded by cops. That’s all I know,” I say, some of my self-loathing slipping out and making me sound angry.

My mom sighs and rubs her face with her hands. “I didn’t even realize you were gone.” I can hear the guilt in her voice and I want so badly to let her know that this isn’t her fault in any way, shape, or form.

But I can’t. Because the truth would hurt even more.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m not hurt.”

All three of us are still and silent for a moment before my mom bursts into tears and wheels herself forward to throw her arms around me. I crouch down beside her chair. Guilt fills me, overflows, and soon I’m crying too. From remorse, yes, but also relief, betrayal, the adrenaline wearing off—a bit of everything.

I glance up and my wet eyes meet my aunt’s.

She didn’t buy my story. She gives me a look that tells me she’ll be seeing me soon, and turns and walks away.

“It’s late,” Mom says, pulling back with a sniff and reddened eyes. “We can talk about things tomorrow—I’m just glad you’re okay.” She squeezes my hand. “Go to bed.”

I nod, but can’t muster up any words. Mom sees me all the way to my room and even goes so far as to watch me walk in so she can close the door behind me. I suspect she sits outside my door for a while, just listening. But that gives me a few more minutes to prepare for Sierra.

Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, I hear a very soft knock and the door swings open far enough to allow Sierra to slip through. It closes and we stare at each other.

“Who does the green coat belong to, Charlotte? And don’t tell me you don’t remember because we both know that’s a lie.” Sierra’s never been one to bother with subtlety.

“Michelle,” I say simply, not that I expect Sierra to actually remember who that is.

“She was supposed to die tonight, wasn’t she?”

I nod and my eyes fill with tears again, not because I’m sad or scared, or even because Sierra makes me feel like an awkward little kid again, although she does. It’s simply that even though everything has turned out okay, I know now that I screwed up royally. I went against everything I’ve been taught. I let a murderer into my head and he went on a killing spree. If I had fought every single vision—and ignored the ones that got through—fewer people would have died.

Even the fact that I’ve discovered Sierra’s secret, my anger at her for not telling me, not warning me, can’t overpower the fact that people in this town are dead because of me.

“You switched places with her, didn’t you?”

I nod again and now tears are running down my face and I feel like I’m about two inches tall.

“And what did you expect to accomplish? Getting yourself killed?”

“I called the cops before I left,” I burst out.

“And if they had arrived two minutes later? You’d have been dead. And then what?”

I bury my face in my hands and hear Sierra sigh, and then feel the dip of her weight on the end of my bed. “Charlotte, I know how hard it is to do nothing. But you need to understand that what you did tonight was wrong, even though the killer was caught.”

“Like you wouldn’t have done the same thing when you were my age,” I snap back.

“Why didn’t you come to me when you were having problems?” she asks softly.

“Maybe because you’ve been lying to me my entire life!” I explode in a sharp whisper. “You expect me to be this perfect Oracle; you tell me I can do it, that I’m strong enough. But you did all sorts of things that you won’t let me do.”

Her face is absolutely still now, though her eyes dance with fear. “Who have you been talking to?” she whispers.

It’s time. Now that Smith is behind bars, it’s time to come clean. I’m surprised by how much I want to tell her, consequences be damned. I open my mouth, but the words get stuck in my throat. I suddenly don’t want to tell her. Don’t want her to know anything else about Smith.

No! That’s not what I want! But something . . . something is telling my brain that it is what it wants. I’m so tired and can’t even think straight anymore.

“Charlotte, this isn’t funny. You have no idea what’s at stake here.” Sierra grabs my shoulders, gripping them so hard they hurt. I don’t think she’s even aware that she’s doing it. “Has a man been talking to you? You have to tell me!”

“No,” I say, the lie bursting from me against my own will. “I . . . I . . .” The half-truth forms without thought. “I went through your room while you were gone.”

Her entire body slumps in relief. “My stupid journals,” she says under her breath. She shakes her head back and forth a few times, then sits up straight. “We can discuss this tomorrow,” she says, her voice weak. “After we’ve both gotten a little sleep.”

I’m silent, even though I’m desperate to say something. I don’t know why my mouth won’t form the words. But I’m suddenly so tired. So very, very tired. My eyes are closing on their own.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Sierra says, then slips out the door.

The moment before she disappears from view, a dark stain blooms on her back and maroon-dark blood starts trickling down between her shoulder blades, staining her pink shirt. With a gasp I throw the covers back and run to the door and pull it open.

But all I see is my aunt’s back—whole and unscathed—traversing the final few steps to her room where she closes the door behind her.

The sound of the lock sliding into place fills the entire silent hallway.