Sleep of Death (Charlotte Westing Chronicles) (12 page)

Chapter
Seventeen

Daphne shows me the switch on one of the vertical beams of the gazebo and the electric heaters begin emanating warmth almost instantly, reminding me of the similar setup at Linden’s family Christmas party, when we escaped onto his back porch to evade the crowds. I allow myself three seconds of fond remembrance before scrunching my eyes closed and pushing him away.

I sit on one of the wooden benches and unwrap my
popsicle—orange cream, excellent—and suck on it for a few minutes while I try to figure out what to do; what to say. I ask idle questions about her favorite things; her answers are mostly single syllables. Does she like TV?
Yes
. What’s her favorite show?
Shrug
. Does she get many visitors at her house?
No.
Anyone scary?
Shrug.

Soon she’s finished her chocolate ice cream pop and stares up at me. Worried that I’m too tall, I
scoot closer and hunker on the floor so we’re about eye level.

“So, I know you don’t know me, Daphne, but I actually know quite a bit about you,” I begin
. “I’d like us to be friends. Would you like that?”

She studies her
bare ice cream stick and shrugs.

I guess I just have to jump in with both feet. “Daphne, why do you have two bedrooms?”

Blue eyes flicker to mine and now I see the fear I was expecting earlier.

“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “Your mom doesn’t know that I know. I promise. Can you tell me why you have two rooms?”

She shrugs again, and she’s not looking at me anymore. “I get out at night.”

“You
… sleepwalk?” I ask. I know it’s not the right answer, but maybe I can make her admit the truth by getting her to correct my
wrong
answers.

Sure enough, she shakes her head. “I just wake up and go around the house. So they keep me in.”

“Did you know that that’s not what most parents do?”

The look she gives me
this time is definitely suspicious.

But it’s too late to go back. “It’s really not the way you’re
supposed
to treat little kids, locking them into rooms like that. Does it make you sad?”

Her eyebrows furrow, but she answers flatly, “It makes me angry. Not all the time.
But sometimes.”

“Daphne, I know this might be hard to answer, but does your mom hurt you?”

She shakes her head so hard I can only describe it as violently. “I
love
her.”

“I know you do. Of
course
you do.” I hesitate. I’m going to have to go out on a limb here. “Listen, Daphne, I don’t want this to scare you, but I know about what happened with the closet yesterday.”

“It was an accident,” she protests, the icy calm starting to crack. I want to think that’s a good thing, but I feel guilty making a child upset like this.

“Of course it was,” I say and my hands move to her arms, rubbing up and down. But that only makes Daphne more agitated, so I stop and pull my hands back. “All I’m saying is I know about the things that are happening to you. And if—if you want me to call someone, I can.”

“Who would you call?”

I jump on her cooperation. “People who can help you. Who can take you away from her.” I don’t dare say
them
in case the father’s not involved.

Daphne jumps to her feet. “I don’t like you,” she says, and begins to walk toward the steps.

“Daphne, wait,” I plead, grabbing the sleeve of her coat and pulling her to a stop. I cringe inwardly as I lie, “I won’t do anything if you don’t want me to. Maybe—maybe I’m wrong. Maybe everything is fine. You tell me.” I have my hands on both of her sleeves now and I’ve pulled her around to look at me. “You tell me,” I repeat. “Are you happy here?”

“Yes,” she says, with more conviction than most kids I’ve known have
had about
anything
.

Looking into those determined eyes, I don’t know what to think. It seems like a kid as smart as she is would take an
easy escape route if it were given to her. But maybe she’s so afraid they’ll find out that she doesn’t dare.

“Here,” I say, digging into the pocket of my coat and finding a
scrap of paper. A quick rummage through my purse unearths a pen, and I scrawl my cell number on the paper, placing it in Daphne’s hand and curling her fingers around it. “It’s my phone number,” I say, looking her in the eye and holding her gaze. “If you ever,
ever
need someone to take you away, call me. And I’ll come to see you again.” When a scowl crosses her face I hurry to add, “And I won’t ever talk about this again as long you put that in your pocket and promise me you’ll keep it somewhere safe when you get inside.”

She looks uneasy now and I wonder if I’ve
gotten through to her.

“Promise?”
I ask.

“Promise,” she mumbles.

“Good. And you can call me any time. Even in the middle of the night.
Especially
in the middle of the night. Okay?”

She nods silently
and I decide I’ve pushed my luck far enough. “Would you like to play tag?” Daphne declines my invitation but soon we’re tracing pictures in the snow with our ice cream sticks. I try, unsuccessfully, to think of how I else I can possibly prepare for tonight’s events.

Daphne and I
both look back toward the house when we hear the sound of an engine. A big, gray truck pulls up the driveway and slides into the garage. Daphne’s face lights up. “Daddy!” She sprints toward the house.

Surely the dad isn’t involved; not if Daphne’s that happy to see him. She was pretty protective of her mother too, but I didn’t like the look in her eyes when she insisted that the closet thing was an accident. Isn’t that just what an abused child would say?

Maybe it was an isolated incident.

