LITMIR.BIZ

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the barely wide-enough hallway. I’m a terrible daughter for taking advantage of her handicap to get away, but I do. I fling the door open as my arms slip into the sleeves of my heavy coat, then slam it shut and take off.

      I’m almost half a block away before I hear Mom reach the porch and start shouting my name, but I duck my head and hurry onward, taking the first corner I reach to dart out of her sight.

      She won’t chase me in her wheelchair; she knows she’d never catch me. There’s going to be hell to pay when I get home, but I had to get out of there before I choked.

      I didn’t even think about the fact that I headed in the direction of the school. The “corner” I whipped around isn’t a corner at all; it’s the edge of the parking lot. Now I’m walking through the middle of a huge square of white snow. If I were younger—more ignorant, less guilty—I would lie down and make a snow angel. Or run around in circles full of giddiness at being the first person to mar the perfect blanket of pure whiteness.

      Instead, I stand in the middle of the lot, the snow untouched except for my single line of tracks that lead halfway across.

      It’s almost time for school to start. But no one’s here. Well, there’s a sprinkling of cars right by the front doors that probably belong to teachers. I wonder if school will be canceled again.

      My phone chimes in my pocket. My mom. I stare at the brightly lit screen as it continues to ring and it occurs to me why this day is different from the day they found Bethany. That morning, a crowd gathered around the crime scene and word of who had been killed leaked out like wildfire as soon as Rachel saw those shoes.

      Matthew was killed in a remote area. Even the few people who were there were kept far from the scene by both officers and the trees.

      I’m the only student who knows the name of the victim.

      I can imagine exactly what’s happening right now in hundreds of homes around Coldwater. Students are frantically calling each other; checking on their friends one by one. I can picture the texts.

       Are u ok? Text me back RITE NOW!

       U didn’t answer. Call me the SEC you get this.

      Or even something as simple as:

       Another kid is dead. Please let me know it wasn’t you.

      The only person who called me was my mom. And I didn’t answer.

      I text my mom a simple:

       I’m at school. Sorry.

      and shuffle forward. I’m halfway up the steps when my text chime pings again.

      “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I mutter as I dig my phone out again.

      A sinking swoop envelops my stomach when I see that it’s not from my mom, but that same unknown number as before. I look around but see no one.

      Which is stupid because there’s no reason someone should need to see me to text me. With shaky hands, I unlock my phone. My hands are so cold I can hardly manage it, then I huddle into the corner of the entryway and force my eyes to look down at the screen.

       Your attempt was admirable, but it obviously didn’t work. I can show you how to stop it from happening again. Call me when you get desperate enough. Do it for that poor boy’s sake. Please.

      I suppress the urge to fling the phone to the ground as my lungs suck air in fast, loud gasps.

      Whoever this is, they know. But how much do they know? Are they watching me?

      They know I saw the vision of Bethany, and that I tried to warn Matthew.

      And that I failed.

      I shove my phone into my pocket and duck back into the early morning wind. I’m not sure where I’m going.

      I can’t go home. I just can’t. I’m not ready. Not to face my mom or Sierra. I head past the school, walking down more unshoveled sidewalks and marring more perfect sheets of snow. My sockless feet are starting to tingle with cold inside my boots, but I ignore them. My mind tosses questions and possibilities around and around my brain.

      After half an hour, I’ve circled the same block three times and I’m out of new snow to walk on. I feel similarly trapped in my head as my mind grows weary. It leaves the wild theories, the guilty scenarios, and instead focuses on the two pictures that won’t leave my eyes, even when I scrunch them closed: the bleeding gap across Bethany’s throat, and the hole in Matthew’s head.

      And I realize I can’t live with myself if it happens again.

      

      When I get back to my house, I’m shivering and stiff and fairly sure my toes are frozen. I took the long way and avoided the school, so I honestly don’t know if I’m technically ditching or not.

      I guess I’m the empty desk today.

      I’m certain I look pathetic when I come in the front door and go right to my mom’s office to apologize. But she takes one glance at my face and I know words won’t be needed. She helps me shrug out of my coat and kick off my boots. I murmur that I’m sorry as we go out to the great room, where I lay on the couch while my mom rubs my back. It’s something she’s done for me when I was sick for as long as I can remember.

      I’m not physically sick today, but heartsick is a word I really understand now. Eventually my mom has to get back to work; I assure her I’ll be fine. That I just want to go to sleep.

      Which is absolutely true.

      But ten minutes later, I hear footsteps click down the hallway and the jingle of keys before the front door opens and closes. My heart pounds in my chest as I rise silently from the couch and peek out the window to see Sierra driving away.

      My fingers tingle with both fear and anticipation as my gaze travels down the hallway.

      Her bedroom door is closed, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I don’t think she knows I’m home.

      With a quick glance toward the corner that leads me to my mom’s office, I creep down the hall and lay my fingers on the doorknob. I take a breath, cross my fingers, and try.

      It’s unlocked.

      I have no idea how long she’ll be gone.

      And if she catches me, she’ll be so angry.

      But it’s a chance I’m going to have to take. I hurry in and leave the door open a few inches so I can listen for her to come back. As though pulled by a magnet, I go right to the ancient copy of Repairing the Fractured Future and pull it out, feeling like the worst niece in the world even as my mind tells me I’m completely justified. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to know what Sierra knows?

      I need this.

      Sierra has told me that knowledge is dangerous, that she has a very risky position as the historian for the Sisters. But that sounds remarkably like all the arguments people give for censorship and banning books and stuff. I don’t agree with that either.

      I know that the Sisterhood has the basic functions of finding Oracles, training them, and protecting them in ways I don’t really understand. But as far as I can tell, the main purpose they have—at least in my life—is to suppress all knowledge of Oracles. And not just from the world, but from the Oracles as well.

      Shaking away my dismal thoughts, I carefully open the book. The title is stamped onto the leather cover with gold embossing, but to my surprise, the book is written by hand. The handwriting on the yellowed pages is full of loops and

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