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Your attempt was admirable, but it obviously didn’t work. I can show you how to stop it from happening again. Call me when you get desperate enough. Do it for that poor boy’s sake. Please.
I suppress the urge to fling the phone to the ground as my lungs suck air in fast, loud gasps.
Whoever this is, they know. But how much do they know? Are they watching me?
They know I saw the vision of Bethany, and that I tried to warn Matthew.
And that I failed.
I shove my phone into my pocket and duck back into the early morning wind. I’m not sure where I’m going.
I can’t go home. I just can’t. I’m not ready. Not to face my mom or Sierra. I head past the school, walking down more unshoveled sidewalks and marring more perfect sheets of snow. My sockless feet are starting to tingle with cold inside my boots, but I ignore them. My mind tosses questions and possibilities around and around my brain.
After half an hour, I’ve circled the same block three times and I’m out of new snow to walk on. I feel similarly trapped in my head as my mind grows weary. It leaves the wild theories, the guilty scenarios, and instead focuses on the two pictures that won’t leave my eyes, even when I scrunch them closed: the bleeding gap across Bethany’s throat, and the hole in Matthew’s head.
And I realize I can’t live with myself if it happens again.
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When I get back to my house, I’m shivering and stiff and fairly sure my toes are frozen. I took the long way and avoided the school, so I honestly don’t know if I’m technically ditching or not.
I guess I’m the empty desk today.
I’m certain I look pathetic when I come in the front door and go right to my mom’s office to apologize. But she takes one glance at my face and I know words won’t be needed. She helps me shrug out of my coat and kick off my boots. I murmur that I’m sorry as we go out to the great room, where I lay on the couch while my mom rubs my back. It’s something she’s done for me when I was sick for as long as I can remember.
I’m not physically sick today, but heartsick is a word I really understand now. Eventually my mom has to get back to work; I assure her I’ll be fine. That I just want to go to sleep.
Which is absolutely true.
But ten minutes later, I hear footsteps click down the hallway and the jingle of keys before the front door opens and closes. My heart pounds in my chest as I rise silently from the couch and peek out the window to see Sierra driving away.
My fingers tingle with both fear and anticipation as my gaze travels down the hallway.
Her bedroom door is closed, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I don’t think she knows I’m home.
With a quick glance toward the corner that leads me to my mom’s office, I creep down the hall and lay my fingers on the doorknob. I take a breath, cross my fingers, and try.
It’s unlocked.
I have no idea how long she’ll be gone.
And if she catches me, she’ll be so angry.
But it’s a chance I’m going to have to take. I hurry in and leave the door open a few inches so I can listen for her to come back. As though pulled by a magnet, I go right to the ancient copy of Repairing the Fractured Future and pull it out, feeling like the worst niece in the world even as my mind tells me I’m completely justified. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to know what Sierra knows?
I need this.
Sierra has told me that knowledge is dangerous, that she has a very risky position as the historian for the Sisters. But that sounds remarkably like all the arguments people give for censorship and banning books and stuff. I don’t agree with that either.
I know that the Sisterhood has the basic functions of finding Oracles, training them, and protecting them in ways I don’t really understand. But as far as I can tell, the main purpose they have—at least in my life—is to suppress all knowledge of Oracles. And not just from the world, but from the Oracles as well.
Shaking away my dismal thoughts, I carefully open the book. The title is stamped onto the leather cover with gold embossing, but to my surprise, the book is written by hand. The handwriting on the yellowed pages is full of loops and curlicues and as cool as it looks, it’s going to take ages to decipher. My heart sinks. I’d need days at the very least and there’s a pretty good chance Sierra just ran out for a cup of coffee from her favorite local café.
I start reading as fast as I can and I’ve worked my way through less than two pages when I realize I’m being stupid.
There’s a camera on my phone.
Isn’t that how the last Harry Potter book got leaked?
I pull my phone out of my pocket and crouch down to lay the book out flat on the floor. Focus, take the picture, flip the page. Again, again, again. My concentration is laser sharp as I continue to page through the book, cursing under my breath when the camera phone has trouble focusing on the blocks of cramped handwriting.
When the sound of a door opening echoes in from the front entryway I’m so intent I almost forget what it means.
Sierra. Home.
Shit!
With a sharp pang of regret, I slam the book closed and shove it back into its gaping space on the bookshelf. I hear Sierra greeting my mom as I slip out her door and pull it closed behind me as silently as possible. On quiet feet, I sprint down the hallway and duck into my bedroom. I count to five and then poke my head out like I’m casually saying hi.
“I didn’t know you were here,” Sierra says, startling a little when she sees my face.
