Sleep of Death (Charlotte Westing Chronicles) (8 page)

“Our decoy.
We’re raising money for the William Tell cheer squad to go to a state competition. Go Broncos!” she adds with mock enthusiasm.

I give her a long, deadpan stare. “We’re going to pretend to be
cheerleaders
?”

“It’s the perfect disguise. We don’t actually need to be in uniform since,
hello, it’s like three degrees outside. And even if someone follows up on us, the cheerleaders are
always
raising money for something.”

Actually, it sounds kind of perfect.

“Do you have a better idea?” Sophie asks. But it’s not a challenge—she
knows
it’s brilliant.

“No,” I say with a sappy gri
n. “No, I don’t. Lead the way, Consultant.”

Chapter
Ten

“Man, this house is gorgeous,” Sophie whispers as we make our way up the path to the front porch. “I want one just like it when I’m older.”

“Me too,” I say automatically, but I’m more focused on making sure I don’t slip on the path. The snow is certainly thinner over the stones that pave the front walkway, but they’re not freshly shoveled the way they were in my vision. I assume that means I still have
some
time before the murders happen, but I know better than to depend on it. Especially with as weird as this whole situation is turning out to be.

Not that I’
d know normal if it punched me in the face. The last time I was manipulating visions and trying to change futures it was with a supernatural parasite looking over my shoulder and distorting my perceptions. Maybe the blurred murderer and inability to rewind a scene are completely run-of-the-mill. I simply have no way of knowing for certain, and we’re way past the kinds of questions I feel comfortable asking Sierra.

“Okay, you’re Candy and I’m Mindy,” Sophie hisses to me as
we climb the steps onto the porch.

“No one’s going to buy that,” I whisper, though that’s all the argument I have time for before Sophie presses the doorbell.

As soon as the door opens, Sophie lights up like a light bulb. “Hi!” she chirrups, a big grin on her face. “I’m Mindy Johnson and Candy and I are on the William Tell cheer squad and we’re here trying to collect donations so we can go compete at the state cheer championships next month.”

Sophie needs to star in the next school play.
Seriously.

But despite Sophie practically bouncing beside me, I’m frozen into place, staring at the woman
in the doorway.

It’s
her
. The dead woman from the vision.

If I had any doubts that we’re in t
he right place, they’re gone. But I don’t feel triumphant. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing dead victims suddenly alive again.

There’s nothing partic
ularly striking about the lady in front of us, except maybe that she looks a little confused as she listens to Sophie’s spiel. She’s about average height, a little on the willowy side, with shoulder-length sandy blond hair that was beautifully highlighted … probably four or five months ago. She looks tired and I have a feeling she’s not quite as old as she appears. Her posture bespeaks a weariness that seems oddly out of place in this fancy house.

“And you don’t have t
o make any commitment today; we’d just like to add your name and number to our calling list for when we have our donated packages up for bid.”

What is Sophie talking about? I’m so in over my head. I may be the rare and special snowflake of the supernatural world, but Sophie’s the one who knows what she’s doing, and right now that feels like the longer end of the stick.

I take advantage of Sophie’s distraction to peer through the doorway at the already familiar foyer. But what exactly am I looking for? It’s not like I’m trying to find clues. I could find those in the vision. I didn’t really think any further ahead than locating the house and getting to it. How can I shake things up enough to prevent a double homicide?

“Would that be okay? You don’t mind?” Sophie’s overly gracious voice snaps my attention back to her. “It
is
really cold. We won’t stay long.”

“Sure,” the woman says. “And I don’t need to be on your calling list; I’m happy to just give you a small donation.”

Oh, great. Now we’re taking money from a woman who’s going to be dead without some kind of intervention.

“Thank you
so
much,” Sophie continues as we step into the foyer and the door closes behind us. “We’ve been walking for about a half an hour up and then down this road.” She rubs her hands together vigorously and I copy her, pretending to be freezing, though I don’t feel a thing.

