At the very least. I briefly wonder what she might be able to do before I lay my head down like I’m exhausted and let the vision take me.

I’m so tired of standing in the snow first thing in my visions; it’s ruined for me forever. It used to make me think of sledding and children playing and the holidays. Now I only remember how bright-red blood looks on its sparkling-white surface.

It’s daytime. That confuses me. Maybe this will be a normal vision. But I shake that hope away. This one has the same nearly unbearable pressure inside my skull that I’ve almost gotten used to. It’ll be violent—that’s all I know for sure.

But in the middle of the day? I glance up at the sky and guesstimate that it can’t be later than about one or two in the afternoon. Who murders someone in broad daylight? In a town that’s already on high alert?

Maybe I’m too late. Maybe for some cruel, sadistic reason, the universe only wants me to see the bodies after they’re already dead. To show me how helpless I really am. I look to my right when I see a flutter of something black in my peripheral. A figure turning a corner on the newly shoveled sidewalk.

“Smith?” I whisper. But all I saw was a black coat. There are thousands of black coats in Coldwater. Still, I swear . . .

I take off running after him and am a little surprised when my vision lets me, with no added effort. Apparently that’s where I’m supposed to go. My feet don’t slide on the slick cement and I make good time, but when I fling myself around the corner, the sidewalk in front of me is empty.

I walk slowly and nothing moves. No one is out; no voices to be heard. It’s like a modern, frozen ghost town.

But then, isn’t that what Coldwater has become with four teenagers dead? What else could we be?

I keep trudging forward simply because that’s what my vision is telling me to do. I see movement again—brown this time. Not the same person. I hurry toward it anyway.

My footsteps echo on the bare sidewalk, and the girl in the brown coat turns as I draw near. And smiles at me.

My feet slow. That’s weird. No one in my visions has ever been able to see me.

Except when I put myself in the scene with Linden.

But this isn’t the supernatural plane. This is something else entirely.

“Hi, Charlotte. You couldn’t take being pent up anymore either?”

Charisse, from choir. We sit next to each other even though I sing alto and she sings second soprano, because Mrs. Simkins said we’re both strong enough singers to handle it. A compliment to each of us—we’ve been friendly ever since.

“I know I shouldn’t be here,” Charisse confides, “but aren’t you going crazy?”

I nod. “Totally,” I whisper, meaning it more than her question intends.

“I snuck out. My dad is away on business and my mom got called in to work last minute. She made me swear about a billion times on everything from my grandpa’s dead soul to the baby Jesus that I would stay in the house and not answer the door to anyone.” She turns and points to a house across the street. “I live over there and after she left, I couldn’t help it,” she finishes with a shrug.

She takes in a deep breath and spreads her arms wide. “It was worth it. Besides,” she says after she pushes her hands into her pockets and starts walking again, “who’s going to try to kill someone out in the open in the middle of the day?”

“Me,” I say from just over her shoulder. I grab her hair and twist it back, exposing her throat. She’s so shocked she doesn’t make a sound until I’ve pulled the knife across her neck and then it’s too late.

She’s alive for another second or two when I drop her into the snow with blood pouring over her chest, and she stares up at me with eyes that ask so plainly, “Why?”

I jerk myself from my vision and I’m breathing so hard I feel like I’ve run miles and miles since I laid my head down on the table just a couple minutes ago. My sight is still black, but my feet are so cold it feels like I actually went walking in the snow. I shiver; my whole body is freezing.

My hand seems to have a memory all its own as it recalls the sensation of the knife so vividly it feels like I’m actually holding it. I blink and the sunlight finally invades my sight.

I shriek and jump back.

I’m outside. In my socks and a light hoodie.

And the knife is in my hand.

I instantly shove it under my sweatshirt and out of sight. My head whips around, searching for anyone who might be looking at me; anyone who witnessed . . . whatever just happened. “No,” I whisper. “It’s not possible. That’s not what happens!”

But nearly every vision I’ve ever had has come true.

And why the hell am I outside? Worse, how am I going to get back in without Mom or Sierra noticing?

The back door. That’s the one closest to the kitchen and farthest from Mom’s office. It’s my best shot as long as Mom hasn’t decided to angry-cook again. I duck and jog to the back gate and let myself through. I slip in and pull the door closed behind me, but I hear Mom’s humming making its way down the hall. My bowl of chili is still on the table and I slide across the linoleum to the table and slip into the chair just as she comes around the corner.

“Aren’t you done yet?” she asks as I shove a huge—cold—spoonful into my mouth so I won’t have to speak. But she doesn’t actually seem all that interested as she reads an email printout while unwrapping a bagel. After toasting it for what feels like an eternity, she slowly wheels out of the kitchen and back to her office without giving me a second glance.