Sleep No More Page 4

  Maybe I even could have won if I weren’t already exhausted. But the last dregs of my mental strength aren’t enough when a fistful of fingers reaches forward and rips the curtain away again and the same vise from last week squeezes my skull until I want to scream in agony.

  I can’t erect a strong enough barrier to block it, and then the fingers are pushing into my mind, taking over, and I’m tumbling down the river. Then falling. Falling.

  The darkness flees, leaving me standing in a strange grayness.

  It’s snowing. Those thick, heavy flakes that fall silently and feel like a blanket being laid over the earth. My vision self breathes a sigh of relief. We haven’t gotten our first real snow yet. Whatever I’m about to see, good or bad, I should have some time. Not like Bethany.

  As the vision forces my feet to walk, I start resisting again. Fighting with every ounce of strength I have left. Not because of Sierra or the rules.

  Because I’m terrified.

  I’ve never been so afraid of what might be waiting for me. I know what a vision this strong can bring and I don’t ever want to see something like that again.

  But my feet keep striding through the cottony snow. There’s a large, dark shadow in front of me. Not a person, a thing. A truck, I realize when I get closer. The truck is sitting on a dirt road, but there are no streetlights. The sky is cloudy, so I can’t tell how full the moon is—that would have been helpful; maybe I could have looked it up. The filtered moonlight and distant lights from town are reflecting off the pure white snow and the billowy clouds above, giving the night air a strange orangey glow that always comes with this kind of thick, silent snowfall.

  The door of the truck hangs open, and at first I don’t see anyone inside. But there’s something. . . . I gasp as I realize the dark stain I’m seeing on the far side of the windshield is blood. A huge spatter of blood decorating a spider-webbed crack in the glass.

  I swallow hard as dread eats at my stomach, but I can’t stop my legs from continuing to carry me to the truck, my neck from peering around the open door. And even though I squeeze my eyes shut, only my physical eyelids close.

  My foretelling eyes have to see.

  He’s draped facedown on his stomach across the bench seat, with his hand wrapped around his phone. Trying to call for help, I suspect. I try not to see the rest, but bile rises in my throat as I force back a sob and take in the details. It’s gunshot wounds this time, instead of a knife. One, two, three, four, five of them up his back before the veritable crater in his skull that makes me sway on my feet. Each wound is a gaping hole in his skin—through his coat. Five ripped circles stained with still-wet blood that looks shiny black.

  His head . . . I can hardly focus. It’s too much. His hair is sprinkled with fragments of bones and small bits that I’m pretty sure belong inside his skull. The bullet must have done this, then kept going through the windshield on the far passenger side—making the bloody star I saw first.

  He never had a chance. I swallow hard and remind myself to observe. I have to be brave enough to face this horror—figure out where he is, who he is. I can’t move my feet to where I want them to go, but if I crane my neck I can see just a little bit better. I force myself to look past the bloody mess of his hair and try to make out his profile in the dim light.

  I throw my hand over my mouth. He’s one of the basses in our performance choir. A sophomore, younger than me.

  Matthew. Matthew Phelps. He was in one of my art classes last year too.

  With my fists clenched, I whirl around, trying to take in my surroundings. I don’t know if I can do anything to save him, but figuring out where we are is definitely the first step. Coldwater is a pretty spread-out community with a forest on the west end of the city. I think that’s where we are now. I’m surrounded by bare, spindly trees, but I’m not in the middle of nowhere. Just off the paved road. There’re a bunch of rich-people houses up on what passes for mountains in Oklahoma that don’t have paved roads leading to them. Maybe Matthew lives there.

  Maybe he was just going home. And some guy asked him for directions. Then he turned his back and . . . I don’t know. I look at the trees as the vision begins to darken and force myself to stare, to memorize, as the vision fades.

  I have to find out where this is. And more important: when. I don’t care what Sierra thinks—I have to do something. I’m not sure my conscience can handle another disaster. Not something even more bloody and violent than Bethany’s death.

  The school hallway slowly comes into focus and I’m shivering uncontrollably. I huddle beneath my coat. It takes a couple of minutes before I have the strength to stand. This vision was even harder on me than the last one and my legs are quivery. With Bethany’s, I felt like I was put through a punishing workout—today I feel like I flat out got beat up. Bruised from head to toe.

  I limp home and, sure enough, my mom’s wheelchair is sitting out on the porch and she’s bundled up in her warmest coat, staring at the screen of her phone.

  “There you are!” she says, reaching out for me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, squeezing her hand before I wheel her into the warm house and down the hall to her office. “We had a choir meeting after school,” I lie smoothly, “and I thought it was going to be, like, five minutes and it just kept going and going. I should have texted you.”

  She gives me a tight smile. “Yes, you should have. But the important part is that you’re here now, and you’re safe.”

  I sit on the chair in her office that’s always left empty for me and just watch her. She’s working, but the smooth rhythm from last week is gone. She writes a few things, then turns to stare at a small TV she’s set up on a stool beside her desk. It’s muted, the news reporters mouthing words I don’t need to hear anymore to understand. Bethany’s body, her delayed funeral, interviews with her parents, her teachers, her friends—when they can hold their tears back long enough to speak. I’ve seen it all, but they keep replaying it like some terrible CD skipping over and over.