“I’ll be right back,” the woman says. “Just let me grab my purse.”

She leaves us alone in the entryway and I can’t help but dislike the fact that she just let two complete strangers into her home, and then left them unsupervised in her foyer. Maybe they leave their doors unlocked at night too, and that’s how the killer gets in. Maybe it’s just a random crime of opportunity. Maybe
that’s
why I can’t rewind the scene. Why I can’t see the killer’s face. Because it’s so random it’s not entirely predictable, even for an Oracle.

“Well, hello,” Sophie says.

I turn to look in the direction she’s facing and am startled to see a girl standing in the hallway. I immediately see the resemblance between her and the woman. Same hair. Same eyes. A daughter.

Sophie and I share a quick look of alarm before Sophie says, “And what’s your name?”

But the girl just stands staring. Glaring, really. I’m guessing she’s ten or eleven, and it seems like she shouldn’t be so stranger-shy. But she doesn’t say a word, even when Sophie smiles and tries to set her at ease. The girl is dressed for winter in a turtleneck and jeans, and though her hair is pulled away from her face with a headband, it’s messy in the back, like she was recently sleeping, or maybe roughhousing.

The woman bustles back in with a twenty, which she folds into Sophie’s hand
despite her protests. “Good luck girls. I was a cheerleader for a couple of years when I was your age too.”

Sophie lays h
er hand over the woman’s, trapping her there for a few seconds. “You are
so
awesome. Thank you. Is this your daughter?” Sophie asks when she lets their hands drop.

The woman spins to face the girl. “Oh! I didn’t hear you.”

“Is she going to be a cheerleader too?” Sophie asks, the epitome of cheerful.

“We’ll see,” the woman says, but her smile is tight.

“I didn’t catch your name, Sweetie,” Sophie says, stepping forward and holding out her hand. She pushes it so close to the little girl that she really doesn’t have any choice but to shake.

“Daphne,” she mumbles.

“Pretty name,” Sophie says, but there’s a subtle change in her voice and I don’t know what it means.

Whatever it
does
mean is all rolled up in the fact that this girl changes everything. This might not be just a murder; it might be a kidnapping too. Or, maybe all three of them are supposed to die and I just didn’t see Daphne’s body. I’m already planning to go back into the vision with the necklace and search the rest of the house as soon as I get home. I’m angry at myself for not having done it before, skipping class or not. It didn’t even occur to me. Some supernatural detective I’d make.

“Well, thank you so much,
Mrs … ?”

“Welsh,” the woman fills in helpfully.

“Mrs. Welsh. I’ll make sure your name gets onto the list of donors that we post in the gym.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Mrs. Welsh sa
ys, her cheeks coloring. “I’m happy to do what I can.” She looks genuinely pleased to have helped—which doesn’t make me feel any better about lying my ass off to her—and though she’s opening the front door for us, it doesn’t feel like she’s kicking us out, really. Something tickles at the edge of my subconscious and even though I know it looks awkward, I stand stock-still until it comes filtering back.

The front door
s in the vision; when I went outside I just turned the knob. The ornate glass and wrought iron doors were heavy, but they weren’t locked.

“This may sound weird,” I pipe up, “but you’re kind of far out here and your house is so beautiful, I hope you lock your doors at night.”

They both turn to stare at me.

Okay, so I’m not nearly as smooth as Sophie. But Mrs. Welsh doesn’t pause for long. “Oh, we’re very careful about security,” she says. “Believe me,” she adds, almost in a whisper.
Then a soft smile at me. “I appreciate your concern though. Thank you.”

If they’re so very careful, then why wasn’t the front door locked? I picture that moment again, but I’m absolutely certain I didn’t unlock the door. I just opened it.

I start to whisper something to Sophie as we make our way down the path but she cuts me off with a sharp, “Ssssh!” and I clamp my mouth shut.

We’re back in the car with all the doors shut before Sophie burst
s out, “We have a problem.”

