She stares, unseeing, for a few seconds before nodding.
“I’m going to take care of you, okay? I promise.” But I know it’s not a promise I can honestly make. “Let’s go get you warm.”
Her eyes widen and the wordless squeal that comes from her throat breaks my heart.
“I won’t take you into your house,” I say quickly, realizing what she must have thought. I stand, lifting Daphne, still holding her against my chest. She’s heavier than I would have guessed. Or maybe I’m just tired. “We’re going to go to my car,” I whisper once our faces are on an even plane.
She nods, but her eyes are fixed on the house, over my left shoulder.
I work my way through the spindly trees between my car and us, and I’m grateful they’re not bushy with leaves. I get a stinging scrape across my face from one of the dead branches as it is, but at least we make it. After a brief wrangle with the passenger door I deposit Daphne into the seat and cringe at the thought of what kind of lies I’m going to have to tell my mom to cover this up. But right now that’s so much less important than taking care of Daphne.
I circle to the driver’s side and slip behind the wheel, start the car, and crank up the heat. Then I reach behind the seat for an emergency blanket. I’ve never had cause to use it before, but tonight I’m supremely grateful for my mother’s sense of preparedness. Daphne has already stopped shivering—that seems like a good sign. But then, I hope it’s not a sign that she’s going into shock or something. My first aid course back in Girl Scouts is a pretty distant memory.
Daphne is glaring at me.
It’s more than a little unnerving, but who am I to judge what kind of reaction a ten-year-old girl should have after finding her parents brutally murdered? I can only imagine that the whole night has been so confusing for her, and I suppose there’s a chance she thinks I’m the killer and now I’ve captured her.
Why do I always get entangled in messes like this? Why can’t my jobs be more like Sophie’s? Cut and dry: save an innocent girl from a rapist and get his sorry ass thrown in jail. But no, I get a supernatural parasite and abusive murder victims with a traumatized child.
At least she’s alive.
I put the car into gear. I don’t know where to go—the hospital, maybe? Or the police station?—but I’m definitely not sticking around for the killer to find us.
I’ve just started to pull out when a police cruiser turns in off the highway. It stops, hi-beams shining straight into my eyes; I put the car back into park, raising one hand to block the blinding glare.
“Please step out of the vehicle,” booms an amplified voice.
I freeze.
“Step out of the car with your hands up,” the voice commands.
Relief wars with panic as I unlock the car. Why are the police here?
We’re very careful about security. That’s what Mrs. Welsh said. Of course a gorgeous house with heated walks is also going to have the kind of burglar alarm that automatically calls the cops.
Well, at least I don’t have to worry about the killer. Explaining all this to Mom and Sierra, on the other hand …
I get out of the car, holding my hands in the air. “Daphne,” I say. “You have to get out, too. It’s okay; we’re safe. It’s the police. They’ll protect us.”
“Place your hands on top of the vehicle.”
I comply, but I wish they’d stop treating us like criminals. A highway patrol car pulls up beside the police cruiser, red and blue lights flashing across the Welshes’ snow-blanketed yard.
The sun is coming up.
“Please step out of the car with your hands up,” the loudspeaker repeats.
“She’s just a little girl; I think she’s traumatized!” I yell, hoping they can hear me from inside their cars. “Please—”
Two Highway Patrol officers exit their vehicle, guns drawn.
Oh, no.
After that, things start happening fast. Four armed, uniformed men are rushing my car, Daphne is screaming. Someone else shouts, “Knife!”
“Wait!” I say, taking my hands off the top of my mom’s car. “She’s the daughter. You need to, ow!” One officer has grabbed me by the arm, twisting it painfully behind me. “Stop, wait. Daphne!”
Daphne is screaming and I hear the sickening crunch of a window being smashed while the officer behind me pins me to the side of my car.
“She just a little girl. What are you doing? She needs help!”
“Name?” the man holding my arm asks.
“I can’t—I have to go—”
“Is that your blood?”
I know I should cooperate, but it’s like every part of my brain that isn’t focused on Daphne has shut off. Everything is chaos and panic and I can’t breathe as the feeling of total helplessness drives the air from my lungs. My brain is simultaneously slow and manic, and I feel like I’m spinning in circles, seeing pieces of the scene all at the same time but not managing to focus on any one thing.
Then I’m slammed into crystalline clarity by the rapid clacking of someone being hit with a Taser.
I can hear that Daphne is screaming through forcibly-clenched teeth, and though I can’t see her, I know: they just used a Taser on a ten-year-old girl—
“No.” The word is so quiet I wouldn’t have heard it if I hadn’t been the one who said it. A deep, protective instinct springs to life within me, something old, something almost maternal. It unearths a memory—the memory of a train station and a parasite and taking someone else’s choices, making those choices for them. The focus stone against my chest comes alive and I picture a future, seconds away, in which the cops are all jumping back from me, from my car, as if flung by unseen hands. By the time I open my eyes and regret what I’ve done, it’s too late.
