Sleep No More

THIRTY-THREE

Once again, every channel is interrupted by newscasts as reporters stare unblinkingly into the camera and report the unexpected death of the Coldwater Killer. The man who is in no databases, who carried no ID. Who, before he died, refused to identify himself by any name but Smith. The cause of death is cited as a spontaneous massive brain hemorrhage.

He’s dead.

I killed him.

I guess you could argue that it was self-defense; in the end, it truly was him or me, even if technically my heart would have kept beating. But in my nightmares last night—each time I managed to get to sleep at all—I saw nothing but myself slamming that knife into Smith, over and over. The feel of the handle growing slippery with his blood; the clack of the blade ricocheting off his ribs; his life ebbing out of him in spurts of dark maroon. I wonder how long it will be before I can sleep peacefully again.

It’s nine in the morning, yet I feel like it’s the middle of the night. I’m so tired, but I don’t dare close my eyes.

Sierra has left me alone so far. I think she’s waiting for me to come to her. To let it be my choice. But not yet. I’m too exhausted. I lay my head down on the table and soak in the cool feel of the wood surface.

My phone rings and every muscle in my body clenches in fear when I see it’s Linden.

“Hi,” I say, just loud enough for me to hear. I’m not even sure it was loud enough for him to hear.

“Hi, Charlotte.”

The phone is silent for several long seconds until we both talk at the same time. “Listen, Linden—”

“I wondered if—”

We both laugh and it’s like nails on a chalkboard, making everything worse. “Go ahead,” I say, if nothing else, to end the faux laughter.

“I’m being released at noon and my parents left to go shower and get some stuff for me. They won’t be back for an hour or two.”

I know what’s coming and I want to cry. I hoped I could get away with pretending things were normal between us for at least another day.

“I hoped maybe you could come see me before I go home.”

“Hey,” I say, poking my head into his hospital room. He looks completely normal—he’s wearing a T-shirt that’s too big for him, probably his dad’s, and he managed to get his jeans back. He’s sitting on the bed, half reclined, and he looks like he could be at his house. On his own bed.

My face flushes red at that thought and I hide it by turning and pushing the door closed behind me. I face him again, but keep my back against the door, not ready to take another step forward. Not yet.

Linden smiles and I blink in surprise. It’s not his usual winning smile; he looks sad. I expected anger, accusation, dismissal even. But sadness? I’m not sure what to make of that.

“Come here,” he says, and pats a spot on the bed beside him.

“Linden, I have to—”

“Please,” he interrupts. “Me first. Before you thank me for something I don’t deserve.”

As far as I’m concerned, he deserves everything.

“I was getting up the guts to talk to you about this when we went on our walk yesterday and everything . . . went wrong.”

Understatement of the century.

He shifts on the bed, sits up a bit more. “Yesterday, when they showed that Smith guy who killed everyone, I freaked out a little, because I recognized him. I think it was the beginning of December, I was walking down an aisle in the hardware store when he stopped me and handed me a quarter. He said I had dropped it. I didn’t think much of it except that he was weird and insisted that I take the quarter I was pretty sure I hadn’t dropped. And his hair—I remembered his gray hair because he didn’t look old enough for his hair to be so gray.”…

I nod tentatively, remembering having the same first impression of him. Vaguely I remember that it was brown in the scene of him with young Sierra. I wonder if whatever she did to him that day turned it gray. I swallow hard and force my attention back to Linden.

“Honestly I wouldn’t have thought about it again except that every morning, for reasons I didn’t understand—or question at the time—I put that quarter in my pocket. Carried it around all day.” He laces his fingers together, clenches them, pulls them apart. “And that’s when I started talking to you at school.”

I’m confused, not following his logic.

“Charlotte, I haven’t told anyone this, but I . . . Bethany and I were going out. We hadn’t said anything yet—it was only for about two weeks and we were kind of enjoying our little secret.” He looks sheepishly down at his lap, clearly embarrassed. “But since we’re being truthful, I’d liked her for ages. Like, years.”

I nod; I know exactly how that feels.

“We were together the night she died.”

I suck in a quick breath of surprise.

“Sort of,” Linden clarifies. “We were together and then I just . . . I left her. I didn’t know why. But I did. When I found out she was dead, it was like somebody ripped a hole in my chest and took out my heart. But after I started hanging out with you, the pain was more bearable. There were times I wouldn’t think about Bethany for an hour or two. And then it was a whole day. I was numb,” he finishes and looks up at me guiltily. “But I only felt that way when I was with you and so I kept calling. And texting. I didn’t mean to be an asshole—I really did think I was falling for you. But it wasn’t even that exactly, it was more like—I don’t know how to explain it.”