“Yeah, a ten-year-old problem,” I say, glancing over at the windbreak where I can just see the back of the house.
“If this is a kidnapping, or a triple murder—”

“Also that.”

“
Also
?” I ask, snapping my head around.

“I got readings from both of them and this situation is
not
what it appears to be.” Sophie looks incredibly shaken and guilt washes through me. Maybe she’s still too fragile to do this. Am I taking advantage of her?

“What do you mean, ‘readings?
’” I ask, as I look both ways and pull out of the parking spot. I have to get moving, not only because I don’t want Mrs. Welsh to see us parked here, but Sophie looks bad. And if she needs help I want to be as close as possible to her house. To her mom. “You’re not supposed to be using your powers.”

“
I can’t stop it. When I touch someone’s skin, I see the memory that they’re thinking about.”

“What?” Before I can remember that Sophie is my friend I’m already making a mental note to
never
touch her. Which is stupid and paranoid. But …

“You didn’t know that?”

I shake my head, thinking back to the chapter Sierra bookmarked for me. Was there anything about reading people’s minds by touching them? If so, it wasn’t in words
I
understood. “Hell, Sophie, I don’t know
anything
.”

“Oh.” She pauses, seeming to look for the right words. “I assumed you did. Sorry.”

Sorry
? For what? Is this pity for my ignorance, or an actual apology for seeing things I don’t want her to see? I don’t dare ask. Not right now—she already looks more affected than I’m comfortable with. “Is it dangerous for you in your … state?”

She waves my words aside, and the worry drains away.
That
worry, anyway. “No. And it’s not like it’s something I can control even if it were. It just happens. Actually, it can be really annoying. And often feels super intrusive.”

Like my visions
of other people’s private lives
, I think. But I don’t say anything.

“Some
times I used to wear fancy gloves to school just to … anyway. It’s—” she hesitates, then rolls her eyes. “It’s palm reading. Not actual … I mean, it’s what women are doing when they
claim
they’re palm reading. The real ones, anyway. It’s not about the lines on the hand, or whatever. It’s just a way to get skin-to-skin. I see their memories. The one they’re feeling strongest about in that moment. And believe me, if I were in the market to rip people off, I could make a happy prediction about what I
know
they’re most concerned about.”

The way Sophie practically ambushed Daphne to shake her hand makes total sense now. “What did you see?”

“They were both thinking about the same thing. So, likely, something that happened earlier today.”

When she stops speaking I look over and Sophie’s eyebrows are scrunched in the middle like she’s focusing really hard on something.
“What was it?” I ask, a flutter of nerves twisting in my stomach when I face the road again.

“I only got a snippet, but it was Mrs. Welsh shoving Daphne into a closet. Like,
shoving her so hard her head smacked on the back wall. And then locking her in.”

It’s all I can do not to swerve off the road. “Are you kidding me?”

Sophie just shakes her head. “It was exactly the same from both points of view. I mention that because memories are
way
subjective. You can see the exact same memory from two people and they sometimes barely even
resemble
each other.”

I nod, thinking of the many times in my life when I’ve made my mom or Sierra mad without even realizing it. Like they say, two sides to every story.
Two, or more.

“That’s why I went for the little girl so hard.
After I saw that memory from the mother’s point of view, I
had
to know how accurate it was. Because parent guilt is a serious thing. Blows stuff
all
out of proportion. But Daphne’s memory was identical. So that
is
what happened.” Sophie pulls her knees up, hugging them to her chest. “After the closet door closes the accounts obviously split because they’re in different places. In Daphne’s she’s in the dark closet, yelling and pounding on the locked door. And in Mrs. Welsh’s, she sits at the table and drinks a cup of coffee. That’s all I got.” Sophie’s hands rub up and down her shins like she’s freezing, and I reach to turn the heat up only to discover it’s already as high as it can go.

“This changes everything,” Sophie says quietly.