Cops fly into the snow, crashing, sliding, shouts of surprise and pain filling the air. I stare wide-eyed around me until my eyes land on Daphne and the Highway Patrol officer still trying to restrain her.
He’s still. Staring.
He’s terrified. Of me.
What have I done?
I dive back into my car and though the snow is slippery under my feet, I manage to plant myself in the driver’s seat and slam the door, narrowly missing the fingers of an officer with good reflexes. My cell phone is in my hand in seconds and, almost without thinking, I’m calling Sophie.
“Please, please, please,” I whisper under my breath. Yelling and pounding surround the car, and I’m afraid to look up because I’m willing to bet several of them have guns trained on me and I know I’ll puke if I see that.
“Charlotte?” Sophie’s sleepy voice nearly brings tears of relief to my eyes.
“Sophie, I don’t know what to do,” I half-yell to be heard over the cacophony around me. “The killer came tonight. I—I couldn’t sleep and I came out here to check on things and it was already over! I was trying to help Daphne, but the cops came and she’s screaming and I think they think we did it and … Sophie, I used my powers in front of them. I didn’t mean to, but they saw and—I don’t even know, Sophie. I’m in so much trouble.”
The phone is silent.
“Sophie—”
“I’m thinking.”
Her calm words make the noise around me go away for a second before an earsplitting crash sounds right by my head and bits of safety glass rain down from the side window as I scream so loudly it hurts my throat.
Rough hands drag me from the car; my face slams into the snow bank and I taste blood and mud. I scramble to my hands and knees, only to have my limbs swept out from under me and the weight of a huge body pressing down into the ground. Someone yanks my arms up and behind my back until my shoulder sockets burn in agony and I feel the chill of freezing steel closing around my wrists.
I hear everything all at once, Daphne’s screams, the mutters of the cops surrounding me, shouting about a right to remain silent and, above them all, a whistling in my head that begs me to use my powers again.
To save myself.
Then everything disappears.
Chapter Sixteen
The sun is shining.
The cops are gone.
Everything is silent.
What. The. Hell. Just. Happened?
I look at my car. It’s right where I parked it, but there’s no blood.
No knife.
No broken window.
There’s also no Daphne, which concerns me, but not nearly as much as the fact that it just turned from night to day in an instant. I push to my knees and a sound catches my ear. A voice. But a tiny one. My legs are shaky but I manage to stand and make my way to the car where I realize there’s someone shouting through my phone.
“H-hello?” I stammer.
“Who is this!” A woman. But not a voice I recognize.
“Charlotte Westing, ma’am,” I answer automatically, trying to drive the fog from my brain.
Silence.
“Ma’am?”
“Charlotte, I don’t know what made my Sophie roll back the hours for you, but she’s passed out on the floor right now.”
“Is she okay?” I’m gripping the phone so hard I’m afraid I might damage it, but I can’t make my aching fingers let go.
“She’ll live. I’ll make her live. But you listen to me, you better go fix whatever it is you did wrong. You make this worth it, you hear?”
“I hear.” Fear is an icicle in my heart. Not only for Sophie, but for the responsibility looming ahead of me. I end the call without saying goodbye and study the screen.
It’s 4:12 in the afternoon. Yesterday. Tuesday. This is different than when Sophie saved the pastels, or un-spilled my milk. I’m still at the Welsh house. I still have my car. I wish Sophie was here, or at least that I could talk to her. Plan something. But I’m on my own for now.
Also, I’m not going to be able to look her mom in the eye. Probably for months. At the very least, until Sophie has recovered. Fully recovered. I didn’t know what I was asking for when I called her; I was desperate. I was flailing for anything. I didn’t mean for …
But this is what Sophie would want. Right? Or, at least, it will be if I can manage not to screw it up. This is what she does.
I check my clothes—I’m wearing the jeans and T-shirt I threw on when I left the house in the middle of the night, but the blood is gone. It looks like Sophie essentially lifted me out of the future and dropped me into the past. If I drove home right now, would there be a copy of me sitting in my room? Or did I just sort of … vanish from my house?
It’s too hard to wrap my brain around right now. I have to go save Daphne’s parents.
At the very least, I have to save Daphne. And not in a way that gets her Tasered.
I hustle to the doorstep and ring the doorbell before I can lose my nerve.
Mrs. Welsh answers the door and, rather than actually greeting me, she just blinks, looking about as confused as I did when time turned around on me a few minutes ago.
