Sadie Madison and the Boy in the Crimson Scarf

21 | The Girl Who Died

At Michael's command, Natalia tore her eyes from the painted fence, grabbed Eli by the arm, and urged him inside.

Larissa stared helplessly at the fence, her arms hanging by her sides.

Sadie rounded on her friend, his scarf inching up his neck. "This was a dream," she told him. "It was the girl with the dark markings. She was in my room. She led me to the garden and made me watch as she cut her wrist and wrote that word with her blood."

Sadie absently ran her fingers over her wrists, feeling for scars.

Oliver looked uneasy, more skittish and nervous than usual.

"It was a dream, Oliver. Wasn't it?"

He swallowed hard. "You did it in your sleep," he said eventually.

"Me? No. It was—" Oliver shook his head. "But...whose blood? It's certainly not mine."

"It's paint." Oliver's large, sore eyes fell on her. "I watched. Unable to stop you. Unable to wake you," he conceded. "I can feel the discomfort in your dreams, your nightmares, I—"

"Stop. Just stop it. I can't hear any more of this," she cried, holding up both hands. Leaving Oliver, she approached her parents who were still gawping at the fence.

"Look away, Sadie," Michael instructed. "Childish vandalism. Nothing more."

Sadie walked past the swings where her mother gently rocked. Standing beside her father, they studied the large chaotic letters running the full length of the garden. She could leave it, let her father blame the local kids, blame Cale and his crew, but— "It was me," she said. "I didn't do it on purpose. I was...sleepwalking."

Larissa looked up.

Sadie's eyes were wild, filled with emotion. Flakes of snow landed in her hair. "I thought I dreamt it," she added. "But it wasn't a dream. It was real."

Michael's hands fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief. "If you were asleep, how could you know?"

"Oliver told me."

Larissa hauled herself out of the swing. Her face deathly pale. Her eyes tired and shot through. She seemed more exhausted and strung out than Sadie had ever known. It worried her to see her mother this way. Larissa was never ill, never so meek and frail. She thought back to the horrid faces at The Palace of Light, the putrid, repulsive expressions staring as she played: Alexsy, Helene, Father. But not her mother, not Larissa Odessa Madison. Either she was impervious to the music, or she truly had nothing to hide.

Larissa's lips parted, quivering from the cold. "Who's Oliver?"

"He's my friend," she replied, looking at the boy in the crimson scarf.

Larissa crept forward. "I...erm...hello Oliver."

"It's okay, Mother. You can't see him. It's fine. You don't have to pretend. Oliver says hello too, by the way."

"Um...Okay...How long have you and Oliver been friends?"

"A week or so, but also forever. Does that make sense? He's always been with me. He's part of me. In a weird way. It's hard to explain."

Michael wrapped his arms around Larissa, helping her back onto the swing.

Looking beyond her parents, the word Murderers filled Sadie's vision again.

"Who is Sofia?" Sadie asked.

She looked at her father's weary face, his eyes skittering between his wife, his daughter, and the splattered lettering.