Sleep No More
Page 61
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The younger officer doesn’t try to disguise rolling his eyes and I can tell several of the other cops are thinking something along the lines of “smart-ass kid,” but they know I’m right.
“I’ll take her,” a cop who looks close to retirement offers. “My cruiser’s parked near the back.” He gestures to another officer who joins him and they flank me on each side. I don’t escape totally unscathed—the media are taking pictures of everything that even moves—but I think my face may have stayed blocked by the two cops and the windows of the cruiser are tinted pretty dark. I keep my head pointed down at my chest anyway.
Once we’ve pulled away from the crowd, I lean my head against the headrest and try to figure out what in the world I’m going to tell my mother.
I don’t have long to find out. It’s all of a four-minute drive from the park to my doorstep. “You can just drop me off,” I attempt, but as I suspected, they don’t buy that for even a second.
My mother’s face is white when she opens the door to see me standing between two cops. The moment I see that terror in her eyes is the closest I get to regretting everything I’ve done.
Until I see Sierra too, her bathrobe hastily tied, hanging back with her arms crossed over her chest.
Anger and empathy fight to rise up inside me. I don’t know what to feel.
But the most important fact at the moment is that Smith is behind bars—or will be shortly. I caught the Coldwater Killer. My mother’s very temporary fears are a small price to pay for that. “I’m fine, Mom,” I say before either cop can get a word out.
“More than fine,” the older officer says, his tone downright jovial. “Your daughter survived an attack by the Coldwater Killer and has been central in his being caught and arrested!” I can practically see him jamming his thumbs through his suspenders, he’s so excited.
“Thank you, Lord,” my mother says with her hand over her heart, even though it’s clear she doesn’t really understand.
“We’ll leave you alone tonight, but you’ll be seeing lots of us in the next few days. We’ll need to get an official statement and I’m sure the Feds will want to talk to your daughter,” he says.
“Thank you,” my mom repeats, mostly automatically.
I slip past my mom’s chair and into the house. After the door closes, my mother turns around. “Well,” she says, and even in that single syllable, her voice is trembling.
I don’t know what to say. Do I go with the same story I told the cops? I guess I’d better. I’m going to have to tell that story a lot.
“Whose coat are you wearing?”
Well, shit. “I don’t know.” It comes as easily as all the lies about my “condition” have. I guess I’ve gotten good at lying after so many years. Not really something I’m proud of.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” my mom asks, clearly not buying it. I chance a glance at Sierra and she is staring at me calmly, her eyes glittering in alertness.
“All I know is that I went to my room to go to bed; I went to sleep, and when I woke up I was at a park surrounded by cops. That’s all I know,” I say, some of my self-loathing slipping out and making me sound angry.
My mom sighs and rubs her face with her hands. “I didn’t even realize you were gone.” I can hear the guilt in her voice and I want so badly to let her know that this isn’t her fault in any way, shape, or form.
But I can’t. Because the truth would hurt even more.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m not hurt.”
All three of us are still and silent for a moment before my mom bursts into tears and wheels herself forward to throw her arms around me. I crouch down beside her chair. Guilt fills me, overflows, and soon I’m crying too. From remorse, yes, but also relief, betrayal, the adrenaline wearing off—a bit of everything.
I glance up and my wet eyes meet my aunt’s.
She didn’t buy my story. She gives me a look that tells me she’ll be seeing me soon, and turns and walks away.
“It’s late,” Mom says, pulling back with a sniff and reddened eyes. “We can talk about things tomorrow—I’m just glad you’re okay.” She squeezes my hand. “Go to bed.”
I nod, but can’t muster up any words. Mom sees me all the way to my room and even goes so far as to watch me walk in so she can close the door behind me. I suspect she sits outside my door for a while, just listening. But that gives me a few more minutes to prepare for Sierra.
Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, I hear a very soft knock and the door swings open far enough to allow Sierra to slip through. It closes and we stare at each other.
“Who does the green coat belong to, Charlotte? And don’t tell me you don’t remember because we both know that’s a lie.” Sierra’s never been one to bother with subtlety.
“Michelle,” I say simply, not that I expect Sierra to actually remember who that is.
“She was supposed to die tonight, wasn’t she?”
I nod and my eyes fill with tears again, not because I’m sad or scared, or even because Sierra makes me feel like an awkward little kid again, although she does. It’s simply that even though everything has turned out okay, I know now that I screwed up royally. I went against everything I’ve been taught. I let a murderer into my head and he went on a killing spree. If I had fought every single vision—and ignored the ones that got through—fewer people would have died.
