“Yeah, let’s do that and we’ll clean you up on the way, just to make sure.”

I’m stepping up into the ambulance when it occurs to me that I left the knife just lying there in the snow. I glance back, but the spot where I dropped it is empty. With footprints leading right to Sierra.

I look away as the doors slam shut, too guilty for any gratitude to fit in.

They take him into surgery immediately.

I feel like my entire word has been ripped to shreds. Smith is dead and because of that I will never know for sure whether or not I killed Nathan Hawkins. Smith took that secret with him. I’ll always wonder, always feel that heavy weight.

But I won’t be able to live with myself if I’ve killed Linden. It doesn’t matter that I was under Smith’s control—he picked the right victim. If Linden dies, I’ll be broken.

Linden’s parents come rushing in minutes after the doctor talks to me. I tell them what he said, but when they ask me what happened, all I can say is, “I don’t know,” as endless tears trickle down my face. Linden’s mother squeezes my hand and whispers something soothing, but I don’t deserve her comfort. I don’t deserve to even be in the same room as her.

It’s over an hour before the doctor comes out. When he says Linden’s fine, I’m as near to fainting as I can ever remember. “No vital organs were hit,” he says, “just some muscle walls. A fairly shallow cut. He’ll have a brag-worthy scar to show the ladies,” he adds as he winks at me. I want to claw his eyes out.

Linden’s parents and I go to his room where we sit and wait for Linden to regain consciousness. Every second feels like an eternity as I sit there staring at his pale form.

Finally his eyes blink slowly, like they did out in the snow. We all jump up and surround his bed, his parents each reaching for a hand. I feel like a traitor; I shouldn’t be here.

But I have to be. I have to know.

A nurse walks in with a grin and shoos us from his side. She pulls out a chart.

“Well,” she says in much too chipper a tone for my taste, “do you know your name?”

“Linden Christiansen,” he says, and though his voice is a little hoarse, it’s strong.

She asks him a few more questions, his birthday, how old he is, what grade he’s in. Then she asks him what he remembers about today.

I’m standing near the head of his bed in the opposite direction of where he’s facing—I’m not actually sure he knows I’m here. When he starts to speak, I shrink even farther back.

“My girlfriend came over.” My hearts gives a tiny leap at the word girlfriend, even though I know I’ll never hear it again.

“What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“Charlotte. Charlotte Westing. We went for a walk. We left the sidewalk and then—”

I suck in a breath and get ready for my world to turn upside down. For everyone to turn their eyes to me in accusation and hatred. Both of which I completely deserve.

“I guess I tripped and fell on some kind of wicked rock or something. I don’t know. But it was an accident,” he says, and his voice is solid, sure. I would never have believed he was lying.

“Of course it was. It must have been a really sharp rock. The doctors said the wound was narrow and shallow. Almost like a knife.” She laughs wearily. “Hopefully our days of knives are over. With the Coldwater Killer behind bars, I tell you what, we are more than happy to be back to just accidents where everybody lives.”

“Amen,” Linden’s mother says quietly.

My knees are so weak they’re barely supporting my body. Why did Linden lie for me? And how long can we both keep up the pretense? Lies never work, not in the end. Even if they fulfill their purpose, there’s always a price.

The nurse explains that since it’s already evening, they’d like to keep him overnight for observation.

“Can we stay?” his mother asks.

“Certainly,” the nurse says. “But I’m afraid Charlotte will have to go once visiting hours are over. She’s not family.”

Linden’s head swings around. I was right. He didn’t know I was here. His eyes flash emotions so fast I can’t even begin to read them. I wait for him to speak, then wonder if the kind thing is to say something first. But I can’t make my mouth obey and in the end, I simply duck my head and walk out of his room.

I’m ten steps beyond the door before I hear someone call my name. I don’t want to stop. Don’t want to explain any of this to anyone. But I finally turn when I realize it’s not Linden’s mom or the nurse.

It’s Sierra.

She walks up to me tentatively, as though I’m a skittish animal who will bolt if she moves too fast. I stare at her, this woman who I’ve never quite understood, but who has more empathy for me than any other human being in the entire world. We stand there for several seconds, mere inches apart. Then she lifts her arms—a small movement really—and the barrier between us shatters. I throw myself into her arms and sob.

THIRTY-THREE

Once again, every channel is interrupted by newscasts as reporters stare unblinkingly into the camera and report the unexpected death of the Coldwater Killer. The man who is in no databases, who carried no ID. Who, before he died, refused to identify himself by any name but Smith. The cause of death is cited as a spontaneous massive brain hemorrhage.

He’s dead.

I killed him.

I guess you could argue that it was self-defense; in the end, it truly was him or me, even if technically my heart would have kept beating. But in my nightmares last night—each time I managed to get to sleep at all—I saw nothing but myself slamming that knife into Smith, over and over. The feel of the handle growing slippery with his blood; the clack of the blade ricocheting off his ribs; his life ebbing out of him in spurts of dark maroon. I wonder how long it will be before I can sleep peacefully again.