Sleep of Death (Charlotte Westing Chronicles) (9 page)

“And yet, it changes nothing,” I reply, my voice bleak.

“And we haven’t even gotten to the father. Well, the
man
. I guess we don’t know that he’s the father. Are we stumbling into some sort of … custody dispute, or something?” Sophie asks.

“
I don’t know. I don’t even know how to begin trying to figure that out.”

“
I think a divorce would be public record, that might be something. But I would
never
have though that Mrs. Welsh could be violent from looking at her. Would you?”

I shake my head. Everything just seems so
wrong
. “No way. I can barely believe it even now. Not that I don’t believe
you
,” I say hurriedly. “Just that—”

“No, I get it,” Sophie says. “I barely believe
it myself. If I hadn’t gotten that identical reading from both sources …” Her voice trails off. We’re approaching Main Street before she speaks again. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

Chapter
Eleven

I’m back in the vision. It was a relief to discover that I
could
go back in. I mean, I guess it makes sense that I can revisit visions until … well, until they’re not the future anymore.

Whenever that may be.

It’s only been a few days since I had the original vision, but I still don’t have a good grasp on when the murders might actually happen.
The weather forecast says there’s a fifty percent chance of snow almost every night, all week long. Sophie suggested I look for a newspaper or calendar or something, but the kind of people who live in nice houses always seem to keep that sort of thing on phones or tablets. I make a quick sweep of the kitchen, but the iPad I find doesn’t respond to my touch. Apparently it’s too much to ask of a vision that it include fully-functioning electronics.

But
I’ll keep an eye out. I have a lot more of the house to search.

Sophie doesn’t know what I’m doing. I couldn’t tell her.
After dropping her off a block from her house, I promised I’d have more to tell her tomorrow, but I didn’t divulge anything other than that. She looked at me a touch traitorously and I don’t blame her. She knows there’s something I’m not telling her and, after spilling essentially
all
her secrets to me, I do feel like I kind of owe her.

I
just can’t move as fast as she can. After this afternoon my early fear that she might be involved in the killings just seems … silly. She’s not like Smith. But all of this is still too unnatural, too new. I have to ease into this new way of life. I hope Sophie’ll stick around long enough for me to get used to everything. And I think she will. I
hope
she will. I realized as I drove away from her that I desperately don’t want to lose this.

At home it was even worse—trying to hide from
both
Mom and Sierra. When I told them I had homework it wasn’t even a lie. There was just no way I was going to be able to focus on
any
kind of assignment until I revisited the vision. Being an Oracle is hard on my grades sometimes. But neither of them blinked when I retreated to my room and closed and locked the door. I guess since I’ve been doing that very thing for years …

At least in my bedroom I can prop myself up against soft things. I seriously don’t want to use the focus stone in a school bathroom ever again.
I made a little nest of pillows on my bed and the rest was easy. Hardly more than a blink at the pendant before I was standing in the foyer of the Welsh house, for the third time today. Twice in my vision and once in real life. It still looks the same.

And yet, this time everything is different. Not simply
because I know Daphne exists, but because of what Sophie saw in her readings. I have to figure out what’s going on in this house that looks so perfect on the outside and so obviously has something wrong growing within.

After finding nothing helpful in the kitchen,
I trudge up the stairs once more, but this time I skip the bloody crime scene entirely. I’ve seen enough of that. I head the other way, down a wide, portrait-bedecked hallway.

Sophie said she would look into the public records, but if
the dead man in the master suite is Daphne’s stepfather, he’s been in the picture since her birth—I mean, literally, there is a picture of him holding Daphne as a newborn wrapped in those striped hospital blankets. It’s definitely his face. Not a custody dispute, then, or at least
probably
not.

The room right next door to the master bedroom is partly open and has a fluffy pink sign hanging from it that says DAPHNE. I glance inside, crossing my fingers, but even though I’m relieved not to find a small, dead body, I’m disappointed not to find a small
sleeping
body, either.

The bed is empty.

The room is empty.

And not just of human life
. There’s a bed, and a nature-and-butterflies sort of mural that spans two of the walls, but that’s not exactly
something
. I step all the way through the doorway, peering around the shadowy space. In addition to the bed there’s a twin-sized comforter strewn across the carpeted floor—and a pillow, which sits just inside the open closet.

Maybe … but no, there’s nothing in the closet
, either. Not so much as an empty hanger.

Nothing in the room but a bed.

The whole set-up feels creepy and
, after giving the room a sweeping glance, I step out and look at the door again.

Wait.

There’s a hook. Not like a fishing hook—a thick hook that you might use to latch the door closed.

From the outside.

My eyes slide at the same horizontal level to the doorframe and there’s a chunk missing from the wall beside the molding. On the ground I find a screw with a round loop on the end—the other half of the latch. There are bits of plasterboard clinging to the threads and it’s pretty clear what happened here. The door was closed and latched, and someone forced it open without
un
latching it, ripping the loop out. Maybe they didn’t know it was there? It would be easy to overlook in the dark. I try to rewind the scene, but I reach the limits of my vision before there’s any change in the hallway.

