I let all my worries go. It doesn’t matter. Today, right now, everything feels wonderful.

Everything feels right.

NINETEEN

“You didn’t see this coming?” Smith’s words shock me most of the way awake.

“What? Smith?” I say groggily.

“Please tell me you didn’t see this—not that you decided not to tell me.”

“See what?” The fuzziness is starting to clear, but it’s not gone yet.

There’s a long silence at the other end. “Go watch the news,” he says with a despairing edge in his voice that wakes me up the rest of the way. “Call me later.” He hangs up without saying good-bye.

The sinking feeling in my stomach is a better premonition than my Oracle abilities at the moment. I shove my slippers on my feet, don’t bother with my robe, and almost run out of my room and into the kitchen.

No one’s up yet. It’s the butt-crack of dawn, two days after Christmas, and a Friday to boot. I should be sleeping.

I turn on the television and keep the sound low, standing with my face close to the screen as everything inside me turns to jelly.

Someone else is dead and I got no warning whatsoever. Why wouldn’t I get a vision? I should have gotten one.

Shouldn’t I?

I study the crime scene—what I can see of it—and I’m not sure what to think. It looks like an empty lot, and I don’t see any blood. There’s a body draped in the middle of a patch of snow with straggly brown grass poking through, but the form appears—thank goodness—to be in one piece. There are footprints all around, but I can’t begin to tell which ones were already there and which ones belong to the cops.

The news reporter talks about how the police have been working the scene all night and how long they think the victim has been dead. I count back hours and realize with the acid of shame burning in my throat that the killer probably committed this murder while I was busy making out with Linden yesterday.

Completely drained of strength, I sink down onto a chair and fight back tears. Rationally, I know there’s nothing I could have done without a vision. And I remind myself that I’ve saved two other teens from terrible deaths.

But none of that seems to matter right now. I didn’t save this one.

I have to do better. I have to do more.

I’m so lost in my self-pity that Mom catches me unawares and I jump when she touches my arm. She sees the tears I didn’t have time to swipe away and her grip on my arm tightens. “What’s the matter?”

I gesture wordlessly at the volume-less television.

“Oh no,” my mom says, more of a scratchy sound on her breath than actual speaking. “Not again.” Even in her chair, she visibly slumps and the two of us lean against each other and stare at the screen. I’m sure there are details we’re missing because we can’t hear it, but they don’t seem to matter very much at the moment. What could possibly be more important than the simple fact that another kid—one so much like me—is dead?

I tilt my head when the camera pans to a taped-off scene behind the reporter. “They’ve brought in the FBI,” I say, seeing the stark letters on the back of a handful of black jackets. Mom hesitates, and then turns up the volume.

“. . . used different methods to kill each victim, police are now saying that there are other signs that point to the same person being responsible for all three murders. Agent Johnson, can you tell us a bit more about that?”

The camera swings to a man in a suit who looks tired and rumpled. “There are a few things that we’ve noted in all three cases. The first is a complete lack of DNA evidence, fingerprints, et cetera. The second is that the size of the killer is about the same in all three cases, and thirdly, the methods of killing have no hesitation. They have a marked precision and lack of faltering. We are officially declaring this to be a serial killer, and our profilers are suggesting that it’s a first-time murderer, but that this individual has been planning these attacks, possibly for years.”

“Thank you, Agent Johnson.” She turns back to the camera. “We’ll have continued coverage of the Coldwater Killer as details emerge.”

Coldwater Killer? They’ve given him a name. I don’t know why that makes me so angry. Maybe because it sounds like someone who plays a killer on television, not a real-life psychopath who would chop a seventeen-year-old girl into pieces.

“Serial killer for real now,” Mom says weakly. “And no one can argue that our cops don’t need help. This isn’t exactly their area of expertise.”

Mom and I sit together as the sun begins to rise, saying nothing as the same footage runs over and over again. When my eyes are too tired to look anymore, I rub them and stand up, thinking I’ll go try to drown my feelings in a scalding-hot bath.

As I do, I catch Sierra leaning against the doorway like she doesn’t have the strength to hold herself up. I’m shocked to see tears glistening in her eyes. Sierra’s spent her whole life fighting to keep her emotions even and at arm’s length, because it’s easier to fight visions when you’re calm. She’s always seemed so strong, so in control.

And tired. I’ve spent thirteen years bracing myself against visions and it makes me tired every single day. Sierra’s been doing it for over thirty years. I wonder if she wakes up tired. I try not to see my future in her. It’s too depressing. But on days like today, I can’t help it.