“I doubt it,” Smith said. “He’ll see this as a challenge.”

Based on DNA from the bat that match two tiny strands of hair from Clara’s coat, the cops have confirmed that the killer is a man. I breathed a tiny sigh of relief when that happened and wanted to throw Smith’s ridiculous insinuations about Sierra back in his face.

But the vacant look on Clara’s face when she got up and left the house still haunts me. Because it looked like Jesse’s face when I pushed him back to his house, and Nicole’s face when she left to go to her friend’s house. Just because a woman isn’t the one wielding the weapon doesn’t mean she can’t be an accomplice.

I hate that I have to even consider it, but it’s true.

It doesn’t have to be Sierra. I refuse to believe it is Sierra, but somehow, there’s got to be an Oracle involved.

Sierra hasn’t left the house since that night. No opportunity to try to get another look at the book. For the last three nights, I’ve managed to get into the supernatural plane, but it’s harder to focus when I’m sleeping deeply so I just chased images of Linden and sometimes gotten sidetracked watching other people. It’s more like a combination of soap operas and Choose Your Own Adventure than a supernatural realm. I always try to catch a glimpse of the killer, but just like that first time, his face eludes me as though it has a mind of its own.

The door is still there. I haven’t tried to reach it again. When I’m sleeping soundly, I don’t seem to have the concentration to pursue one task for very long. But at least I can always get to the plane now—sleeping heavy or light. It’s some kind of improvement.

Maybe I’ll chase the door tonight. It bugs me. It feels like it doesn’t belong there. But then, what the hell do I know? I’ve scoured the little bit of text I have for mention of a door, but there’s nothing.

I’m lost in my thoughts, plodding beside my mom down the baking aisle and pushing the cart when I hear my name.

“Charlotte, hold up!”

I’m nearly bowled over by Linden pulling me into a violent hug. I throw my arms around him. I’m so happy to see him. Face-to-face. Holding him chest to chest. Hearing his life-declaring heartbeat.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers in my ear, squeezing me until it hurts and I don’t care. It feels so good to escape from everything into Linden’s arms for a few seconds.

I hear my mom clear her throat, but I can’t let go of Linden just yet. He represents more than soft kisses and skin-tingling touches. He’s the embodiment of everything our lives simply aren’t anymore. And the hope that someday they can be normal again.

I finally manage to allow Linden to let go of me. I give him a beaming smile. “I am so, so happy to see you.”

“Me too,” he whispers, and squeezes my hand.

“Linden, this is my mom,” I say, turning to gesture to her. “She’s mostly responsible for the cinnamon rolls the other day.” The other lifetime.

“Mrs. Westing,” Linden says with a touch of formality, and I’m relieved that he doesn’t either speak loudly to her, or do something schmaltzy like lean down and get on her level like you might do to a small child. Mom hates that. He just holds out a hand. Yet more reasons to adore him.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Linden,” she says, and the smile that hovers around her mouth tells me that she approves of the person Linden has grown into. Much more dreamy than the twelve-year-old I used to point out during school music programs when we were in junior high.

“I know this is kind of sudden,” Linden says, still addressing my mom, “but my parents hired me a personal security guard.” He pauses to scratch the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed and then gestures to a guy in a plain blue uniform. I force myself to stifle a laugh because, truly, it isn’t funny, but I understand why he’s embarrassed. “And I wondered if you would mind if I . . . well, invited myself over. I was going to text later today anyway,” he continues, “but running into you two is . . .” His face breaks out in a big, wide grin and he throws an arm around my shoulders. “It’s more than lucky.”

“That would be great,” my mom says. “I hope you understand why I can’t let Charlotte go to your house.”

He nods. “I do. And it’s okay.” Then he gives me such a smoldering look that if it were possible to literally melt into a puddle, I would, right there in the middle of the grocery store. “On top of that,” he says, breaking our eye contact to look at my mom again, “my guard guy will drive me to your house and then stay out front the whole time, so both you and Charlotte will be safer too.”

“Win-win,” my mom says cheerfully, but with a touch of melancholy that I know comes from having to even consider such a thing.

“Maybe tomorrow?” he says. “I know a great Italian place and I can bring takeout.” He looks over at me again, one eyebrow raised. “And then a movie?”

“Sounds perfect,” I say, feeling better than I have since Clara’s attack. We hash out some times, and Linden says he’ll leave us to our shopping. He hesitates for a second and his eyes dart to my mom, but before he pulls away he gives me a quick kiss right on the lips in front of everyone.

Awe. Some.

I’m completely unashamed as I turn and watch him walk all the way down the aisle until he disappears out of sight, seeming to take some of the daylight with him.