Sleep No More

THIRTY-TWO

I blink and even though my physical eyes can vaguely see the bright blue sky, I remain somehow in my second sight. But not on the dome of my supernatural plane; I’m in what I would normally classify as a vision, except that I don’t feel the pressure in my head, or the storm in my brain.

I’m in the same scene I was in with Smith a few minutes ago. But this one is real—it’s Smith, sitting in jail in the physical world. There are no specific indications, I just know.

I look over and for a second, I expect him to jump up and attack me.

But he sits, slumped against the wall, his eyes unfocused, just like before. I’m confused for a moment until I see that blood is pooling out of his ears. Not like in the memory of him with Sierra—not the trickle he somehow managed to live through. It gushes. Somehow, their connection years ago wasn’t as strong. They both survived.

Not today. He’s dead. For real. He tied our minds so closely in my second sight that he literally could not exist without me. By cutting him out of my world on the supernatural plane, I severed his life force.

The words my aunt said to me as I held the knife to Linden’s throat rush back: He’s feeding off of you. He’ll never be as strong as you are. You have to cut him off.

She knew this would happen. That he would actually die if I defeated him. That must be why she was so worried when she heard I’d been to his world—she knew the connection was stronger this time.

But she spared me the knowledge beforehand. If I had known—truly known—I don’t think I could have done it.

The vision fades and my physical sight takes over again. The sky is so bright I cringe against it after the darkness of Smith’s world.

“Oh, thank heaven,” I hear Sierra whisper, and then I see her face right above mine. My fingers fly to my shoulder where Smith shot me, but just like after the attack on Clara, I’m whole.

“Linden,” I croak. My eyes fly to where he’s lying in a snowbank, the bloody knife beside him. Although there’s a red mark on his neck it doesn’t look like I actually cut the skin. But the blood from the wound on his side has soaked through his coat.

“We have to help him,” I say, crawling over. I pull off my scarf and wad it up and press it against the gushing cut. “Linden,” I say, as his head lolls to the side. I pull his face toward me, leaving bloody fingerprints on his cheek, and he opens his eyes slowly. “Just look at me, Linden. Sierra, what do we do?” I shout, not taking my eyes from his.

“The ambulance will be here any second,” Sierra says quietly, her tone back to the calm timbre I’m used to. “I called them just before you came to. As soon as you dropped the knife,” she adds, and guilt churns in my stomach. She protected me—even at the risk of Linden’s life. “I think he’ll be okay,” Sierra says, as though reading my thoughts.

I hear the faint sound of a siren. “They’re coming, Linden,” I say, and his eyes open again. “They’re almost here. Stay awake.”

Less than a minute later, we’re surrounded by blue-garbed EMTs. I step back, letting them work. “Are you okay?” one of the EMTs asks.

“What?” I reply, wondering why the hell he even cares about me.

“You’re covered in blood—is it all from him or do you have an injury as well?”

I look down at myself. I am covered in blood. It seems particularly fitting that Linden’s blood covers my hands.

If he dies, I’ll be a murderer.

“I’m not hurt,” I say, and the EMT looks at me funny. I don’t understand why until I vaguely recognize him from last night. I said the same thing then, over and over. I wonder what he thinks of me.

And realize I don’t care.

“Can I go with him?” I ask, starting to panic when the EMTs begin to close the ambulance doors. What if I never see him again?

“Yeah, let’s do that and we’ll clean you up on the way, just to make sure.”

I’m stepping up into the ambulance when it occurs to me that I left the knife just lying there in the snow. I glance back, but the spot where I dropped it is empty. With footprints leading right to Sierra.

I look away as the doors slam shut, too guilty for any gratitude to fit in.

They take him into surgery immediately.

I feel like my entire word has been ripped to shreds. Smith is dead and because of that I will never know for sure whether or not I killed Nathan Hawkins. Smith took that secret with him. I’ll always wonder, always feel that heavy weight.

But I won’t be able to live with myself if I’ve killed Linden. It doesn’t matter that I was under Smith’s control—he picked the right victim. If Linden dies, I’ll be broken.

Linden’s parents come rushing in minutes after the doctor talks to me. I tell them what he said, but when they ask me what happened, all I can say is, “I don’t know,” as endless tears trickle down my face. Linden’s mother squeezes my hand and whispers something soothing, but I don’t deserve her comfort. I don’t deserve to even be in the same room as her.

It’s over an hour before the doctor comes out. When he says Linden’s fine, I’m as near to fainting as I can ever remember. “No vital organs were hit,” he says, “just some muscle walls. A fairly shallow cut. He’ll have a brag-worthy scar to show the ladies,” he adds as he winks at me. I want to claw his eyes out.

Linden’s parents and I go to his room where we sit and wait for Linden to regain consciousness. Every second feels like an eternity as I sit there staring at his pale form.

Finally his eyes blink slowly, like they did out in the snow. We all jump up and surround his bed, his parents each reaching for a hand. I feel like a traitor; I shouldn’t be here.

But I have to be. I have to know.

A nurse walks in with a grin and shoos us from his side. She pulls out a chart.

“Well,” she says in much too chipper a tone for my taste, “do you know your name?”

“Linden Christiansen,” he says, and though his voice is a little hoarse, it’s strong.

She asks him a few more questions, his birthday, how old he is, what grade he’s in. Then she asks him what he remembers about today.

I’m standing near the head of his bed in the opposite direction of where he’s facing—I’m not actually sure he knows I’m here. When he starts to speak, I shrink even farther back.

“My girlfriend came over.” My hearts gives a tiny leap at the word girlfriend, even though I know I’ll never hear it again.

“What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“Charlotte. Charlotte Westing. We went for a walk. We left the sidewalk and then—”

I suck in a breath and get ready for my world to turn upside down. For everyone to turn their eyes to me in accusation and hatred. Both of which I completely deserve.

“I guess I tripped and fell on some kind of wicked rock or something. I don’t know. But it was an accident,” he says, and his voice is solid, sure. I would never have believed he was lying.

“Of course it was. It must have been a really sharp rock. The doctors said the wound was narrow and shallow. Almost like a knife.” She laughs wearily. “Hopefully our days of knives are over. With the Coldwater Killer behind bars, I tell you what, we are more than happy to be back to just accidents where everybody lives.”

“Amen,” Linden’s mother says quietly.

My knees are so weak they’re barely supporting my body. Why did Linden lie for me? And how long can we both keep up the pretense? Lies never work, not in the end. Even if they fulfill their purpose, there’s always a price.

The nurse explains that since it’s already evening, they’d like to keep him overnight for observation.

“Can we stay?” his mother asks.

“Certainly,” the nurse says. “But I’m afraid Charlotte will have to go once visiting hours are over. She’s not family.”

Linden’s head swings around. I was right. He didn’t know I was here. His eyes flash emotions so fast I can’t even begin to read them. I wait for him to speak, then wonder if the kind thing is to say something first. But I can’t make my mouth obey and in the end, I simply duck my head and walk out of his room.

I’m ten steps beyond the door before I hear someone call my name. I don’t want to stop. Don’t want to explain any of this to anyone. But I finally turn when I realize it’s not Linden’s mom or the nurse.

It’s Sierra.

She walks up to me tentatively, as though I’m a skittish animal who will bolt if she moves too fast. I stare at her, this woman who I’ve never quite understood, but who has more empathy for me than any other human being in the entire world. We stand there for several seconds, mere inches apart. Then she lifts her arms—a small movement really—and the barrier between us shatters. I throw myself into her arms and sob.