Sleep No More

NINETEEN

“You didn’t see this coming?” Smith’s words shock me most of the way awake.

“What? Smith?” I say groggily.

“Please tell me you didn’t see this—not that you decided not to tell me.”

“See what?” The fuzziness is starting to clear, but it’s not gone yet.

There’s a long silence at the other end. “Go watch the news,” he says with a despairing edge in his voice that wakes me up the rest of the way. “Call me later.” He hangs up without saying good-bye.

The sinking feeling in my stomach is a better premonition than my Oracle abilities at the moment. I shove my slippers on my feet, don’t bother with my robe, and almost run out of my room and into the kitchen.

No one’s up yet. It’s the butt-crack of dawn, two days after Christmas, and a Friday to boot. I should be sleeping.

I turn on the television and keep the sound low, standing with my face close to the screen as everything inside me turns to jelly.

Someone else is dead and I got no warning whatsoever. Why wouldn’t I get a vision? I should have gotten one.

Shouldn’t I?

I study the crime scene—what I can see of it—and I’m not sure what to think. It looks like an empty lot, and I don’t see any blood. There’s a body draped in the middle of a patch of snow with straggly brown grass poking through, but the form appears—thank goodness—to be in one piece. There are footprints all around, but I can’t begin to tell which ones were already there and which ones belong to the cops.

The news reporter talks about how the police have been working the scene all night and how long they think the victim has been dead. I count back hours and realize with the acid of shame burning in my throat that the killer probably committed this murder while I was busy making out with Linden yesterday.

Completely drained of strength, I sink down onto a chair and fight back tears. Rationally, I know there’s nothing I could have done without a vision. And I remind myself that I’ve saved two other teens from terrible deaths.

But none of that seems to matter right now. I didn’t save this one.

I have to do better. I have to do more.

I’m so lost in my self-pity that Mom catches me unawares and I jump when she touches my arm. She sees the tears I didn’t have time to swipe away and her grip on my arm tightens. “What’s the matter?”

I gesture wordlessly at the volume-less television.

“Oh no,” my mom says, more of a scratchy sound on her breath than actual speaking. “Not again.” Even in her chair, she visibly slumps and the two of us lean against each other and stare at the screen. I’m sure there are details we’re missing because we can’t hear it, but they don’t seem to matter very much at the moment. What could possibly be more important than the simple fact that another kid—one so much like me—is dead?

I tilt my head when the camera pans to a taped-off scene behind the reporter. “They’ve brought in the FBI,” I say, seeing the stark letters on the back of a handful of black jackets. Mom hesitates, and then turns up the volume.

“. . . used different methods to kill each victim, police are now saying that there are other signs that point to the same person being responsible for all three murders. Agent Johnson, can you tell us a bit more about that?”

The camera swings to a man in a suit who looks tired and rumpled. “There are a few things that we’ve noted in all three cases. The first is a complete lack of DNA evidence, fingerprints, et cetera. The second is that the size of the killer is about the same in all three cases, and thirdly, the methods of killing have no hesitation. They have a marked precision and lack of faltering. We are officially declaring this to be a serial killer, and our profilers are suggesting that it’s a first-time murderer, but that this individual has been planning these attacks, possibly for years.”

“Thank you, Agent Johnson.” She turns back to the camera. “We’ll have continued coverage of the Coldwater Killer as details emerge.”

Coldwater Killer? They’ve given him a name. I don’t know why that makes me so angry. Maybe because it sounds like someone who plays a killer on television, not a real-life psychopath who would chop a seventeen-year-old girl into pieces.

“Serial killer for real now,” Mom says weakly. “And no one can argue that our cops don’t need help. This isn’t exactly their area of expertise.”

Mom and I sit together as the sun begins to rise, saying nothing as the same footage runs over and over again. When my eyes are too tired to look anymore, I rub them and stand up, thinking I’ll go try to drown my feelings in a scalding-hot bath.

As I do, I catch Sierra leaning against the doorway like she doesn’t have the strength to hold herself up. I’m shocked to see tears glistening in her eyes. Sierra’s spent her whole life fighting to keep her emotions even and at arm’s length, because it’s easier to fight visions when you’re calm. She’s always seemed so strong, so in control.

And tired. I’ve spent thirteen years bracing myself against visions and it makes me tired every single day. Sierra’s been doing it for over thirty years. I wonder if she wakes up tired. I try not to see my future in her. It’s too depressing. But on days like today, I can’t help it.

Sierra meets my eyes and her eyelids lower immediately, like she’s ashamed to have been caught in such a vulnerable moment.

But she doesn’t know—nor can I think of any way to express—how much I’m grateful for this sign that she still feels.

The steaming water that generally helps to clarify my thoughts is so not doing its job today. It all seems to be getting worse. I was half convinced that I was meant to help catch this killer—convinced that that was why the visions were so strong.

But if that were true, shouldn’t I have seen this one? Or maybe this murder was just a fluke? An impulse kill?

Still, shouldn’t I be able to see an impulse kill? I’ve seen lots of unplanned things in my visions. This one shouldn’t be any different!

None of it makes sense.

And it makes me doubt, which is worse.

On top of that, I didn’t make any progress on getting to the supernatural plane last night. But I did have that feeling of swimming through thick water again. I don’t know if I should expect more after only the two nights of sleeping with the pendant—it just feels so pointless. It was a little clearer and the need to get wherever I was going was more urgent. I don’t know if that means I was closer or not.

Tonight I’ll wear the pendant again with more focus.

Not that I’m sure exactly how I’m supposed to focus when I’m sleeping.

Smith said to think about the supernatural plane before I go to sleep. I’ll do that.

But I did that the last two nights too.

