But my fingers are already loosening and my right hand is grabbing for the knife on the seat beside me. I can’t stop myself as I tuck the blade into my pocket. Then I’m pushing the car door open and rising to my feet.

I don’t even have to ring the doorbell; Linden is in the doorway waiting for me. I look up at him and stop cold as he stands there with blood pouring from the gaping gash in his neck just like in the vision.

Am I too late?

But I blink and the gruesome red is gone. Exactly like the weird visions of my mom and Sierra. Just . . . gone. Instead, my heart breaks at the reality of Linden. Tall and lanky, those perfect eyes, perfect hair, that smile that makes sparks ignite in my chest every time I see it. All of it seems so devastating today.

My puppet strings feel all too real as I’m dragged up the steps, and Linden—who doesn’t notice anything’s wrong—wraps me in his arms. I try to walk in the house but Linden stops me and I see his coat draped over his arm. “I know it’s a little cold, but can we walk? I am so sick of being cooped up indoors.”

“Of course,” my lips say as my head screams, No! “I’ve been sick of it too.”

In one fluid movement, he slips into his black coat and wraps my hand in his and we start walking down the newly snow-blown sidewalk.

“Pretty coat,” he says, his eyes taking me in with an appreciation I would have adored in any other circumstances. Now it just makes me want to cry. “Did you get it for Christmas?”

Something like that. “Yes,” I say brightly and flash him a winning smile, a cruel contrast with the way I feel inside. I know if I can’t fight Smith in this scenario, I will never win against him again. It will be over for me.

But nothing, nothing is working. I don’t even have the necklace with me—I didn’t think I would have any use for it. I remember what Smith said when I asked if he was an Oracle: I’m what Oracles dream of in the darkest of nights.

We walk silently for several minutes. “I can’t believe it’s over,” Linden says after a while, his words a puff that hangs in the air for a second.

It’s never going to be over for me. I begin to weep on the inside.

“The news is saying he attacked a girl and she fought him off long enough for the cops to come,” Linden says almost casually.

Well, that was kind of the way it happened.

“She totally fought him off. I wish . . . I wish . . . it doesn’t matter.” I hear the grief in his voice and it tears everything inside me in two. “You can’t change the past. I’m just glad someone stopped him. She must have been very brave.”

I can hear the faint echo of Smith chuckling in my head.

Don’t do this, I plead.

It’s what I do, an echoing voice replies.

I’ll do anything.

Yes, you will.

Please.

Silence.

“School starts in three days,” Linden says. The conversation from my vision is beginning.

My mouth forms the responses I heard in my vision even as I try to clamp my teeth shut against them. I’m dismayed at how light and joyful my laugh sounds. How carefree.

Then comes the moment I’ve been dreading. My muscles are aching from fighting the movements I’m forced to make, but still I throw everything I have into resisting Linden as he pulls me close. It’s not working.

“I can face it with you,” he says, and my eyes start to tear as I squeeze his hand tightly, trying to keep myself from grabbing the knife. “It is hard. I think it’s going to be hard for a long time.” Just like in my vision, he leans down and our foreheads touch. “But you make me feel strong and, I don’t know what I would be doing right now without you.”

He laughs, and my tears are coming in earnest now as I feel my right hand move to my pocket, grip the cold handle of the knife.

“I’d probably be scared and holed up in my room, to be honest. Instead, I’m here, in the beautiful snow, with a beautiful girl, and despite everything, I’m doing okay. And I’m so grateful.”

I’m choking on my sobs now, but Linden doesn’t seem to notice as I pull him closer, closer.

“No!” I manage to scream, but my hand still shoots out, stabbing the knife into his abdomen.

The thrust is off. I fought it enough that I can already see the cut is deep, but maybe not fatal. The vision isn’t done with me though, and neither is Smith. My arm swings out in a wide arc, but between me fighting it, and Linden just lucid enough to duck, the blade misses him entirely. He’s on his knees clutching at his side, staring at me in horror and confusion.

“Linden!” I cry, but my body is not my own. I circle around behind him, the blade of my knife already bloody, and I grab his hair and force his face to the sky. I reach my arm across his body and begin to pull back like a violinist on a bow, the knife sliding toward his bare throat.

“Charlotte, stop!”

THIRTY-ONE

My arm hesitates and it’s the moment I need to grab a tiny sliver of control. I can’t release Linden; I can’t even move the knife from where it rests against his throat, but I can hold it still, though every muscle in my body is screaming in protest.

“Charlotte, you don’t have to do this.”

I almost lose my grip on that control when I see Sierra moving quickly toward me. She stops when she sees the knife against Linden’s throat. I want to speak, but it’s like trying to force your voice to work after having the wind knocked out of you. When the sound finally escapes, it’s at a scream, “Sierra, help me!”