Sleep of Death (Charlotte Westing Chronicles) (19 page)

Chapter T
hirty

“I’m so sorry I ever teased you about him.” Sophie scrubs at her face, and laughs awkwardly. “I never would have, if I’d known.”

It feels like we’ve been here for about two hours—though obviously it can’t have actually been that long—and I’ve told her everything.

Everything
.

She kept her emotions under control the whole time—asking logical questions and clarifying when I was unclear—until I told her about that awful day in the hospital with Linden. Then she just stared at me, wide-eyed, tears staining her cheeks. Her hands found mine
, and she squeezed tightly and I about lost it too.

Somehow it was different telling Sophie than
telling Sierra. Not that Sierra was unsympathetic—she totally was—but she was worried about so many other things: secrecy, safety, the Sisters, and, of course, her own history with Jason Smith coming to the surface.

I look up as a
telltale ripple moves through the dome. “It won’t be long now,” I say. “Maybe two more minutes.”

Her eyes
are frightened. “Can I come back someday?”

I
’m so pleased to be able to smile and tell her, “Any time.” Then I grin and add, “
Mi casa es su casa
.”

She peers up at the dome. “This place is incredible
. It feels—I’m not sure you can ever understand just how amazing it feels, because you’ve never run out of supernatural energy. It’s … it’s like being starved for a week and then someone pours hot soup directly into your belly.”

“Any time you need it,” I promise.

Another ripple flows through the dome, followed by another right on its heels.

That’s odd.

Before I can voice my thoughts, yet another ripple comes, and then another. “I need to check something,” I say, trying not to let my alarm show. I’m so new at this whole dome thing that anything that deviates from my very limited experience makes me nervous. I stand and roll the dome toward me, focusing on a future just thirty seconds ahead.

Sophie’s mom is shaking me.

I’m not waking up.

Shit.

The ripples make sense now: every hard shake comes close enough to send the reaction to my dome, but not enough to pull me fully back to consciousness. What if I can’t regain consciousness? What if I made a mistake letting myself sleep and now I’m in a coma?

I’m starting to panic when I see Ms. Jefferson begin to smack my cheeks. I count: five, six, seven. On the eighth she gives me a really hard slap and in
the scene I draw in a huge gasp of air and my eyes fly open.

“Okay, here we go,” I say, turning my attention back to Sophie. The ripple
s start to rumble the floor beneath my feet and I can only assume the smacking has started. I run the last couple of steps back to Sophie and kneel beside her, my arms around her shoulders to chase away the fear in her eyes. “Almost there,” I whisper.

And then pain.

My cheeks sting and my lungs burn like I’m under water and can’t breathe. I’m not sure I know how to breathe. I’ve forgotten. How …

How …
?

And
then my body remembers and I’m sucking in air as fast as I can, vision cloudy, but feeling returning to my body.

Damn
!
I’ve forgotten how bad everything hurts until agony smashes down over me and my arm is on fire with pain.

“There you are,” I hear Sophie’s mom say in a calm, soft voice, her fingers
now light and comforting on my stinging cheeks. I still can’t see, but after blinking for a few seconds I feel strong hands pull me up and against a warm chest, arms around me, holding me close. “Bless you, Charlotte Westing,” she whispers in my ear. “You saved her.”

Finally I can see Ms. Jefferson’s face when she pulls back. Her cheeks are wet with tears, but they’re good ones.

“She saved me first,” I reply. “And thanks for stitching me up.”

I look down at Sophie and her eyes flutter open. She releases a long sigh and I imagine she woke to much more pleasant sensations than I did. She smiles
when she sees us and I feel a tiny bit better—she’s still wan and too thin, but now all she’ll have to do is worry about her physical recovery. I sense a lot of donuts and milkshakes in her future.

A wave of nausea
rolls through me and I know I’m out of time to linger. “I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’m sure the cops are looking for me.”

“I’ll drive you,” Sophie’s mom says, rising to her feet.

“No,” I protest, louder than I intended, but I’m having trouble controlling any part of my body right now. “Stay with Sophie.”

“Then I’ll call an ambulance,” she says, p
hone already out of her pocket. “I’m a first responder, I’ll tell them I stitched you up when you got here. They won’t question me.”

“You can’t,” I protest, extending a hand toward her. “I don’t want you two associated with this at all.” They both look at me skeptically and I screw my eyes shut to get a better grip on myself then say, “
I’m sure my aunt will clear issues up quickly, but the last thing Sophie needs right now is to be part of a murder investigation. And there’s no sense bringing our friendship to the cops’ attention before we’ve had a chance to
really
screw something up. The hospital’s only two blocks away. I can make it.”

