Sleep of Death (Charlotte Westing Chronicles) by Aprilynne Pike Page B

I think that maybe we should call someone—anonymously—and report the abuse,” Sophie says tentatively. “ Like, child protection people. If someone official shows up and finds the two weird rooms like you said, if nothing else, they’ll have to look into it, right? Maybe they’ll even take Daphne away while they check things out, and then she won’t be around when the killer guy comes. If the killer guy comes,” she amends quickly.
    “But Daphne isn’t there,” I hiss. “That’s the other thing I saw last night. What if someone takes her away and … and …” Possibilities tumble through my mind and I have no way to sort through their probability. Distraught at having their daughter taken, the Welshes forget to lock their front door? Or someone in child protective services takes justice into their own hands? The fear that my interference might be what makes this future happen is almost paralyzing. “What if this is all our fault? ”
    Sophie gives me an unreadable stare befor e saying, at last, “Charlotte, we can only do the best we can with what we know.”
    Of course she’s right. The bell rings and everyone in the hall starts to move toward their classes. “We can’t do anything at all right now, I guess.”
    “No, but even if there was time, we should plan out exactly what we—well, one of us—should say,” Sophie says seriously. “We w ant to give them all of the most important information, but not stay on the phone long enough for them to track us. Trust me, this is not the sort of thing you want to do on the spur of the moment.”
    I hesitate before asking, “Are you talking from experience , or from watching too many cop shows?”
    “Experience, sadly,” Sophie says dryly. “Tipping off cops after jumping back in time is pretty tried-and-true.”
    “Does seem useful,” I agree.
    “And remember, we have time. You know for sure that the murder happens at night—well, like total wee hours of the morning, right?”
    “Yes.” One of the few things I’ve known from the start, from the gray morning light seeping through the bedroom windows, illuminating the bloody corpses.
    “So a couple of hours’ difference isn’t going to change anything.”
    “You’re right. I just …” I clench my fists. “I want to do something.”
    “Well,” Sophie says with a sad laugh, “if it makes you feel better, I hate being so useless all the time.”
    “Useless? Are you kidding me? I’d be totally lost without you.”
    “As much as I appreciate you saying that, it’s not the same. I wish … I wish that saving that last girl hadn’t taken so much out of me. I’ll never regret doing it, never. I just wish I’d gotten it right the first seven—geeze, not that it matters.”
    “How long will it take? For you to recover?” I ask, then suck in a quick breath when Sophie’s eyes darken. But she’s not angry—at least not at me.
    “I guess it depends on what you mean by recover. I’m conscious and functioning now. Before, I was barely breathing on my own and then couldn’t get out of bed for a week. It was as bad as it’s ever been. Shook my mom up pretty good.” Her fingers circle her thin wrist again. “That was, what, a month ago?”
    “Wow!” I can’t imagine draining myself of so much energy every time I have a vision. Or maybe a better comparison is each time I revisited a vision to change something.
    “I imagine it’ll be another month at least before I’m all the way back to full-strength. Longer, if I keep dropping my pastels, but little jumps aren’t very taxing. As I go deeper, um, farther back in time, the cost gets exponentially higher, and the time to recover gets longer, too.” As though just realizing she’s clenching her own wrist, Sophie drops her hands to her sides, then crosses them over her chest instead. “When the cost gets too high, it starts to draw on my physical resources, which are way more finite than my supernatural ones.”
    “That’s why