“Hi Mrs. Welsh,” I say, channeling my inner Sophie with a big grin and a cheery tone. “I know I was just here yesterday—and I’m not looking for more money—and I know it’s kind of weird, but—” I pause, then decide the best lies require a hearty dose of truth. “You just looked tired when we stopped by yesterday. You and Daphne both seemed really stressed. I have sort of a … sense, for these things. Always have,” I add with what I hope looks like a self-deprecating shrug. “I thought maybe you could use a little help around the house. You know, a mother’s helper or something. Just for the day. You wouldn’t have to pay me or anything, I just—”
“I’m sorry, um …”
Oh crap. What did Sophie say our names were? “Candy,” I say, remembering. “Candy Westing.” I tack on my real last name to be safe. After all, assuming I can save her life, and someday she sees me in town or something, I could probably make a semi-convincing argument that Candy is a nickname for Charlotte.
Probably.
“That’s right. Candy. I’m not sure if that’s a great idea,” Mrs. Welsh says, and her smile looks decidedly forced. I wonder if something worse than the closet happened today, and the idea makes me rub my arms for warmth. She seems even more tired and discombobulated than yesterday. Two days ago. Monday.
This is even more confusing than having a vision.
“I understand,” I say, trying not to look crestfallen. I’m out of ideas. If only Sophie were here. “I don’t mean to intrude. But you were really nice to us the other day, I really appreciated that. Thanks again.”
I turn to go. Maybe I could throw a rock through their window at midnight or something. Casual vandalism seems like a pretty inelegant way to change the future, but now that I know when the killing takes place, it shouldn’t be too hard to prevent. I just wish there was some way to be sure of catching the killer. Not much sense preventing a murder tonight only to have it happen tomorrow night instead.
“Wait,” Mrs. Welsh calls from behind me. “It … has been a tough couple of days. If you really don’t mind keeping Daphne occupied for a while, I could use some help. But it would have to be Daphne’s choice.”
Daphne’s narrow face is already there in the crack between the open door and her mother’s elbow. Her eyes are wide and I remember the strange look in them last night—no, the future tonight—when her cheeks were smeared with blood and tears.
I stare at the little girl; I feel like she’s got to be smarter and more introspective than anyone thinks, which makes this whole situation all the more devastating. There were so many emotions in those eyes after her parents’ murder, but I’m seeing some of them now as well. I just can’t help but believe this is a very unique child.
“Do you want to go spend a little bit of time with Candy, sweetheart?” Mrs. Welsh says, and she sounds so attentive, so caring, it makes me doubt myself again. But not Sophie. I can’t doubt Sophie. She risked her life to make this happen. Whatever is going on in this house, Mrs. Welsh is right in the thick of it.
Daphne stares straight at me and, for a second, I swear she can see everything I am. Liar, Oracle, everything. And it’s a little unnerving. “Yes,” she says.
Not yeah, not uh-huh, but yes. Crisp and clear.
Her mom leans down with her hands braced on her knees. “Why don’t you go pick out two ice cream bars from the freezer and you can have a picnic with Candy in the gazebo.”
A grin splits Daphne’s face and I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen her smile—in any timeline. As soon as she’s scampered off Mrs. Welsh straightens and faces me again, her easy smile gone; the tired lines back. “The gazebo has heaters in the rafters. Daphne will show you where the switch is. I just—” She stops and rubs her arms like she’s cold. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome!” I guess I’m managing to sound convincingly cheerful because Mrs. Welsh smiles her weary smile.
“It would be nice for Daphne to have a friend. She’s homeschooled and doesn’t really like to socialize. Not with kids her age, anyway.” She pauses and for a second I think she’s going to say something else, but she doesn’t. And truth be told, maybe I don’t want to hear it.
Daphne chooses that moment to come back, holding two white packages and with her coat over her arm. I stand silently and watch them. Daphne seems so competent and confident, following directions easily. Mrs. Welsh leans over and helps her into her coat, zipping it up and tucking a lock of brown hair behind her ear. She doesn’t act like she’s violent, and Daphne doesn’t shy away like she’s afraid.
I take an ice cream pop from Daphne and she doesn’t look back or cling to her mother as we leave the house—or, conversely, hurry to get out of her sight. She just walks at a calm, child-pace down the sidewalk and away from the front doors.
We head around the house to the back yard. I’m not sure
if I should try to reach out to hold her hand and finally decide that ten is probably too old for that. So we walk separately, but in a companionable silence.
A shiver of unease passes through me as we round the corner of the house and come into sight of the place where I barreled through the tree line with blood-soaked Daphne in my arms.
Daphne skips though the snow, a few feet ahead of me, and I swallow hard. Just her and me. And one chance to make things right. Maybe, somehow, I can find out what’s really going on here.
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?”
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