I hope
.

“Don’t be ridiculous, child,” Sophie’s mom says, shaking her head. “And stow the dramatic
, paranoid, self-sacrificing heroine bit for a spell. I can dress a wound and stitch you up but I can’t find blood clots in your brain, much less take ‘em out, in case you do need someone to do that. So learn to accept when you’ve done enough and march your butt to the car so I can get you to the hospital.”

I’m so stunned by the lecture that I obey without another word
.

She was right. I don’t stay conscious long enough to even reach the end of the driveway.

Chapter Thirty-One

Waking all the way up isn’t particularly high on my priority list, and I swim in a haze of semi-consciousness for a while, keeping my eyes closed and enjoying the fuzzy warmth of whatever they gave me for the pain. It feels so good to just
not
hurt. I register a low throb on my hand, shoulder, and arm, but it’s dull. I kind of want to go back to sleep but there’s so much waiting for me out here and I know I can’t avoid it forever.

Sunlight is making its way through my lashes as I let my eye
s open a little bit, bracing for my head to start aching at the light. But it doesn’t; thank goodness for drugs, seriously.

I hear a gasp and before I can open my eyes all the way, something squeeze
s my hand and I hear my mom say, “Charlotte? Char?”

I force my eyes all the way open now and grin. “Hey,” I
rasp.

“Here,” Mom says, putting something against my lips.

A straw. Water has never tasted so good.

“Don’t gulp too much.” Sierra’s calm, competent voice this time. “They said you might be nauseous when you woke up.”

I push the straw from my mouth with my tongue, a little regretfully. Considering just how much time has shifted around me in the last few days, I’m not actually sure how long it’s been since I ate, and getting some water in my stomach only makes me hungry.

Soon.

The room comes into focus and I look up and meet my mom’s eyes. They’re shiny with tears, but she’s smiling.

“How long have I been out?”

“Most of the day. But you needed it. You’ll be totally out of commission for a fair bit,” my aunt says, and I understand her sub-text: No more Oracle shenanigans for me for a while. “No mental or physical exertion for at least a week. And your arm is going in a sling; they want it immobile for six weeks so your shoulder muscles can knit properly. Then you’ll have physical therapy for … a while.”

“Don’t give her all the bad news right away, Sierra,” my mom scolds.

“She needs to know,” my aunt replies simply. Mom just rolls her eyes. They really are such sisters sometimes. It’s funny how many traits they share … just not the elusive Oracle gene, I guess.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, not sure just how much the meds are making me speak without thought. I should pro
bably keep my mouth shut and let the two of them talk, but I feel compelled to apologize. For things they don’t even know happened. Terrible, terrible things.

“Don’t be, Char. None of this was your fault,” Mom says, rubbing my arm.

I literally bite my tongue because the truth is this is
all
my fault and it’s only because of Sophie that my mother and aunt are even alive. I glance over at Sierra for, I don’t know, help? Her hand is wrapped in gauze and there’s a big bandage on her arm, but she looks okay.

“It wasn’t you,” Sierra says, her eyes boring into mine. “It was Daphne. You couldn’t stop her. No one could stop her. You only tried to help,” she says, a bit of emphasis on that last phrase.

I nod, accepting Sierra’s unspoken command:
That’s our story and we’re sticking to it
.

Sierra’s
eyes dart to my mom, but after a second she says, “I spoke with CPS briefly last night. It seems Daphne was an ongoing case for them. They’ve been working with the family for years, and the parents insisted they could handle her at home and without medication.”

“Why?” It makes no sense to me to deny
Daphne the help she obviously needed.

Sierra
shrugs. “They could only tell me so much. For Daphne’s privacy. I expect they only told me what they did to protect themselves from bad press, or maybe a lawsuit. But a lot of people don’t like modern science. Radical environmentalists, faith healers, you name it.”

I remember Daphne’s father asking me if I was from his church the one time we met
.

“
Whatever their concerns, it was their right to choose for their child,” Sierra says. “But they paid a very high price for it.”

“So did Daphne
.” Without early intervention, I imagine there’s a good chance she’ll
never
be able to function properly. I think of her during the lucid interlude we shared that afternoon out in the gazebo. It all seems like such a waste.

Sierra just nods.