  I’ve got to go find that forest. I can’t let this happen again.

  “Can I borrow the car?” I ask.

  Mom turns and fixes me with a surprised gaze, clearly shocked that I would even ask.

  “I just want to go for a drive. To think.”

  She’s already shaking her head.

  “Mom, please,” I beg, trying to hide how desperate I am. “I’ll be careful. I’ll keep the doors locked and I won’t stop for anyone or get out of the car or anything. I’ll just drive.” Up some dirt roads that may or may not lead to a future murder site in the middle of nowhere.

  “I don’t want you leaving the house,” my mom says.

  “We can’t let this make us paranoid,” I protest irrationally.

  “It’s not that,” Mom retorts. Then she pauses and amends, “It’s not just that.” She turns back to the silenced television beside her desk. “The forecast is calling for snow tonight.”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  SIX

  There’s nothing on the news the next morning. But that doesn’t make me feel any better. The location was so remote; they might not have found him yet. My mom held firm last night and the weather guy was right. So I sat at my bedroom window until the wee hours of the morning, helplessly watching that thick, muffling snow cover the ground, certain I was too late.

  I sit at the breakfast table, pushing my food around on my plate and waiting for the time when I have to leave for school. I keep expecting a hint of something on the news, but it’s all still Bethany. People are starting to get angry because the medical examiner hasn’t released her body. It’s been five days and as far as anyone can tell, there are zero leads.

  I wonder if the discovery of another body will make them keep her longer or let them move on.

  I feel like all of my insides are twisting around each other an
d squeezing. I wish I could fake sick. But then the news of Matthew’s death will come through and Sierra will know why I stayed home. I can’t risk it.

  I considered telling her this morning—coming clean before the body was found—but when I got to her room, her door was locked. I thought about knocking—lifted my hand even—but I couldn’t make myself do it. I feel like the lamest Oracle on earth.

  I leave the house with a quick glance at Sierra’s still-closed door, and Mom wheels onto the porch to watch me again. Tomorrow, she won’t let me walk. After today, I’ll be lucky if she ever lets me out of the house again.

  I’m grabbing my trigonometry book from my locker when I see him, standing there with no idea he’s supposed to be dead.

  The heavy book falls from my hands and lands on the linoleum floor with an ear-splitting crack that echoes through the hall. People turn to look at me, but I’m already staggering toward Matthew, ignoring everything else.

  “Hey,” I say lamely, realizing I’m so focused on the fact that he’s not dead that I don’t have any idea what the hell to say to him.

  “Hi, Charlotte.” He studies me, furrows his brow and then asks, “Are you okay?”

  Better now. “Um, yeah, I just, I . . . I forgot my music for “Winter Wonderland.” Do you mind if I borrow yours and make a copy of it real quick?”

  “Oh, sure. Of course,” he says, the concern erased from his face so easily I want to cry with relief. He’s alive, he doesn’t suspect, and no one is looking at us anymore.

  He hands me a piece of music. “Just bring it to choir with you. No hurry.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, taking the music I don’t actually need. I hesitate, but the hellish hours I spent last night aren’t something I can live through again. I banish Sierra’s voice from my head and say, “Matthew, you live kind of out in the middle of nowhere, right?”

  “Sort of. I mean, there are, like, four houses in our little neighborhood, but it’s up on the hill west of town.” He’s confused again.

  “Be careful,” I say, hurrying on before Matthew can say anything. “Maybe I’m just paranoid because of Bethany, but that guy is still out there somewhere and . . . be careful, okay?” I spin away and flee before he can reply.

  Before he can ask any questions.

  There. I did something. Who knows if it will be enough? But I warned him. Being careful can’t possibly hurt. And considering last night’s snow, there’s a chance he was going to die, but that the future changed and it’s not going to happen at all.

  The future is funny like that.

  I return to my locker—which, of course, I left open with my trig book lying on the floor in front of it; no wonder everyone thinks I’m such a freak—and gather my stuff. I know I ought to feel guilty. But I can’t bring myself to be anything but glad.

  As I pick up my trig book, my phone peals out my text chime and I drop the book again, winning myself more startled looks.

  It’s a number I don’t recognize.

  You’re the only one who could have helped her. Why didn’t you?

  The world spins, and I suddenly can’t breathe. Who the hell could have written this? Who knows my secret?

  The emotional roller coaster I’ve been on this morning proves too much for my nerves and a stabbing pain starts up in my head. The first bell rings and everyone starts shuffling toward their first-hour class, but I can’t take trying to listen to American history right now. Just . . . no.

  I head to the nurse’s office instead. One of the perks of being weird is that the nurse has been informed that I “get very sudden migraines.” I don’t like the lie, but when I do actually get a tension headache, it means I can have a prescription-strength naproxen instead of the two Tylenol that most kids get.

