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Her body is covered with a white drape, and the reporter is rambling on about her injuries, but even his gruesome descriptions can’t compare to the actual sight. The one I saw only yesterday.
Mom’s hand is clenched around a mug of coffee, but she hasn’t lifted it to her mouth since she turned the television on ten minutes ago. “Who could do this?” she finally whispers after what feels like hours.
Unfortunately, despite the vision, that’s a question I can’t answer. Visions are fickle that way—sometimes they give you the important information, and sometimes they simply … don’t.
Sierra walks into the noticeably tense kitchen. “What’s going on?” she asks, looking between Mom and me and not seeming to notice that the TV is on despite its high volume. She’s like that, totally unaware of some things while being hyperaware of others. Probably because she’s constantly on guard for visions.
I guess I’ll be like that someday too.
“A teenage girl was killed at the high school last night,” Mom whispers, still staring horrified at the television. “Throat sliced right open.”
Sierra’s head swings to me and she stares with questions shining in her eyes. I feel like I did when I was six. I don’t know how she knew then, but she did.
And she knows now.
Her expression evokes the same awful guilt, even though this time I did nothing. Which makes me feel even more guilty.
Sierra fills her coffee cup with marked carefulness. She begins to leave the kitchen, but just before she disappears around the doorway she flicks her head, gesturing for me to join her.
I stall. I’ve got about five bites of now-soggy cereal in the bottom of my bowl, and I lift them to my mouth slowly. But I can’t put it off long—I have to leave for school soon.
Sierra is waiting for me just outside her bedroom door. “This is why you were asking questions yesterday, isn’t it?”
There’s no point in denying it.
“You didn’t tell me you actually saw it. I assumed you fought.” Even though her voice is soft, I can tell she’s angry. Angry that I didn’t confide in her? Maybe.
“I did fight!” To my dismay, tears are starting to build up in my eyes. I didn’t expect it to actually happen so soon. I wasn’t ready. “I fought so hard,” I continue, pleading now. “It was different from anything I’ve ever experienced before. I couldn’t stop it.”
She stares at me for a long time, but then her eyes soften and she simply says, “I wish you’d told me.”
“Why?” I shoot back. Not mad exactly, but very helpless. “So you could do something?” Her jaw tightens but I continue. “What good would it have done to tell you?”
Sierra looks down the hall toward the kitchen where I can hear the news continuing about the murder. She steps close and lays a hand on my shoulder. “Charlotte, the life of an Oracle is very solitary; we’re lucky to have each other. Please don’t push me away because I have high expectations of you. I don’t think you failed—these things happen. But that means it’s time to be even more vigilant.”
Her steady gaze makes me weirdly nervous and I pull out my phone and light up the clock on my home screen. “I gotta go.”
After getting dressed, I walk into the kitchen and pick up my set of house keys from the basket beside the back door. Surprisingly the soft jingle is what finally distracts Mom from the gruesome scene on the screen. “Where are you going?” she says in a rather irritated tone.
I blink at her, confused. “School?”
Her hair looks almost wild around her face as she shakes her head. “You can’t go to school today.”
“Why not?” The words are out of my mouth before I realize how stupid they are. Of course my mother is worried about my safety; a girl who’s in a couple of my classes just got murdered on school grounds.
She doesn’t know that I’m completely safe.
It’s kind of an open secret among Oracles; we all know how we’re going to die. Or, like me, we don’t yet because it’s too far in the future. The more personal a foretelling is, the harder to fight off. And nothing is more personal than one’s own death. I managed to get that tidbit out of Sierra once when I asked why she didn’t try to change her own death in the vision we both saw when I was six. But then she clammed up and wouldn’t tell me anything else.
I’ve never had a foretelling about myself. I’m pretty sure that means my death is years and years and years in the future. My lonely, eccentric future.
And that means I’m safe today. But Mom doesn’t know that.
“I know this is awful,” I say, “but I have a test in trigonometry today. I have to go.”
Mom fixes me with a dry look. “I have a feeling the test is going to be postponed.”
As though she can control the television, the silence between us fills with a voice announcing, “Due to the fact that William Tell High School is a crime scene that has not yet been released by the police, classes have been canceled. Principal Featherstone hopes to open campus as early as Monday, but until then, please keep your teenagers home, where they’re safe.”
Canceled or not, a quick shot from the news camera shows that the teenagers of Coldwater, Oklahoma, are certainly not at home. The football field fence is lined with students and adults alike, most in tears as they watch from behind bright yellow barriers of police tape fastened across the chain-link.
“The police haven’t released the name of the victim yet,” the news reporter continues, catching my attention again. “Only that she was a student attending this school.” She indicates the crowd of people, many on their phones. “You can imagine the panic these kids must be feeling as they call and text their friends and wait anxiously for responses. For channel six, this is—” But I tune her out; I don’t care what her name is.
My eyes are glued to the draped body that’s now being lifted onto a gurney bound for a waiting ambulance. They do a good job of keeping her face covered, but a gust of icy December wind wrenches the drape free from one foot and a maroon ballet flat comes into view.
A scream sounds from offscreen and, as though drawn to the agony, the camera swings toward the fence and shows a tall brunette crumpling to the ground, surrounded by a handful of other girls.
Rachel Barnett. She’s Bethany’s best friend. The one I saw her with yesterday. She would know instantly who those shoes belong to. Sobs shake her body as the news camera zooms in, invading her private grief. I can’t help but feel like a voyeur as Rachel wails and shakes her head. I don’t even realize I’m crying until I’m gasping for air.