Or I wouldn’t have left, I finish her thought in my head.
I bite my lip, but my mom’s voice trickles in from her office to save me. “It’s bound to be a rough day,” she says. “I let her stay home.”
“Oh. Oh yes,” Sierra says as though only just now remembering that another teen was murdered less than two miles from this house.
She turns and heads down the hallway to her room and as she turns the doorknob, I stand frozen, gripping the wall to keep my fingers from shaking. I’m waiting for something to happen. Why the hell did I think I could get away with this?
But Sierra’s door closes with a soft click. My mom clatters on in her office. The world keeps turning.
I just can’t breathe.
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The next few days pass in a blur and by the time the end of the semester arrives, the worst of the shock has passed. Not that anything’s back to normal. But we’re starting to remember how to function again.
Today’s the last day of school before winter break, but I don’t feel festive. No one does. I’d never have believed that the social walls in the school would crack, but something about one of the Populars and one of the Nerds both being killed within a week of each other has splintered that unbreakable stone. Everyone mourns together and though I’m sure it can’t last, this blending of all the cliques feels like a fitting way to honor them both.
Except for me. I drift through the hallways as much a ghost as Bethany and Matthew might be. No one in the entire school knows what I know—no one else feels the weight of such a blend of emotions. Even in the face of this united grief, I’m alone. Two deaths in the school apparently doesn’t make me any less of a freak.
The one silver lining in this whole catastrophe is that, oddly, Linden’s talking to me more. Not every day, and generally he just asks how I am, but it’s a bright spot in my very dark world and it helps keep me centered.
At this point, the cops aren’t fully convinced the two killings had anything to do with each other. One girl, one boy. One with a knife, one with a gun. One Popular, one Nerd. One white, one black. Although everyone was certain in the beginning that they had to have been killed by the same person, there’s nothing to actually link the two teens except for their ages and the fact that they’re both from our small town. People are starting to hope that it was two bizarre but isolated incidents and that everything will go back to the way it was.
I’m not letting that stop me though. I’ve put a password on my phone—just in case—and each night, after I’ve closed my door, I pore over the pictures I took. I got about forty of them, but after almost two weeks I’ve barely made it through twenty. Not only is the handwriting hard to read, it simply doesn’t make sense. It talks about jumping into a supernatural plane, and there’s a drawing that looks like a domed room. I don’t know what that means, but apparently once you’re there, you can see multiple visions—multiple futures—and maybe even change them?
But there’s nothing about how to do this. Or even if a normal Oracle can. I mean, if I had a power like this, wouldn’t I know something about it? Or this supernatural plane place? I’m starting to wonder if this is one of those legend books that doesn’t actually have any truth in it, but that Sierra bought because it was a cool, old, handwritten text.
I keep reading anyway. I risked so much to get these pictures, and there might be something more helpful in the rest of the pages.
There haven’t been any new messages from the mysterious texter either. I read the two I’ve already received at least ten times a day. I haven’t gone so far as to call, but the number is always there. Just in case.
The parking lot at school is still covered with snow. It starts to melt in the afternoon sunshine, only to freeze again in the bitter cold of the night. So it’s not soft, fun powder anymore, but sharp, unforgiving ice veiled by a thin layer of fluff.
I’m only halfway through the lot when I feel the familiar tingling of a foretelling. After shaking off the terror of what might be coming, I glance around and then crouch beside a big truck and let it come.
Since the vision of Matthew’s death, I haven’t fought a single vision, and I’ve had a good ten or so. It seems pointless—the murder visions I had about Bethany and Matthew bowled me over anyway, and the others are so insignificant that resisting them isn’t worth the effort. And despite that bubbling fear each time I feel one coming on, every vision since the one about Matthew has bordered on boring. Who cares that Mr. Johnson’s car is going to slide off the road on Christmas Eve? He’ll be fine and it’s an old car anyway; he wants a new one. And there’s some lady I don’t know who’s getting ready to serve her husband with divorce papers. What the hell would I do? Find them and tell them to get counseling?
It’s just tiny glimpses into the lives of people in Coldwater—most of whom I don’t know. So I let the foretellings come and then forget about them almost as soon as the vision is over. Although I wouldn’t dare tell Sierra, I’m glad I’ve stopped fighting. It’s all so much easier now.
Easier. Not easy. I’m still doing the same things I’ve always done—throwing myself into my classes and studying my brains out so I’m too tired to think when I lie down to sleep at night. But at least I’m not trying to conserve energy to fight visions on top of that.
The blackness starts to encroach on the edges of my physical sight and I close my eyelids before it even starts. Give up. Let it wash over me and suck me in.
