I don’t know what kind of mischief Nicole intended to get into, but when I yell at her, she straightens and gets a funny look on her face. “Go to Sara’s house now!” I scream the word now as loud as I can.

Then I start to push with that same flow of energy that I used with Jesse. And Nicole moves. It’s slow. Like she’s fighting me almost, but she’s going. I focus on the stone—on all of my energy going through it and getting bigger, stronger, and together, we walk. We’re halfway across the kitchen when she suddenly veers off and I almost cry in disappointment, knowing I’ll have to catch her and then get her back on track.

“No! Sara’s house!” I yell after her, my slow steps not equal to her near run down the hall.

But a few seconds later, she appears with a jingling set of keys in her hands, and relief courses through me. I’m okay; it’s working. I start pushing again. I push, I shove, and for the second time today I break into a sweat and feel my clothes dampen, but I don’t give up. I’m so close.

Nicole pauses for a second at the garage door, looks at the small white Suzuki, and then dubiously down at the keys in her hands.

She’s going to change her mind. She has no reason whatsoever to go to Sara’s house. But I picture her mutilated body in my mind—especially that first strike that destroys her face—and put every ounce of will into my command as I shout Sara’s name once more and shove with all my might.

Ten seconds later, Nicole is in the car and the garage door is rising. I’m on my knees, too exhausted to even stand. I know we’re not out of the woods yet, but there’s nothing else I can do except keep shouting in my head for her to go to Sara’s.

It’s only as her car starts to move that I realize I’ve got to get out of the garage or I’ll be stuck on the other side of the door from Smith. I don’t want to leave the vision without finding out what he saw. I crawl across the cement. One hand, one knee, the other, the other. Slowly I make my way out of the garage as Nicole backs out. The door closes just inches from hitting me, and her little car makes its way down the snowy roads in the direction of the town center.

I kneel in the snow in front of the house and let the scene continue to play. For a second, I don’t see Smith anywhere. Then I catch sight of his form jogging up the road, just ahead of the gray SUV.

“Charlotte,” Smith says, gasping, when he reaches me. “He just saw Nicole leave. He’s furious.”

The SUV pulls right over the edge of the yard, plowing through the snowbank. A masked man jumps out and I hear an unearthly scream emanate from his mouth that makes every drop of blood in my veins turn to jagged ice.

The shriek of a monster.

I leap to my feet as he draws near. Something whistles by my head and I hear a loud thud and turn my head sharply toward the workshop.

The machete. He’s thrown it into the side of the shed where it digs in just enough to stick, and wobbles crazily back and forth. He gets back into his car and—after a couple of tries—backs out of the pile of snow, driving slowly down the road in the opposite direction as Nicole.

“He was waiting,” I whisper, my eyes still glued to the machete. “He had this all planned.”

“Looks that way,” Smith says tightly. “She’s safe now. Let’s get out of this scene.”

It takes hardly a thought for me to cast us both from my second sight. Then we’re back in my mom’s Corolla, the heat blowing hard on both of us and the touch of Smith’s fingertips very light on my temple before he lets his hands fall and leans heavily against his seat. “Doing this right—catching this guy—is going to take work, Charlotte.”

“Thank you, Mr. Killjoy. Can’t we take two seconds to celebrate the victory we’ve had?” I ask with my teeth chattering despite the hot, stifling air in the car.

“One, two,” Smith counts mechanically. “I went over to this guy’s car and he was already masked with the machete on the seat beside him.” He turns to me. “He was ready. We don’t know how much he planned before, but he’s definitely planning now. And he looked like he was hungry for a kill.”

“So what are we supposed to do?”

“Like I said before, we have to get him caught. Leaving behind the machete—not to mention tire marks—was a stupid move at best. Next time . . .” He pauses, then holds both hands out in a calming motion. “Now just think about this, okay? Next time I was thinking we could let the victim get attacked, but not killed. I know that sounds harsh”—he rushes on when I gasp—“but not only will that allow the killer to let off a little of the pressure building up inside him, whoever it is might get close enough to see something. To get a fingernail full of DNA, you know, that kind of thing.” He pauses. “Maybe the cops could even catch him in the act if we draw it out enough. I think it’s worth a shot.”

I hate that it makes sense. “I’ll think about it,” I finally say.

The car is silent as I drive about a mile back to where I picked Smith up. He starts to grab his door handle, then stops and turns back to me. “You did well in there. And if we had a year to do this, I think you would be enough just by yourself. But we don’t, so I think you should take this.”

He holds out the ancient velvet case and, despite everything, I suck in an excited breath when it touches my hand.

“Wear the pendant while you sleep,” Smith says. “There’s a whole plane of existence that contains all of the possible visions of every possible future. I don’t know if it’s in your head or somewhere else entirely, but Shelby used to talk about going there in her dreams when she wore the necklace. She always described it as an endless dome full of visions of the future.”