WHEN I WALK IN THE FRONT DOOR, SOPHIE IS waiting for me. She's downstairs, sitting in the dark. Shivering. She's twisted a blanket around her body, tightly, protection against a cold she alone feels. Her eyes shine in the light that filters through the windows.

Unshed tears make them shimmer and spark, glittering jewels that reflect like mirrors the moonlight so bright it turns night into day.

Her breath catches when she sees me.

I stop at the doorway.

She knows.

When I move to turn on a light, her voice, a ghostly echo, says, "Don't."

I drop my hand. "I'm sorry."

"You're not sorry," Sophie says.

"Not for killing Belinda. It had to be done. I am sorry for you."

Sophie's voice catches. "At least you're honest. But Belinda couldn't have hurt you. Not for a long time. You must have seen that."

What I saw was a malicious old woman already plotting to come after me-and Sophie.

What I see before me now is a grieving woman, mourning the loss of a sister. I wonder how she knew. I press the heels of my palms against my eyes. I've heard of twins having a psychic link. Perhaps sibling witches do, too? Did Burke come to her at the moment of her death? Did she make Sophie feel guilty because it was Sophie's spell that left her vulnerable?

It's easier to let Sophie direct her anger to me, to allow her to remember whatever good she can, than to shatter the illusion by telling her the truth. Burke was evil. If she had lived, Sophie and I both would have been targets of her revenge.

Fatigue washes over me.

"I need to sleep. Will you be all right?"

She doesn't reply.

I'll take care of her. Deveraux's voice is hushed, grateful. I know what happened, Anna. I read it in your thoughts just now. You did the right thing. Eventually, she will see it, too.

Maybe. Sophie is staring straight ahead, tears now spilling freely from her eyes. For once, I 'm glad for Deveraux. Theirs is a bizarre relationship, but she's not alone.

Not like me.

I trudge up the stairs, my heart as heavy as my legs. For the last few nights I 've slept in an unmade bed, with just a blanket wrapped around me. Now I pull a set of linens from the closet and tug, pull and smooth the sheets until the bed is made up. Tuck in blankets, fluff pillows.

I hope this simple housekeeping chore will relax me, remind me that my life is filled with more than monsters and killing. That it will prepare me for a good night's sleep.

But when I finally crawl between those sheets, it's not what happened today that banishes sleep from my mind.

It's what's going to happen tomorrow.

I'd almost forgotten.

Ortiz' funeral is scheduled for two o'clock.

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