M
aybe the murderer came in through Daphne’s window? That would also explain the broken latch, if someone were breaking
out
of Daphne’s room. But wouldn’t her parents have heard that? And why come in through a second-story window when the front door is unlocked? I peek back into Daphne’s room—behind a set of white blinds her window is not only locked but barred. I don’t think I’ve ever even
seen
barred windows before, except maybe on television. So much for that idea.

There’s something very wrong here.

I mean, why kidnap Daphne and then
come back
to kill her parents?

Mayb
e the killer was in the process of murdering the parents, Daphne heard, broke out, and ran away while the killer was distracted. That could explain the unlocked front door. But it tells me nothing about why they would lock Daphne in her bedroom in the first place. Who does that to a ten-year-old kid?

It’s so confusing
that even if I hadn’t heard about Sophie’s readings from both Daphne and Mrs. Welsh, I would still be at a loss. With that extra information it’s possible I’m at even
more
of a loss. Like I have more puzzle pieces than before, but they all belong to different puzzles. I feel like seeing the future should be much more straightforward than this.

Putting my questions away for the moment, I continue searching the house. Two g
uest rooms, a home office. At the far end of the hall I’m surprised to find another little girls’ room. I didn’t see any other kids in the family photos, though. The door is open and there’s a second pocket door on the right wall that adjoins it to the home office. It’s open too.

This door doesn’t say Daphne on it, but it
looks like this might actually be
her room
. Clothes in the closet and dresser drawers, toys in the toy box, an iHome in one corner by a My Little Pony clock. The clothes are the right size and when I look in the laundry hamper I see a pink turtleneck just like the blue one she was wearing when we saw her today. It all looks completely normal except for the rather glaring absence of a place to sleep.

So apparently this is her regular room and at night she gets locked into a sleeping room? What is wrong with these parents!

But I stare at that pocket door. The home office has a decidedly feminine touch. If Mrs. Welsh works from home and specifically designed this room so she could work and watch Daphne at the same time, that says “loving mother” to me.

The sleeping room?
A different message entirely.

As I head back down the stairs to check out the bottom floor,
I wonder again if whoever took Daphne might be engaged in a little vigilante justice. Even if it isn’t a custody dispute with a blood father, some other rescuer might intercede—could be an uncle, or cousin, a family friend. Virtually anyone who knew about the abuse—which, technically, includes me.

And Sophie.

Regardless, a ten-year-old in the hands of someone with that skewed of a sense of justice is still a huge problem. No matter what answer I come up with, I just don’t see a way for any of this to turn out well for Daphne, and the thought makes me sick to my stomach.

A quick tour of the
small basement doesn’t show me anything new except for two coat closets off the rec room, either of which could have been the one Sophie saw in her readings today. Out of ideas, I allow myself to wander a bit, hoping to stumble on something relevant. But before long I grumble in frustration and push myself out of the vision. After all, it’s not like I can’t go back.

For now.

Which, of course, is the other problem I still haven’t managed to solve.

A lot more
‘real time’ has passed than I thought, and I only spend thirty minutes staring uselessly at my homework before collapsing into bed, exhausted by the day’s efforts. At this point, all I can do is hope the Welsh family makes it through the night on their own.

Chapter
Twelve

I sleep so deeply I barely remember going to my dome, which I hope isn’t a bad sign. When Smith was around, I did discover that the lighter I slept, the more control I had on my supernatural plane, so maybe that’s okay. But with everything that’s going on, I’m a little jumpy and more prone than usual to pessimism.

I’m only two steps into the school when someone’s arm threads through mine and latches me close to her side. I start to pull away as fear
and adrenaline shock through my veins, then have to laugh at myself when I realize it’s just Sophie. I can’t believe how good it feels to have someone waiting for me at school.

Sophie was absolutely right—I was invisible before she came.
And lonely. Lonelier than I even knew. Except that now, I
do
know, especially when I see Linden. There’s no going back. Man, I hope I won’t ever have to go back.

“Nothing happened last nigh
t, did it?” Sophie says an inch from my ear, and now that I look closely, I can tell that her bright smile is fake. A mask. She’s so good at blending in. I kinda suck. “I mean, we’re not too late, right?”

I shake my head
, trying to paste a smile on my own face so we look like two average high school girls, chatting about … whatever it is average high school girls chat about. Sad that I don’t know. “I don’t think so. No snow.” Of course, it might have snowed outside of town, but I can’t tell her I checked in with the vision—via the stone—very briefly this morning, just to make sure it was still in the future. I’m not ready to tell her about that yet. Telling her about revisiting visions leads to Jason Smith, which leads to the focus stone, which inevitably leads to Sierra.

Sophie nods, almost distractedly. “
After what I saw yesterday, I was worried that everything would, I don’t know, explode and it would happen sooner than it was supposed to.” She shivers and I can tell because our bodies are squeezed so close together. It feels good. It feels
normal
.

I
do have to tell her what I discovered, even if it doesn’t seem very helpful. I guess that means lying. I should be used to it, but it twinges anyway when I pull Sophie toward my locker and say quietly, “I had the vision again last night and found out something new.” Then I rush on before she can ask questions, and I tell her about the empty bedroom—and the more normal room.