“I don’t think ignoring problems makes them go away,” I say, my message for Sierra alone. “Teaching children to deal with things appropriately seems like the better path. Whatever that takes.” I’m almost glaring at Sierra now and, though she meets my eyes for a few seconds, she looks away and doesn’t respond.

Now that everything is said and done, I’m finding it
hard to forgive her for sending me away to get clothes for Daphne, hiding the truth all the while. If it weren’t for Sophie, Sierra’s lie-by-omission would have cost my mom her life.

“I don’t think that’s anything we need to be discussing now,”
Mom says, squeezing my hand. “The nurse said to call her when you woke up. Are you ready?”

I love that even with nurse’s orders
to call her immediately, my mom stops and asks what
I
need. What
I
want. Always putting me first.

And in that moment I know exactly what I have to do.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The nurse comes in to help me get dressed and puts my arm in a special sling that holds it immobile across my chest. She shows me how to work all the straps and bits of Velcro, and warns that it’ll take some practice. It’s going to be a very long six weeks. Especially since it’s my right arm and I’m right-handed. As the nurse rattles off the laundry-list of things I have to be careful of I blink back tears at how little I’m going to be able to do on my own while this heals.

But maybe I deserve it. Wasn’t I meddling? Did I accomplish
anything
? Messing with the future is such a confusing business. I really do think I’m completely over my head sometimes. I’m glad I have Sophie now; I think we can learn a lot together by blending our … talents. And I found out how to help Sophie recover her strength more quickly. But only after pushing her to the brink of death.

And all because I was protecting a little girl who needed way more help than I was in any position to give.

She’s getting it now, though. Did I do that?

I don’t even know. But the fact that a ten-year-old girl
was even
capable
of doing the things she did—as well as the things Sophie
un
did—shakes my faith in humanity to the core.

As the nurse leaves, t
he door opens wide, so as to let my mom’s wheelchair through. Sierra slips in behind her, followed by …

Linden.

“There are some reporters hanging around outside,” Sierra says blandly, “but I don’t think he’s one of them.” Linden gives me a strained smile as Sierra casts me a questioning look, waiting for some kind of indication that she did the right thing.

I give
a tiny nod—one I don’t really mean.

“Well,” my mom says brightly, “I still have some paperwork to fill out and Sierra’s going to bring the car around. It won’t take too long.” Her eyes wander up to Linden, and then back to me
, and she says, “We’ll pick up dinner from Luigi’s on the way home, then we need to talk. They’re sending a detective over later this evening, and I want the whole story before then.” The Mom-tone is heavy in her voice, but she’s been more than patient. And Sierra’s been able to feed the basic details, I’m sure.

Still. Music to be faced.

“Ten minutes,” Mom says as Sierra opens the door and they slip out together.

The sound of the door
’s latch closing again seems to echo around the room. Linden steps forward holding out a box with a blue ribbon on top. “I brought this for you. I mean, I know you’re not actually going to be here for much longer, but I remember when I woke up I was
starving
. And the food here sucks.”

“Thank you,” I say genuinely, peeking ins
ide. Couple of candy bars, trail mix, beef jerky, packaged brownies, and a cinnamon roll that kind of makes my heart hurt.

And my stomach rumble.

I am
so
hungry. “Would it be totally rude if I …” My voice trails off and I gesture at the box.

“No, absolutely! Please do.” I’m rummaging through the box when he adds, “It’s probably for the best. You can chew and I can talk. Because I kind of have a lot to say.”

Oh
.

My fingers wrap around one of the brownies. If there was ever a time for comfort food, this is it. Instinctively, my right hand tries to reach for the plastic wrap, but all that does is send of a jolt of pain from my shoulder to my fingertips as my arm pushes fruitlessly against the sling.
A low moan escapes my clenched teeth.

“Let me help,” Linden offers, and I feel like the world’s biggest asshole as he unwraps the dessert and puts it carefully in my left hand. I shove the corner of the brownie in my mouth just to keep myself from apologizing. Again.

OMG chocolate heaven
.

“How many stitches?” he asks.

I swallow quickly. “Forty-eight. Ten on my hand, twelve on my arm and twenty-four in my shoulder.”

“That’s forty-six.”

I laugh in spite of myself. “Well, apparently I have no idea, then.”

“I heard … I heard it was a knife?” he asks in a whisper,
eyeing the crinkly plastic wrap that he’s squishing between his hands.

“Yeah.” My voice cracks even on that tiny word.

He grins and lifts the tail of his shirt. “I guess we match now.”