But … I don’t even know what to think. Daphne confirmed that it happened—what Sophie saw was
real
. I push my hands into my pockets as I round the corner to see Daphne held high in her father’s arms, her head resting on his shoulder.

“Hello?” he says, looking at me warily.
Me, a sixteen-year-old girl. Seriously, I may not know exactly what’s going on here, but I do know that these people react strangely.

“I’m Candy,” I say, pasting on
my best Sophie-smile. “I’ve been spending some time in the backyard with Daphne while your wife takes a break.”

He nods, but his smile seems nervous. “
Do you go to New Dawn, then?”

“New Dawn?”

“Our church. I’ll take that as a no.”

“Oh!” I say,
then launch into the lie. “No, I’m on the cheer squad at William Tell High and my friend and I were here yesterday for some fundraising stuff and,” I shrug and grin, “Daphne and I kind of hit it off.”

“
Yeah? Well, then you’re a godsend just the same.” The dad jostles Daphne until she looks at him. “Did you make a friend, Mouse?”

She stares at him and for a second I
’m afraid she’s going to say
no
, but when she opens her mouth she just says, “We left the heaters on in the gazebo.”

“Well, you’d better go turn them off then.” He puts her down and she runs back
into the yard, leaving me standing awkwardly by her dad.

“She’s sweet,” I say, more to say
anything
than because I want to chat.

He nods
, reaching for his wallet. “Well, I’m sure the missus appreciates the help while I’m out. What do we owe you?”

“O
h, no, I can’t take your money,” I protest, still feeling guilty about the twenty dollars our lying has already netted Sophie and me.

Daphne comes back and her dad kisses her on the head then says, “Go on in, Sweetie. Tell Mommy I’ll
be right there.” He glances at me. “Is Candy staying for dinner?”

I
start to tell him no, but Daphne beats me to it. “No. She’s leaving now. She promised.” She sends me a look that, though not entirely angry, is definitely not friendly. Intense, I guess. Then she whirls about and runs into the house, slamming the door behind her.

“Sorry about that,”
her dad says, and now he looks tired in the same way Mrs. Welsh did. “She can be difficult, as I’m sure you know.”

“
No problem. I really was just leaving.”
Think, Charlotte, think!
I turn, halfway down the path. “My uncle is a cop and when he found out uh—Mindy and I were coming to this neighborhood the other day, he told me to be sure to leave before dark because they’ve been getting reports of a prowler around here.”

“Really?
Well, people can be skittish. Probably just raccoons. Still, no sense tempting fate. Thanks again for coming by.”

I nod, hoping my face isn’t as red as it feels
. “I’ll come back and see Daphne in a couple days. Will you tell her?”

“Sure thing,” he says, with a genuine smile. It certainly looks genuine anyway. But as I track through the snow back to my car I can’t help but think that everything I’m seeing and hearing is in total contradiction. None of my conclusions
fit.

But for the moment, I’ve done what I can. I can’t force Daphne to report her parents—assuming there is anything to report—and I’ve warned them against intruders. I’m not sure what else to do.
I consider calling Sophie again, but her mom made things pretty clear.

For the moment,
I’m
persona non-grata
.

Besides, I don’t even know if she’s conscious yet, or when she will be
. In the meantime, Daphne has my number. It’s not as much as I hoped for, but it’s something.

Chapter
Eighteen

“Well, someone’s been busy,” Sierra says as I close the car door.

My eyes bolt up to see her sitting on the porch wrapped in her warmest coat. Her nose is red and she looks like she’s freezing. There’s accusation in her eyes and I can’t say a damn thing because I totally deserve it.

“The funniest thing happened to me,” Sierra says after taking a sip from her steaming coffee cup, “I was sleeping soundly when all of the sudden it was mid-afternoon and I was sitting at my desk again.” She stares off into the orange-streaked sunset as though this was the most ordinary conversation in the world.

Crap
. I had kind of hoped that Sierra was too far away from me to feel the effects of Sophie’s sorcery. No such luck.

“Which was doubly annoying because I
made great progress editing my new book and now I’ll have to do it all over again. I’ve decided that I definitely don’t like living in the power vicinity of a Sorceress.” She pauses, then turns and faces me fully. There are so many emotions swirling in her eyes that I can’t even begin to read them. “Do I
want
to know what you’ve been doing?”

“Probably not,” I croak. I’m so, so exhausted. And Sierra’s the last person I want to have to lie to.

“I thought your friend wasn’t strong enough to do stuff like this.”

“It was an emergency.”

Sierra’s only response is lowering her eyelids for a long, slow blink. “Is it taken care of?” she asks in a voice that sounds strangled. “The problem?”

“
I—” I’ve started the process. I have one more thing I’m planning to do. And then … I’ll have to see what happens after that. But all I can say is, “I guess I don’t know. There’s not a … copy of me, in my room, doing homework, is there?”