  The nurse takes my temperature and though she frowns at the thermometer in a way that tells me my temp is normal—I could have predicted that without any Oracle skills—she lets me lie down in the last available bed and gives me a well-worn but soft blanket before tugging the privacy curtain around me.

  I should tell Sierra; I know that. But can I tell her the truth about the vision I saw with Matthew and still hide that I told him to be careful? That I broke the all-important rule of Oracles? Never, under any circumstances, change the future. She can read me so well—I swear, she’ll just know.

  Why didn’t you? The words from the text swim through my aching head until my stomach starts hurting too. I’ve got to figure this out. Maybe it was another Oracle. Maybe she had the same vision.

  I squint through the small crack in the privacy curtain and see the nurse sitting in front of her computer. I turn my back to the gap and carefully pull out my phone. I find my aunt’s number and then text her:

  Are there any other Os in Coldwater?

  I hit SEND before I can think too hard about the consequences of what I’ve just done.

  My phone buzzes and I clench my teeth at the sound, hoping no one else heard it.

  No.

  Helpful, I think sardonically.

  I send my reply with shaky fingers:

  Are you sure?

  A little while passes.

  Completely. No bloodlines within 500 miles of us.

  Oracles are not only always female, but the ability is genetic. So you don’t just have Oracles pop up out of the blue. It can skip a generation—even two or three sometimes—but there’s always a connection. And one of my aunt’s jobs is tracking genealogy for the Sisters. She of all people would know.

  There goes that idea. I mean, technically it could be someone from far away, but if they know about me and saw what I saw, I have to assume they’re somewhere close.

  So . . . probably not another Oracle. But then how . . . ?

  My phone buzzes again.

  Why?

  I scrunch up my face and try to think of a reasonable answer.

  I just wondered if we should reach out and be supportive. That’s all.

  I hold my breath and hope that satisfies her. Luckily I come to Sierra with Oracle questions all the time—even if she doesn’t always answer them very often. It’s not like I can go to anyone else and besides, she knows more about Oracles than . . . probably anyone else on Earth. Literally.

  Rolling over again, I flip back to the other text. Not to read it; I know what it says. The words are burned into my mind. More to convince myself it’s real. I clench my fingers around the phone and hold it against my chest as I curl my spine and clutch my aching stomach and try to ignore the slowly softening pounding in my head.

  Everyone thinks they want superpowers. To be magical and more important and special than everyone else. To be extraordinary. But they don’t really. They don’t understand. I would give anything to be normal.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  SEVEN

  Despite my stress and guilt and worry and paranoia, I do manage to get one uninterrupted night of sleep before I find out Matthew is dead.

  My mom is crying in the kitchen, and fear squeezes my heart so tightly I’m pretty sure it stops beating for a few seconds. I can’t help but feel a smoldering of anger as I watch the news report. What could he possibly have done to get killed like this—stopped to pee in the snow? Everyone’s been on their guard—why would he get out of his car?

  I told him to be careful. It wasn’t enough. I failed.

  I’m almost deaf to the sound of the newscaster when one detail worms itself into my head.

  “We have been informed that the male minor—who police have identified but whose name has not yet been released—was shot with a gun that, though registered to his father, was engraved with his name. The gun was left at the crime scene and hopefully holds a key to this killer’s identity.”

  Shot with his own gun.

  My knees won’t hold me and I collapse into a chair as questions race through my head: Why did he have a gun in
his truck? Did he start carrying it because of Bethany’s murder? Or because I told him to be careful?

  I feel a strong hand wrap around my upper arm and pull me into the hallway, but the message doesn’t reach my legs in time and I stumble and stagger after Sierra. Momentarily out of my mother’s sight, Sierra stares at my face, studying me. Not studying—scrutinizing. I don’t have the energy to try to hide anything. I simply look back, tears coursing down my trembling cheeks.

  Sierra straightens, appearing satisfied. “This one surprised you,” she whispers, her hand rubbing my upper arms. It would be comforting if I didn’t already feel so guilty.

  I nod. It’s the truth. I had just started to believe—to almost hope—that he would live. That I had changed his fate. I was surprised.

  “You didn’t see it.”

  I close my eyes and start to cry in earnest now. She takes my sobs as an answer and gathers me against her chest. “This is always the hardest part,” she murmurs in my ear as her fingers stroke my hair away from my damp face. “Seeing innocent lives snuffed out and thinking there was something we could have done.” She pulls back and looks down at me. “Charlotte, listen. There is nothing you could have done. Not for him, not for that girl. Not without setting into motion uncontrollable ripples of consequence. You’re innocent.”

  Innocent? I’m anything but. If I had said nothing, would Matthew still be alive? Was it something he did in the name of caution that led to this? There’s no way to know for sure. But I took action and now, to some degree, I bear responsibility. I am so far from innocent.

  But I nod. Because I have to. Because she won’t let me go until I do, and I need to get back to the news—to hear anything they might have discovered. My own method of torture, perhaps.

  When I flee, Sierra doesn’t bar my way and I go right back into the kitchen. I eat a type of cereal I couldn’t have identified five minutes later and listen to the news, hungering for some tidbit of evidence that might exonerate me.