And what’s worse is that I hadn’t actually decided what to do yet. I thought I had more time. I was going to make the for-sure decision this weekend. And now the choice has been torn away from me.

I did nothing.

Not because I chose to do nothing, but because I didn’t make a choice at all. The thought sickens me. I wish I’d never seen the vision. I wish I’d fought harder. Assuming I even could have fought harder. The memory of how drained I felt after the foretelling makes me doubt it, but maybe there was something else I could have done.

Even without a vision, the whole idea of a murder would have seemed surreal. Coldwater is the kind of place where stuff like this just doesn’t happen. We’re not teeny tiny; there are, like, ten or fifteen thousand people in the community. Lots of farmers, people who say hi at the grocery store even though they don’t exactly know who you are. Half the town goes out to the high school football games Friday nights without fail. That kind of thing.

Our idea of a crime-filled night is some couple getting drunk and causing a “domestic disturbance,” or maybe a high schooler attempting to steal a bottle of tequila from the liquor store on a dare.

Not killing people. Not killing kids.

I should have warned her. I shove my head under my blanket in some long-forgotten instinct, and then tear it off again to escape the darkness.

As light flashes across my eyes, I have a terrifying thought: maybe that was the reason the vision overwhelmed all of my defenses—because I was supposed to help her and I failed.

But what if I had done something? If I’d warned her to be careful she might have taken Rachel with her. Then two people would be dead. And that second death would have been entirely my fault.

This isn’t about choosing between right and wrong; it’s about trying to predict the line between wrong . . . and more wrong.

FIVE

Monday is pure hell. Even worse than the torture I’ve been putting myself through all weekend. There’s a huge pile of flowers and candles and stuffed animals in front of the school. Not just from other students—from the whole community. The sense of security that permeated Coldwater is gone.

People are afraid. Sad and afraid.

News vans have come in from Tulsa. I’d like to think it’s because they care—and that’s certainly the façade they’re trying to sell—but it feels intrusive. Like strangers attending a strictly family funeral. I want to chase them away and tell them this isn’t their loss.

But I can’t. I have to attempt to blend in—act like I’m as surprised by this horrific act of violence as anyone. That I’m as normal as every other kid floating aimlessly through the halls today.

Standing in front of my locker, I almost don’t notice Linden. Of course, he’s not drawing any attention to himself. Maybe he’s even consciously trying to avoid it. I pretend to be sifting through the stuff in my backpack as I study him. The light and spark in his posture and expression that generally define him are gone. His eyes are red rimmed. He looks broken.

I forgot that he was one of Bethany’s friends. I want to go to him, to say something to ease that awful look in his eyes. It makes me hurt to see him this way.

I probably shouldn’t, but I do anyway.

I approach tentatively, not wanting to screw this up and make it even worse for him. “Linden?” I say softly. He turns and for just a second it’s like he’s too deep in his grief to even recognize me. Then his face softens.

“Charlotte. I didn’t see you.”

“That’s okay.”

We’re both silent for a few seconds. “I’m so sorry about Bethany.” And somehow, just saying the words—apologizing to someone—makes me feel better. “I know she was your friend,” I add in a mumble.

He nods stiffly.

“If I can . . . if you ever need, I don’t know, someone to talk to or something,” I blurt, half mortified at what I’m saying.

He stares at me for several long seconds before a ghost of a smile touches his mouth. “That’s really nice of you. I—” He hesitates and for a moment I think he’s actually going to say something—something meaningful. “I’ll remember that you offered. Thanks,” he says, and then wanders away with a small hand flutter instead of saying good-bye.

I watch him go with an ache in my heart. Somehow, seeing Linden hurt like this makes my remorse even worse.

He doesn’t show up to choir.

When school gets out, I know I should hurry home. My house is literally within sight of the front gates of the high school and though I finally convinced my mom to let me walk to school this morning, she wheeled out to the front porch and watched me the entire way.

She’ll stress until I walk back in the door.

But I need a few minutes.

I slump against the worn metal door of my locker, letting my back slide down until my butt hits the floor. I rub at my temples. I’ve been in a blur all day, but my head feels downright cottony now.

Oh no. My eyes fly open. “I’m so stupid,” I mutter to myself. I’ve been so distracted by my own guilt and pain I didn’t recognize the signs. The very last thing I want to do right now is to fight another foretelling; it’s harder when I’m feeling emotionally vulnerable.

And there’s something else. Something new: fear. After the horror of the last vision a tiny quiver clenches in my stomach at the thought of losing a fight again. Of seeing something like that again.