“A compulsion?” I suggest, the devastating truth pouring down on me like a ton of rocks.

Did you think he really liked you, Charlotte? Did you believe?

“Yeah,” he says with a nod. “Exactly. And after I saw a picture of Smith, I started to put it together. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think somehow he was controlling me”—he meets my eyes and the intensity I see there frightens me all over again—“the same way he controlled you with that knife.”

To get her out of Linden’s way. My mouth is so dry my throat hurts and I can’t speak. I sit there frozen with fear, the ache of reality hitting me in the stomach.

“I didn’t know you had anything to do with it, of course. I just thought it was me. And maybe that’s how he got some of his other victims. But when you pulled out the knife, I could tell it wasn’t you. When your aunt talked to him directly, I knew, I knew that he was controlling you too. Looking back, that must have been why I left Bethany that night. He made me.”

I nod and when I blink a single tear slides down my cheek. Linden leans forward and brushes it away with his thumb.

“That’s why I lied,” he said. “I couldn’t make you suffer for something you didn’t choose, when I’ve basically been completely fake with you for the last three weeks.”

“I don’t care that it was fake, Linden,” I say with a shaky smile. “I loved every minute of it.”

I expect my words to make him feel better, but he looks guiltily down at his hands. “There . . . there’s more.” He digs into his pocket then holds his hand out to me. I open my palm and he drops a coin onto it.

A quarter with a crack halfway down the middle. I study it and squint at a shimmering core in the middle that I’m pretty sure doesn’t belong in a normal quarter. “It’s the one Smith gave you,” I say, and it’s not a question. I put my hand into my own pocket and my fist closes around the necklace. I pull it out and open my palm.

The stone on the silver chain has a small crack in it too. And the same kind of odd glittery metal in the middle. I didn’t notice it when I grabbed it and shoved it into my pocket this morning. Just in case.

Every time you use the necklace with my spell in it, the door gets bigger, Smith said. This is it—the spell he somehow put inside the focus stone. Binding us together. Every hour you spent using the necklace to come here strengthened my hold on you. Now I know how.

“His mind-control thing is gone. When I woke up from surgery yesterday, I was overwhelmed with grief for Beth,” Linden says, and gives me that sad smile again. “That’s when I knew for sure that I had been controlled. And that it was over. That you did something to break it. Not just for you, but for me too.”

He takes a long, shaky breath. “I know it’s been almost a month, but to me, it feels like Bethany just died.” He swallows hard. “I know this is a totally shit thing of me to do after basically making out with you for the last week, but I’m not ready to date anyone. I need time to grieve for Beth. And . . .” He pauses and blinks rapidly several times. “And I don’t know how long it’s going to take,” he says, finishing in a whisper.

“I understand.” It’s the truth. I understand more than he could ever know. More than he will ever know.

He rushes on. “I thought maybe in a few months—if I’m ready and if you’re ready, maybe we could try being friends and then . . . then see where it goes.”

For one tiny instant, I think I can say yes. But only one. “Linden,” I say, and I lay my hand on his knee, rubbing my fingers slowly up his thigh for the last time ever. Because even if he did decide he was ready—even if he did think he wanted me for real—I would always wonder if there was a lingering influence from Smith. He would know that once, when we were sixteen, I tried to kill him. And I would always have to hide that his girlfriend—his real one—died for the sole reason that the monster hunting me wanted her out of the way.

In my mind, I see the screen from Smith’s world where I’m a shimmering bride smiling up at a handsome, slightly older version of Linden. Opening my mouth and forcing the words out now is just as difficult as that hammer swing. “I think we’ve had our shot.”

For the barest moment, I see relief slide over his face and I know I’ve done the right thing.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say as I rise from the bed. “It means a lot.” I shrug, and force a smile. “And thanks for not telling them,” I say, tilting my head toward the door—the doctors, his parents, the world.

“It’s our secret,” he says.

I hesitate. “I didn’t know Bethany, really,” I choke out, “but if you liked her so much, she must have been wonderful.”

“She was,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry you lost her.”

He nods, and then he looks up and meets my eyes and there’s another emotion there that I’m not sure I understand. “I’m glad I found you. Even if it was only for a little while.”

“Me too.”

And he doesn’t know, as I turn and smile down at him before opening the door, that my heart is splintering into pieces. That even those splinters are breaking in half, leaving almost nothing of my heart to beat life into me.