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.

EIGHT

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 curlicues and as cool as it looks, it’s going to take ages to decipher. My heart sinks. I’d need days at the very least and there’s a pretty good chance Sierra just ran out for a cup of coffee from her favorite local café.

I start reading as fast as I can and I’ve worked my way through less than two pages when I realize I’m being stupid.

There’s a camera on my phone.

Isn’t that how the last Harry Potter book got leaked?

I pull my phone out of my pocket and crouch down to lay the book out flat on the floor. Focus, take the picture, flip the page. Again, again, again. My concentration is laser sharp as I continue to page through the book, cursing under my breath when the camera phone has trouble focusing on the blocks of cramped handwriting.

When the sound of a door opening echoes in from the front entryway I’m so intent I almost forget what it means.

Sierra. Home.

Shit!

With a sharp pang of regret, I slam the book closed and shove it back into its gaping space on the bookshelf. I hear Sierra greeting my mom as I slip out her door and pull it closed behind me as silently as possible. On quiet feet, I sprint down the hallway and duck into my bedroom. I count to five and then poke my head out like I’m casually saying hi.

“I didn’t know you were here,” Sierra says, startling a little when she sees my face.

Or I wouldn’t have left, I finish her thought in my head.

I bite my lip, but my mom’s voice trickles in from her office to save me. “It’s bound to be a rough day,” she says. “I let her stay home.”

“Oh. Oh yes,” Sierra says as though only just now remembering that another teen was murdered less than two miles from this house.

She turns and heads down the hallway to her room and as she turns the doorknob, I stand frozen, gripping the wall to keep my fingers from shaking. I’m waiting for something to happen. Why the hell did I think I could get away with this?