But rather than seeing the humor in the situation
, the sight of his scar makes my chest feel tight.

This
is actually the first time I’ve seen it.

When it happened
, the wound itself was covered in clothing. And afterward, when they brought him back from surgery, it was draped in gauze.

And let’s just say I haven’t been in a position to view his bare stomach since.

It’s longer than I thought. A good four or five inches. And
scar
almost seems like the wrong word. Scars are an echo of injuries long gone—this one is still so fresh. The line is red and raised from the mending process and, though the skin is definitely closed and healing, it still looks tender.

I did that. I
stabbed
him. I damn near killed him. I don’t know how he thinks he can just forgive me.

Not when I still haven’t forgiven myself.

“It’s possible I just suck at taking rejection,” Linden says, dropping his shirt and sliding onto the bed beside me, clasping his hands together between his knees. “But I can’t just let you go. I’ve tried. It’s not working. I found out you’d been hurt and I—I didn’t take it well,” he says softly, staring down at his clenched fingers. “I ditched school and I’ve been here all day except when I took off for an hour to get you that.” He says, pointing at the box. “Then when I found out you were going to be fine, it’s … it’s like the whole world started turning again.”

I remember that feeling. The one I felt when I found out
he
was going to live. The tears are on my cheeks before I can even think to stop them and I shove the rest of the brownie in my mouth and try to wipe them away subtly. Though maybe there’s no point in hiding that kind of reaction from him anymore.

“You kissed me back
in the auditorium, Charlotte. A
lot
.”

My cheeks are surely bright red, but I just keep chewing, focusing on the rich, amazing frosting to keep from tearing up even more.

“Now, if
you
didn’t want to be with me, then I would leave it alone. I know you can’t force someone to have a relationship. Not a real one.” He hesitates then adds, “I think I know that better than just about anyone.”

I nod silently; he deserves full credit for tha
t.

“But that isn’t the case
here. Is it?”

He look up at me
and even though I don’t speak, I know my answer is shining in my eyes. I can’t imagine ever not wanting him. Not for a second. A
moment
.

“So what you’re doing is making
my
choice for me,” he says, and though his words are quiet, there’s a simmering anger beneath them that I can’t miss. “And if you think you have the right to do that, then you owe me the reason.” His eyes burn into mine and the truth of his words sear me to the heart.

He’s right. I
am
making his choice for him. The same way Smith forced him to be with me, I’m forcing him
not
to be. I hate that comparison. I hate it so much I wish I could purge it from my mind.

But I know it now. So I can’t.

“Okay,” I whisper. “You win.” I glance at the door and then, with my hands cold and trembling, I raise my chin until our eyes meet.

And I break his heart.

“The only reason Bethany is dead is because of me. Smith killed her for no other reason than to get my attention. He killed
all of them
to get to me. If it weren’t for me, you would have a girlfriend right now. It just wouldn’t be me.”

He sits there, stunned, his mouth open a crack, eyes wide in horror.

My throat feels like it’s closing in, but I force a few more words out. “And Linden? That’s not even everything. That’s just the part of the secret that I can tell you.”

I
hear him breathing in labored gasps that make me turn away in pain. I can’t look at him when he’s so anguished. To know that I did this. After everything, I had to hurt him
again
.

“My life is a nightmare, Linden,” I mumble to my feet.
“
Your
nightmare, to be frank. If there were another way,” I say, aching, but I can’t leave him with a tendril of hope. I force myself to go on. “But there’s not. There never will be.”

“Char … I—”

But we’re saved by the sound of the door opening to admit my mother again, followed close behind by a nurse with an empty wheelchair.

My chariot.

A fake smile plasters itself over my face. The practiced smile that hides all my secrets. I’m ever-so-good at it.

“Your throne, Princess,” the nurse says cheerily.

“I’ll get your bag,” Mom offers, grabbing the plastic drawstring hospital bag that holds my blood-stained clothing. I’d rather just throw it all in the trash. I probably will when I get home. “Do you want me to take that?” she asks, reaching for Linden’s box.

“No!” I say too
sharply, holding the precious object against my shirt. My very last gift from Linden, I’m quite certain. “I’ll hold it.”

Mom nods and I stand and fumble with the box for a fe
w seconds before Linden helps stabilize it against my chest.

“Thank you,” I whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. “For everything. Ever.” But I don’t look up at him. I can’t. I don’t want to see what he really thinks of me now. I’d rather not know. I hug the box to my chest and walk past him to the waiting wheelchair.

I don’t look back.