At eight thirty I know the attack is over and I keep glancing at my mom as she watches a TV show, waiting for the news to break in and report something. I mean, if I did save Clara, it would be because the police came. And they would report that, right? When the front door opens, I’m so on edge I almost shriek, but it’s just Sierra.

I look up at her and hate that I note the time and realize Sierra could easily have been at the train station. “Where were you?” I ask before I can stop myself. I just want to hear her answer. That’s all. I’m not actually suspicious.

I’m not.

“Out,” she says without elaborating. “I tell you,” she says as she slips out of her coat, “it’s cold out there tonight.”

The exact same words I told Smith.

Coincidence? How could it be anything but? Unless I really think she’s . . . what? Spying on me?

And yet I wonder.

I hate that Smith has planted this seed of doubt, but he’s right about one thing: there does seem to be another Oracle involved who’s compelling the victims to go meet the killer.

And didn’t I just ask myself who might know me well enough to be aware of who was involved in my past?

The news finally hits about an hour later. I watch with a strange mixture of disappointment and anticipation as I hear that the killer got away—but only after a long chase during which he dropped his bat. The Feds are all over that and their spokesperson is talking about trace evidence from the scene and testing for DNA and stuff.

Where was Smith? Maybe he ended up not going after all. Maybe I sounded overly confident during our phone conversation and he changed his mind.

But that’s not the part I’m most focused on. Clara’s condition is critical. Judging by the doctor-speak I only partially understand, I suspect the killer got in one more good hit to the head after I “left.” She’s in surgery right now and I don’t like the tone the spokesperson at the hospital uses when questioned about her chances of survival. He says only that it’s “still too early to speculate.”

Her parents aren’t at the scene of course—they’re with Clara at the hospital—but things went exactly like I figured they would. Her dad received a call, heard screaming, and called the cops. They were able to trace Clara’s phone because it was still connected, and they arrived just after I lost consciousness.

Ten seconds too late.

They play a clip of her dad repeating over and over again that he has no idea why his daughter would leave the house. That he was there, just upstairs, and didn’t hear her go out the door.

One more picture flashes on the screen of Clara’s parents sobbing and holding each other for support, and my stomach is sick with guilt.

I could have saved her. Even if I couldn’t have stopped her from leaving the house, I could have slowed her down enough that she wouldn’t have made it to the tunnel.

Did I do the right thing? Or did I make it worse?

If the killer had been caught, I would have comforted myself with the old “the ends justify the means” thing. But in this case, did they? Will the evidence the killer left behind be enough?

And what if she dies?

I tremble a little as I remember the feel of those blows falling on me. Clara took more of them than I did. How long would it take me to recover if that had been my physical body? Even if she wakes up, she’ll have the memory of that nightmarish experience to haunt her for the rest of her life.

I stare unseeingly at the television as the reporter rehashes everything all over again. It seemed much simpler when Smith and I came up with the plan. I figured Clara would get injured—like a broken bone or two. That she would be lauded as a hero even more than Nicole was. That would be worth it.

But now? I thought the worst-case scenario was death. Maybe it’s not; maybe it’s this.

For the first time since all of this started, I doubt everything Smith and I have done. I wonder how much we’ve screwed things up. I thought this was my purpose—my destiny.

Maybe it’s just my downfall.

TWENTY-THREE

I’m a prisoner in my own house.

Even when my mom lets me go to the store with her—in broad daylight of course, minors have a town-wide curfew now—I’m not allowed to leave her sight. Everywhere I look I see cops. They’ve brought some kind of backup in from other towns in the vicinity and I’m sure every single officer hopes they’re the one who catches the killer. Not simply for accolades, but because everyone truly wants to end this nightmare.

And that’s what it is: a living nightmare.

Without Linden.

We text a lot, but I haven’t done a ton of texting before and I’m just not good at it. I don’t understand the shorthand, and Linden spends half our conversations explaining them. We talk. Generally once a day, and that’s better . . . but it’s not the same. I want to be able to feel his hands, his skin. To see his easy smile that makes all of my worries wash away. It’s weird to miss someone who lives just a couple of miles away, who wants to come see you as much as you want to go see him.

This is my third day without a vision. Even before all of this started, that was kind of a long time. Smith says it’s because the killer has to be careful. Not only with the extra cops around, but because now the Feds have evidence on him.

I’m not sure why that should stop me from having visions of ordinary things. The lack of visions is a little disconcerting in the face of everything else.

“Maybe he’ll just leave town,” I suggested yesterday when Smith called to check on me.