“I’ll take her,” a cop who looks close to retirement offers. “My cruiser’s parked near the back.” He gestures to another officer who joins him and they flank me on each side. I don’t escape totally unscathed—the media are taking pictures of everything that even moves—but I think my face may have stayed blocked by the two cops and the windows of the cruiser are tinted pretty dark. I keep my head pointed down at my chest anyway.
Once we’ve pulled away from the crowd, I lean my head against the headrest and try to figure out what in the world I’m going to tell my mother.
I don’t have long to find out. It’s all of a four-minute drive from the park to my doorstep. “You can just drop me off,” I attempt, but as I suspected, they don’t buy that for even a second.
My mother’s face is white when she opens the door to see me standing between two cops. The moment I see that terror in her eyes is the closest I get to regretting everything I’ve done.
Until I see Sierra too, her bathrobe hastily tied, hanging back with her arms crossed over her chest.
Anger and empathy fight to rise up inside me. I don’t know what to feel.
But the most important fact at the moment is that Smith is behind bars—or will be shortly. I caught the Coldwater Killer. My mother’s very temporary fears are a small price to pay for that. “I’m fine, Mom,” I say before either cop can get a word out.
“More than fine,” the older officer says, his tone downright jovial. “Your daughter survived an attack by the Coldwater Killer and has been central in his being caught and arrested!” I can practically see him jamming his thumbs through his suspenders, he’s so excited.
“Thank you, Lord,” my mother says with her hand over her heart, even though it’s clear she doesn’t really understand.
“We’ll leave you alone tonight, but you’ll be seeing lots of us in the next few days. We’ll need to get an official statement and I’m sure the Feds will want to talk to your daughter,” he says.
“Thank you,” my mom repeats, mostly automatically.
I slip past my mom’s chair and into the house. After the door closes, my mother turns around. “Well,” she says, and even in that single syllable, her voice is trembling.
I don’t know what to say. Do I go with the same story I told the cops? I guess I’d better. I’m going to have to tell that story a lot.
“Whose coat are you wearing?”
Well, shit. “I don’t know.” It comes as easily as all the lies about my “condition” have. I guess I’ve gotten good at lying after so many years. Not really something I’m proud of.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” my mom asks, clearly not buying it. I chance a glance at Sierra and she is staring at me calmly, her eyes glittering in alertness.
“All I know is that I went to my room to go to bed; I went to sleep, and when I woke up I was at a park surrounded by cops. That’s all I know,” I say, some of my self-loathing slipping out and making me sound angry.
My mom sighs and rubs her face with her hands. “I didn’t even realize you were gone.” I can hear the guilt in her voice and I want so badly to let her know that this isn’t her fault in any way, shape, or form.
But I can’t. Because the truth would hurt even more.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m not hurt.”
All three of us are still and silent for a moment before my mom bursts into tears and wheels herself forward to throw her arms around me. I crouch down beside her chair. Guilt fills me, overflows, and soon I’m crying too. From remorse, yes, but also relief, betrayal, the adrenaline wearing off—a bit of everything.
I glance up and my wet eyes meet my aunt’s.
She didn’t buy my story. She gives me a look that tells me she’ll be seeing me soon, and turns and walks away.
“It’s late,” Mom says, pulling back with a sniff and reddened eyes. “We can talk about things tomorrow—I’m just glad you’re okay.” She squeezes my hand. “Go to bed.”
I nod, but can’t muster up any words. Mom sees me all the way to my room and even goes so far as to watch me walk in so she can close the door behind me. I suspect she sits outside my door for a while, just listening. But that gives me a few more minutes to prepare for Sierra.
Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, I hear a very soft knock and the door swings open far enough to allow Sierra to slip through. It closes and we stare at each other.
“Who does the green coat belong to, Charlotte? And don’t tell me you don’t remember because we both know that’s a lie.” Sierra’s never been one to bother with subtlety.
“Michelle,” I say simply, not that I expect Sierra to actually remember who that is.
“She was supposed to die tonight, wasn’t she?”
I nod and my eyes fill with tears again, not because I’m sad or scared, or even because Sierra makes me feel like an awkward little kid again, although she does. It’s simply that even though everything has turned out okay, I know now that I screwed up royally. I went against everything I’ve been taught. I let a murderer into my head and he went on a killing spree. If I had fought every single vision—and ignored the ones that got through—fewer people would have died.