“No,” Sierra smiles wanly.
“And I don’t think anyone saw the car vanish, either; your Sorceress knows her craft, I have to give her that.” Then Sierra sighs and her shoulders slump. Instantly she looks less threatening and more like the aunt I adore. She pats the icy step beside her and, even though I know the cold concrete is going to insta-freeze my butt, I sit down and lean into her as she lays an arm across my shoulders.

“I’m not ashamed to say I’m having a hard time with this,” she says.

Her cheek is lying against the top of my head and I can feel her voice resonating in my skull. It feels very pleasant. And boy, am I in need of
anything
pleasant after the last few hours.

“I trust you, and I committed to letting you
make your own decisions, but this all feels so wrong to me. Especially when it involves a Sorceress,” she adds.

“That’s why I’m trying my best to keep you out of it,” I say
, truthfully. “I didn’t know she was going to use her powers, and I certainly didn’t know you would feel it if she did. I mean, I assumed there was some kind of limited range on sorcery, or I would have felt it before.”

“There is, but it’s not something I understand very well
myself. My studies are very focused on … on
us
,” she says, avoiding the actual word
Oracle
. So taboo she can’t even say it out loud, here, alone on our own front porch. “My role as Historian is very specific and carefully articulated. I’m not supposed to be involved with something like this at all. None of us are, but me especially.”

I grin at her little self-scoldi
ng since I know she can’t see my face. “Well, I’ll apologize in advance for anything Sophie might do. With or without me,” I add, “since I can’t really control her either.”

“Brat,” Sierra says, swatting my thigh.

“I’m sorry it’s hard for you,” I say after a minute of companionable silence. “But for what it’s worth, I really appreciate it. Everything. Letting me read, ask questions. Make choices.”

She stands
and stretches and, though her smile is tense, at least it’s there. “Well, I can hardly argue—you know how well I followed
any
kind of rules when I was your age.”

“True,” I say, but neither of us
can be totally flippant about that. Jason Smith preyed on us both. Different circumstances, different reason, different consequences, but the monster that haunts our separate nightmares is one and the same. It’s brought us closer, but it was a terrible experience. I wouldn’t have chosen it, even for the benefits, for either of us. And I’m sure Sierra feels the same way.

“Sophie’s not like him,” I finally say.

“I’m sure she’s not
. But Jason was once very different than the person he became. I believed with my whole soul that he was someone I could trust and, even now, I don’t think I was always wrong about that. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I’m listening to you,” I say. “I promise.
Even if it doesn’t seem like it. I’m not going to let her have access to my mind or my dome. No matter how close we get.”

“I think that’s a very wise decisio
n.” It’s a vast understatement—I can see it in her eyes—but she’s doing her best to advise, not command.

“And I won’t tell her about you
. I already lied once to keep you out of it.”

“I appreciate that,” she whispers. Then she squeezes my hand and
turns toward the front door. “Let’s go in. It’s freezing out here; I just had to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m sorry I worried you. If it happens again I’ll send you a text
or something to let you know.”

A smile quirks across her lips. “I guess I’d appreciate that. Thanks.”

***

I’m exhausted
enough to half-sleep once I can justifiably head to bed early, but at one o’clock in the morning my phone’s alarm buzzes me back to alertness. I sit up and call 911, my finger shaking as it hovers over the final digit. Somehow, even though I’m not at the Welsh home, part of my brain is sure that the terrible, horrific scene will happen all over again if I make this call.

But I have to
do it. Sophie’s still not answering her phone or texts, and whatever state she’s in, it’s my fault. I’ve got to make it worth it.

“Hi,” I say in a slightly lower voice than is natural when the emergency person answers. “I live on Walden Street a few miles west of town. I was looking out my window and I saw something in the bushes near my neighbors’ house. They’re number 6486.”

“Are you sure it’s not a deer? We do have lots of wildlife wandering down looking for food in these cold months,” the operator says, sounding almost bored.

“
I thought maybe,” I say. “But he had a flashlight and something else—kind of looked like a knife.”

The operator is instantly
alert. “How close is this person to the house?” she says, and with trembling fingers, I hang up.

That
got her attention. Surely she’ll send someone to check it out. It’s the best I can do, short of throwing a rock through the Welshes’ bedroom window or something. And after last time I am
not
driving out there again.

I wish there’d been time to get a disposable cell phone
, but I didn’t think about it until I got home, and after that there were no good excuses to go out again. Not that I would even know where to go to buy one. Do they have stuff like that at the Gas-N-Grub? Would I look sleazy asking for one? But I delete the call from my logs; if anyone shows up looking for the owner of the number, I’ll play dumb and they’ll probably chalk it up to a glitch in the system.

Hopefully.

Besides, if the dispatcher was going to call me back, she’d have done it by now. I think.

Exhausted, I manage to get to my dome fairly quickly. There, every possible future shows Mr. Welsh, bleary-eyed, talking to police officers on his front porch, then going back to bed and waking safely in the morning.
I don’t see them catch any would-be killers, but …

One problem at a time.

After that, I try to really sleep. And mostly fail. The hours pass slowly and time is crawling like spilled molasses. But even though I’m beyond exhausted when the morning comes, the sun eventually rises.

Just
like it did yesterday.