“These parents are obviously severely whacked out,” Sophie says.
“Whacked. Out. I mean, I kinda think they deserve to die.”

I grit my teeth
against the suspicions that have troubled me since I met her. Was the killer blurry in my scrying because I hadn’t yet introduced Sophie to Daphne? Was it a self-fulfilling prophecy—did I just
create
the future I foresaw? Sophie’s proclamation is understandable enough as a hypothetical; but supernaturals like us should be more careful with our words. After all, I’m
literally
the person who’s going to have to make that very decision. If I do nothing, they
will
die.

And I’ll be partly responsible
again.

Even if they are abusive, I don’t want to be the judge who makes that call. I don’t
think it’s my right, Oracle or not. “Even if that’s true, I can’t let it happen,” I say tersely.

She
’s silent for several seconds, lips pursed, before her face relaxes. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I of
all
people shouldn’t have said it.”

“It’s okay.” And instantly, it is.
Because she
sees
. She understands. I didn’t even have to explain what was in my head. No matter how this all ends, I love—absolutely love—having a supernatural friend. “What do we do?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

My heart falls with a nearly-audible thud. I hadn’t realized I was leaning so hard on the hope that Sophie would
know what to do
. That’s her specialty.

“I think … I think that maybe we should call someone—anonymously—and report the abuse,” Sophie says tentatively. “
Like, child protection people. If someone official shows up and finds the two weird rooms like you said, if nothing else, they’ll have to look into it, right? Maybe they’ll even take Daphne away while they check things out, and then she won’t be around when the killer guy comes.
If
the killer guy comes,” she amends quickly.

“But Daphne
isn’t
there,” I hiss. “That’s the other thing I saw last night. What if someone takes her away and … and …” Possibilities tumble through my mind and I have no way to sort through their probability. Distraught at having their daughter taken, the Welshes forget to lock their front door? Or someone in child protective services takes justice into their own hands? The fear that my interference might be what
makes
this future happen is almost paralyzing. “What if this is
all our fault?
”

Sophie gives me an unreadable stare befor
e saying, at last, “Charlotte, we can only do the best we can with what we know.”

Of course she’s right.
The bell rings and everyone in the hall starts to move toward their classes. “We can’t do anything at all right now, I guess.”

“No, but even if there was time, we should plan out exactly what we—well, one of us—should say,” Sophie says seriously. “We w
ant to give them all of the most important information, but not stay on the phone long enough for them to track us. Trust me, this is
not
the sort of thing you want to do on the spur of the moment.”

I hesitate before asking, “Are you talking from experience
, or from watching too many cop shows?”

“Experience, sadly,” Sophie says dryly. “Tipping off cops after jumping back in time is pretty
tried-and-true.”

“Does seem useful,” I agree.

“And remember, we have time. You know for sure that the murder happens at night—well, like total wee hours of the morning, right?”

“Yes.”
One of the few things I’ve known from the start, from the gray morning light seeping through the bedroom windows, illuminating the bloody corpses.

“So a couple of hours’ difference isn’t going to change anything.”

“You’re right. I just …” I clench my fists. “I want to
do
something.”

“Well,” Sophie says with a sad laugh, “if it makes you feel better, I hate being so useless
all the time.”

“Useless? Are you kidding me? I’d be totally lost without you.”

“As much as I appreciate you saying that, it’s not the same. I wish … I wish that saving that last girl hadn’t taken so much out of me. I’ll never regret doing it, never. I just wish I’d gotten it right the first seven—geeze, not that it matters.”

“How long will it take?
For you to recover?” I ask, then suck in a quick breath when Sophie’s eyes darken. But she’s not angry—at least not at me.

“I guess it depends on what you mean by recover. I’m conscious and functioning now.
Before, I was barely breathing on my own and then couldn’t get out of bed for a week. It was as bad as it’s ever been. Shook my mom up pretty good.” Her fingers circle her thin wrist again. “That was, what, a month ago?”

“Wow!” I can’t imagine draining myself of so
much energy every time I have a vision. Or maybe a better comparison is each time I revisited a vision to change something.

“I imagine it’ll be another month
at least before I’m all the way back to full-strength. Longer, if I keep dropping my pastels, but little jumps aren’t very taxing. As I go deeper, um, farther back in time, the cost gets exponentially higher, and the time to recover gets longer, too.” As though just realizing she’s clenching her own wrist, Sophie drops her hands to her sides, then crosses them over her chest instead. “When the cost gets too high, it starts to draw on my physical resources, which are way more finite than my supernatural ones.”

“That’s why you’re so thin.”

Her jaw clamps tight, but she nods. “That final jump—”

“When you save
d the girl,” I interject. It works; Sophie smiles, just a little.

“When I saved the girl, yes.
I used everything my body had to give. And physical recovery takes a time. I can’t just go drink a bunch of milkshakes every day—
not
healthy. But … point is, it takes a lot of time.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

She blinks fast a few times then says, “I’m not. We’ll talk during lunch. Deal?” And after squeezing my arm she heads off to class. I sigh and go to mine.