I turn and leave the kitchen, ignoring my mom when she calls after me. I swing the door to my bedroom closed as fast as I can without slamming it, and lock it. My room feels too dark even with the sunlight pouring in through the window, so I turn on my overhead light, and then add my bedside lamp for good measure. After kicking off my shoes, I dive under my comforter, wishing something as simple as a fluffy feather blanket could hope to chase away the frost inside me.
I could have stopped this.
No, that’s not exactly true. I might have been able to stop this. And I didn’t even try. Even though I can hear my aunt’s voice screaming in my head that I did the right thing, I feel like a terrible person.
And what’s worse is that I hadn’t actually decided what to do yet. I thought I had more time. I was going to make the for-sure decision this weekend. And now the choice has been torn away from me.
I did nothing.
Not because I chose to do nothing, but because I didn’t make a choice at all. The thought sickens me. I wish I’d never seen the vision. I wish I’d fought harder. Assuming I even could have fought harder. The memory of how drained I felt after the foretelling makes me doubt it, but maybe there was something else I could have done.
Even without a vision, the whole idea of a murder would have seemed surreal. Coldwater is the kind of place where stuff like this just doesn’t happen. We’re not teeny tiny; there are, like, ten or fifteen thousand people in the community. Lots of farmers, people who say hi at the grocery store even though they don’t exactly know who you are. Half the town goes out to the high school football games Friday nights without fail. That kind of thing.
Our idea of a crime-filled night is some couple getting drunk and causing a “domestic disturbance,” or maybe a high schooler attempting to steal a bottle of tequila from the liquor store on a dare.
Not killing people. Not killing kids.
I should have warned her. I shove my head under my blanket in some long-forgotten instinct, and then tear it off again to escape the darkness.
As light flashes across my eyes, I have a terrifying thought: maybe that was the reason the vision overwhelmed all of my defenses—because I was supposed to help her and I failed.
But what if I had done something? If I’d warned her to be careful she might have taken Rachel with her. Then two people would be dead. And that second death would have been entirely my fault.
This isn’t about choosing between right and wrong; it’s about trying to predict the line between wrong … and more wrong.
(#ulink_912a3228-c6e8-5147-b34c-538f1112d856)
Monday is pure hell. Even worse than the torture I’ve been putting myself through all weekend. There’s a huge pile of flowers and candles and stuffed animals in front of the school. Not just from other students—from the whole community. The sense of security that permeated Coldwater is gone.
People are afraid. Sad and afraid.
News vans have come in from Tulsa. I’d like to think it’s because they care—and that’s certainly the façade they’re trying to sell—but it feels intrusive. Like strangers attending a strictly family funeral. I want to chase them away and tell them this isn’t their loss.
But I can’t. I have to attempt to blend in—act like I’m as surprised by this horrific act of violence as anyone. That I’m as normal as every other kid floating aimlessly through the halls today.
Standing in front of my locker, I almost don’t notice Linden. Of course, he’s not drawing any attention to himself. Maybe he’s even consciously trying to avoid it. I pretend to be sifting through the stuff in my backpack as I study him. The light and spark in his posture and expression that generally define him are gone. His eyes are red rimmed. He looks broken.
I forgot that he was one of Bethany’s friends. I want to go to him, to say something to ease that awful look in his eyes. It makes me hurt to see him this way.
I probably shouldn’t, but I do anyway.
I approach tentatively, not wanting to screw this up and make it even worse for him. “Linden?” I say softly. He turns and for just a second it’s like he’s too deep in his grief to even recognize me. Then his face softens.
“Charlotte. I didn’t see you.”
“That’s okay.”
We’re both silent for a few seconds. “I’m so sorry about Bethany.” And somehow, just saying the words—apologizing to someone—makes me feel better. “I know she was your friend,” I add in a mumble.
He nods stiffly.
“If I can … if you ever need, I don’t know, someone to talk to or something,” I blurt, half mortified at what I’m saying.
He stares at me for several long seconds before a ghost of a smile touches his mouth. “That’s really nice of you. I—” He hesitates and for a moment I think he’s actually going to say something—something meaningful. “I’ll remember that you offered. Thanks,” he says, and then wanders away with a small hand flutter instead of saying good-bye.
I watch him go with an ache in my heart. Somehow, seeing Linden hurt like this makes my remorse even worse.
He doesn’t show up to choir.
When school gets out, I know I should hurry home. My house is literally within sight of the front gates of the high school and though I finally convinced my mom to let me walk to school this morning, she wheeled out to the front porch and watched me the entire way.
She’ll stress until I walk back in the door.
But I need a few minutes.
I slump against the worn metal door of my locker, letting my back slide down until my butt hits the floor. I rub at my temples. I’ve been in a blur all day, but my head feels downright cottony now.
Oh no. My eyes fly open. “I’m so stupid,” I mutter to myself. I’ve been so distracted by my own guilt and pain I didn’t recognize the signs. The very last thing I want to do right now is to fight another foretelling; it’s harder when I’m feeling emotionally vulnerable.
And there’s something else. Something new: fear. After the horror of the last vision a tiny quiver clenches in my stomach at the thought of losing a fight again. Of seeing something like that again.
I briefly wonder if I can make it all the way home and into my bedroom before it overtakes me, but even if the pressure in my head weren’t already starting to build, I suspect my mom won’t let me get past her without at least five minutes of talk—she hasn’t been able to focus on anything except Bethany all weekend.
Fine, it’s gotta happen here in the hallway. I can handle this. I can do it.
At least I don’t have to worry about anyone looking at me funny. Everyone is out of it today. I brace my forehead on my knees and stare steadfastly at the tiles on the floor, forcing a black veil over my second sight. Bracing myself to hold it there the way Sierra taught me.
A savage storm rips it away.
Not again! In my head, I grasp for the blackness and for just a second the imaginary drape slides into place and I think I’ve won.
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.”