Maybe I let myself get too carried away with Linden yesterday. I certainly forgot about the murders for an hour or two. Maybe I’ve got to focus on nothing but reaching the supernatural plane—even when I’m awake—in order to get there. I’m not sure how to picture a place I’ve never been.

It’s been several hours since Smith called; I have to call him back. But I have no idea what to say. Where do we go from here? I think about his idea of getting a victim close—almost certainly close enough to get injured—but not killed. Every time I’ve considered it, I’ve pushed the idea away. This is all supposed to be about saving people, not hurting them.

But the killer is so careful. Always masked, always gloved. The FBI guy said it himself: no DNA evidence. And they think he’s been planning this for a long time.

I’ve got to get better at manipulating my visions. It’s the only answer. I’ve got to get to that supernatural plane.

As the water is draining away and I’m toweling off my hair, I have an idea. The text from Repairing the Fractured Future talks about the importance of sleeping lightly. Wouldn’t a nap in broad daylight be a lighter sleep than at night? Maybe? It kind of makes sense. At the very least, it’s worth a try. And having gotten up so early this morning, I have a good excuse.

Assuming I can calm down, because as soon as I thought of this, I got all nervous and excited. Not exactly the best way to prepare to sleep.

I wish I could get my hands on the rest of that book! If Sierra leaves, I might be able to go in and look at it again. Hell, I’m about at the point where I’d just take the book and risk her noticing.

If only I could talk to her.

But I’ve gotten so far into my lies that I can’t tell her without confessing everything I’ve done. Everything I still plan to do. And I don’t think I have the guts to do that.

Besides, it’s not like she’d help me. I’m breaking every rule I’ve ever heard of. She’d stop me—I’m sure of it. I’m going to have to do this on my own.

“I can’t meet you,” I whisper into the phone when I’m finally brave enough to call Smith back. “My mom is so paranoid she’s barely letting me go to the bathroom without supervision.” I peer at my closed door. “I even tried to get her to let me drive straight to my—” I hesitate. “My boyfriend’s house who has, like, tons of security and it was an absolute no.”

Did I just call Linden ‘my boyfriend’? Well, when you spend an hour doing . . . what we did yesterday, isn’t that what he is?

“Besides,” I continue, shaking that thought away for the moment, “what would we do?” The urge to cry starts to form in my throat again, but I shove it back. “I don’t have a vision to go into. I didn’t get anything this time.”

“Then I guess we wait until you do,” Smith says, and I can hear the frustration in his voice. I can empathize; I hate feeling so helpless too.

But I’ve felt that way for my whole life; he’s still getting used to it.

“Smith?” I say, even more quietly than before. Because what I’m about to say I wish I could hide from myself as well as my mom. “Your suggestion that we have a victim get attacked but not killed? I think you’re right. That we’re going to have to do something like that to get anything useful on this guy.”

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Smith asks, like it wasn’t his idea. “It’s a big step. And a difficult decision.”

“You think I don’t know that?” It’s ripping my heart in two just to say it—but I don’t see another way.

“I’m just saying you need to be fully committed. It’s going to require a lot of skill and not a small amount of risk. Have you been sleeping with the stone?”

“Yes,” I say quickly. “I’m not sure it’s helping though. I don’t think I’m getting there. I’m close—I’m know I’m close.”

“Well, keep trying. Hopefully you’ll be able to manage it soon.”

“I’m going to try to take a nap,” I say, feeling like I have to defend myself. “Maybe I’ll sleep lighter that way and be able to focus better.”

“Listen,” Smith says, “call me as soon as you get another vision and we’ll try to make a plan okay?”

“Sure,” I agree listlessly, then hang up. I lie back against my headboard and rub at my aching sinuses. I haven’t cried this much in one day in a long time and it makes everything hurt. I glance down in surprise when my phone buzzes, and I find a text from Linden.

Are you okay??!!!!!

He probably just woke up and found out about the third murder. A warm feeling slides through me. This time, someone is checking up on me. But then I sigh, and feel guilty all over again. I text back:

I’m okay.

I don’t have the energy to send anything else. And apparently neither does Linden. It’s over an hour later before my phone buzzes again, and I haven’t moved an inch.

No one knows who yet. Have you heard anything?

I text back a no and then, despite feeling bad about it, turn my phone off. He knows I’m alive; beyond that, he’ll live for a few hours. I have to focus—I have to work. I drag myself out of my room and to my mom’s office to set my plan in motion.

“I don’t feel good,” I say, only half a lie.

“Coming down with something on top of all of this?” she asks sympathetically, though her eyes are red rimmed too.

“Maybe,” I say with a misery I don’t have to fake. “Or maybe it just is this,” I add. “I’m going to lie down and try to take a nap, and just wanted to let you know so you don’t come knocking and wake me up. I got up too early.”

I go back to my room and discover just how hard it is to sleep when you really try. I’ve filled my room with all sorts of distractions to help me not sleep too deeply—music playing softly in my earbuds, curtains pulled wide to let the light in—but they’re keeping me from going to sleep. I start to concentrate on my breathing instead, closing my eyes and blocking out the noise as I breathe in for ten counts, and out for five. All the while I concentrate on the drawing of the domed world in Sierra’s book that seems too strange to be true.

Suddenly I’m swimming. My arms move slowly, but this time when I stroke, I move. I can sense a surface far above me and I kick with my legs and pull with my arms. I blink and see a light with the same all-colors-and-yet-none quality that the focus stone has and somehow I know—I just know—that’s where I’m trying to get.

I burst free of the strange air/water, and my knees hit a hard, flat surface. I stay there on my hands and knees, panting.

And when I look up, I know I’ve done it.