I’m standing in an open field at night and soft, powdery snow is falling lightly. Like lace, not the heavy muffling snow we’ve been getting lately. This is the kind of snow they always have in movies right before the main characters kiss.
I look around and see nothing. Confused, I wait for the vision to pull my feet in the direction they’re supposed to go, but after several seconds, I’m still standing there.
With nothing else to do, I try to take a step on my own but my feet are glued to the ground. Okay, there’s something here I’m supposed to see. Instead of looking forward, I look down and realize the lumpy surface a few feet to my left isn’t, in fact, a snow-covered patch of bumpy ground.
It’s a cream-colored coat.
I suck in a freezing breath and even in my vision the sudden cold makes me want to cough. I lift my foot and it obeys me now. With terror pounding in my heart, I walk forward one step. Two. Three.
Whoever this is is lying on their back so peacefully he looks like he’s sleeping. I choke back a sob and hope with all my heart that it’s just some drunk guy who fell asleep and froze to death. Not that I would wish anyone death but it would be better than … better than …
Better than a teenage face looking up at me with vacant eyes and skin covered with a tiny layer of lacy flakes. A gust of wind clears some of the snow and then I see the bruises.
It’s another victim.
His coat is unzipped halfway down his chest and his scarf has been untied and pushed to the side as though to display what the murderer has done. Deep purple swatches cover his neck, almost black against his pale skin made even whiter by death. I stand there shaking, shivering, even though I can’t feel the cold anymore. He looks so serene that it’s almost worse than the gory scenes I witnessed with Bethany and Matthew. So incredibly dissonant.
I force myself to focus—the vision won’t last forever—and I lift my eyes to his face.
“Jesse.” My words are lost in the wind. Jesse Prince. He was in my art class last semester and we ended up being partners on a project. He had all the talent; I had all the discipline. The final result was subpar at best.
I suck in a ragged breath and look around again. It’s an empty space—a parking lot?—and I’m standing underneath a tall lamppost with only one light functioning. Maybe a park?
That’s it. A park. And now I can see the dim outline of a row of houses just out of the circle’s light. There’s a sign. It’s some kind of development. But as I lift my feet to get closer, the vision starts to fade. I try to run, to get there before everything goes black, but I can only lift my foot an inch or two and, within seconds, it’s all gone.
I blink slowly, carefully, bright sunlight invading my eyes and making them sting after the pure blackness. Unfortunately because I was sitting on a slippery patch of ice, I’m now lying full out on the ground beside the rusty truck. My head sits right next to a puddle of slush and I can feel moisture soaking into my hair and dampening my scalp.
I sit up, but don’t bother to look around. It doesn’t matter if anyone saw me; nothing matters now. Damp strands of hair fall into my face but I shove them away and push my hands into my pockets, grasping for my phone.
I don’t stop, don’t think, and don’t let myself reconsider. My icy-cold fingers dial the number and, as it starts to ring, I get to my feet, hanging on to the truck for balance.
“Hello?”
A man.
I was expecting a girl.
A woman.
Despite what Sierra said, deep inside I was certain it had to be another Oracle. “Hello?” My voice cracks as I answer and I have to clear my throat a few times before I can speak clearly.
The man on the other end says nothing, just waits.
“It’s Charlotte,” I say once I can speak again.
I hear a long, slow breath and he whispers, “Finally,” so softly I barely hear it. “Did you see the next one?” he asks in that same, calm voice.
“Yes,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes.
“I need to meet with you.”
I swallow hard and force my emotions back. “How do I know you aren’t the killer?”
He laughs now, a soft, bizarre sound considering the circumstances. “Charlotte, how stupid would I have to be to try to kill an Oracle?”
Every muscle in my body stiffens.
Never reveal that you are an Oracle to anyone except another Oracle.
He pauses and when I don’t say anything he continues: “You know you’re not going to die today, don’t you?”
My silence is answer enough.
“If it makes you feel better, you choose the place. It can be as public as you want so long as it’s somewhere we can talk without being overheard.”
It’s still so soon after the vision that my brain and my body are moving at half speed. I should have waited to make the call until after I had recovered.
But then I might have changed my mind.
“The food court,” I finally decide. “At the mall.”
“When?”
“I’ll head there now. How will I recognize you?”
“I’ll find you. I know you.”
The way he says “I know you” makes a trickle of fear shiver up my spine. But I chide myself for it. Of course he knows me. He knew me well enough to learn my cell number. He’s been watching me closely enough to know that I warned Matthew.
Of course he knows who I am. But the words make it real.
“Ten minutes,” he says, and then the line goes dead.
