April had always been really good at waking up. She never tossed. She never turned. But maybe that’s because she never really slept either. A part of her brain was always right there on the edge, teetering. Like she knew that, at any moment, she might have to get up.
And run.
So it was more than a little unusual that she rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. She’d been having a dream where she was flying, swooping through the clouds, weightless above the city.
But something wasn’t right, the part of her brain that never really slept tried to tell her.
First of all, the sheets beneath her fingers were too clean. They smelled like bleach and were rough against her fingers. The room was too quiet. Only a steady, rhythmic beeping filled the air—no snoring roommates or barking dogs.
But the biggest thing that kept April from returning to sleep was the pain.
Everything hurt. Her head pounded, and her throat burned. Her hands and arms and legs felt like they’d been put through a meat grinder, and a part of April wanted to go back to sleep just to forget about how much everything ached and itched. Maybe she could have the dream again. It was a good dream, about—
“The Sentinel!” The realization hit, and April jerked upright in the bed. Which was a mistake. Because sitting up so quickly made her head feel like it was a rubber ball that had been dropped from the very top of the bleachers. She actually thought she might feel her brain bounce.
But that wasn’t the weirdest part.
The weirdest part was that she wasn’t alone.
She should have known it—sensed it. Survival meant always knowing when someone was behind you, whether it was a robber or, worse, a Johnson twin. But April was surprised to see a face staring back at her from the chair beside the bed.
“Not quite, no,” the woman said. And April couldn’t disagree. This woman didn’t look like an urban legend. She looked like a . . . ghost. She had black hair and blue eyes and pale skin. Red lips. Really, she looked like something from an old Disney movie—like maybe she was a princess. Or a witch.
But the thing that caught April’s attention the most was that she was dressed, head to toe, entirely in white.
She had on white pants and a fluffy white sweater and a long coat the color of brand-new snow.
Maybe she’s an angel, April thought.
Maybe I’m dead?
Could I be dead?
Yeah, April thought, remembering the fire. I could totally be dead.
But if wearing white was a requirement, April was in trouble because she’d never owned anything white in her life. April got everything dirty.
“Who are you?” she asked, then looked around the room. It was obviously a hospital, but the last thing she remembered was the museum and the smoke and the fire. “How’d I get here? Am I in trouble? Is there anything to eat? Where . . .” But the words were suddenly too thick and scratchy, and when she started coughing, she didn’t think she’d ever stop.
The woman eased a little closer to April’s bed and held out a plastic cup with a bendy straw. “Drink.”
“What is it?” April asked, but the words came out like a croak.
“It’s water. Your throat has to hurt.”
April’s throat did hurt, so she did as she was told.
The woman crossed one leg over the other and said, “You were brought here in an ambulance after the firefighters found you last night. Don’t you remember?”
April shook her head, then grabbed a container of Jell-O off the tray on her bedside table. She ripped off the top but didn’t even look for a spoon. She just brought the plastic cup to her mouth and sucked. It made a slurping sound, and the Woman in White winced. She wanted to tell April to stop, April could tell. So April slurped harder.
“How do you feel, April? I know this must be scary for you.”
April slurped again. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.” Something in the way the woman said it made April think that maybe she did. That maybe she knew more than even April. After all, she knew how to walk around in white pants without getting even a speck of mud on them. She knew how to keep stains off of her white sweater. Clearly, on some level, this woman was a genius, and April wanted to apprentice in her ways. But, more than anything, April wanted to take care of April. After all, no one else was going to.
“I know you’ve been in twelve homes in ten years.”
April laughed a little at that, then used her pinkie finger to dig some Jell-O out of the bottom of the cup.
“I’ve been in twelve houses,” April corrected. She didn’t bother to explain the rest of it: that she’d never had a home. “Are you a social worker or something?”
“Not exactly. But your case agent and I have spoken. She was quite curious about how you ended up where you did. When you did.”
“I left something,” April blurted. “At the museum. I got locked in.”
“Did you leave something, or did you get locked in?” the woman challenged.
April looked her right in the eye and said, “Both.”
“So that’s why you were on the sidewalk last night during the fire?”
April replayed the words in her mind. They sounded like a question. But they weren’t, she realized. They were a hint. A clue. This whole thing was a test, and the Woman in White was trying to slip her the right answers.
“Yeah. That’s why I was on the sidewalk,” April repeated, and the woman nodded slowly. Her blue eyes were like steel. It wasn’t an answer. It was a warning.
“The firefighters found you. And an ambulance brought you here.”
The moment stretched out between them. There was nothing but the sound of the beeping machine and the pounding of April’s heart until April couldn’t take anymore and blurted, “Who are you?”
“I’m sorry.” The woman laughed. “My name is Isabella Nelson. I run a charity.”
“I’m not a charity case.” April suddenly felt defensive and sad and so, so sleepy.
She expected an argument. Not for the woman to pick a speck of lint off of her white coat and say, “That’s a pity. We would have liked having you. And I think you would have enjoyed it as well. In fact, your case agent is finalizing the paperwork right now, but if you’d rather stay here and answer questions from the police . . .” She trailed off as she started to stand.
“The police?” When April’s voice squeaked, she tried to blame it on the smoke damage, but she knew in her heart it was something else.
“Yes. They’re most curious to know how the fire started, considering the extent of the damage.”
April swallowed hard and tried not to think about the candelabra. And the way the wedding dress had burst into flames. And the little pack of matches that may or may not have been stuck in her jeans pocket right at that moment, waiting for some surly detective to find it.
“It seems the fire protection mechanisms malfunctioned, and everything in that wing of the museum is gone.”
Gone. The little box was gone—probably just a pile of smoke and ash. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter—that the key hadn’t fit that particular lock anyway. The lock April was looking for was still out there! She just had to find it! She just had to . . .
Then April remembered falling. She closed her eyes and watched the key skid across the floor, disappearing into the flames. And then April wanted to cry. She wanted that woman to leave so she could be alone with her tears and the pain in her lungs and her throat and her hand and . . .
April looked down at her hand.
She felt the sharp, familiar pinch that came every time she gripped her key too tightly. And there it was—a little bit blackened, but back on its chain and around her neck exactly where it was supposed to be. Except it wasn’t supposed to be there. It should have been a melted pile of goo, but it wasn’t, and suddenly it was all too much.
“Where are my clothes?” April didn’t know what was happening—or why—but she knew she didn’t like it, didn’t trust it.
The woman pointed to a bundle on the end of the bed.
“Those aren’t mine,” April said.
“Your things smelled like smoke. Plus, they were falling apart and too small already. I think these will be a little more comfortable.”
They aren’t white, at least, April thought. They had that going for them.
She stumbled out of the bed, but her legs felt a tittle wobbly and she had to hold on to the mattress to keep from falling.
“Easy, dear,” the woman said, but April wasn’t anyone’s dear. Ever. And she didn’t let herself think that the Woman in White might mean it. After all, April’s mom would be back soon. She’d be somebody’s dear then. But in the meantime, it was way more important that April be smart.
“I gotta go,” April said, but to where she didn’t know. She just knew that nothing good ever came from waiting, so she pulled the new jeans on under her hospital gown. They were too stiff and the denim was too blue. April had no idea how to wear clothes that had never been worn before, but she buttoned them up anyway because what choice did she have?
“Your case agent will be back soon,” the woman said. “The doctor said you’re well enough to be discharged, but you must realize you can’t go back to the group home?”
“Why?” April asked even though she already knew the answer.
“You were found on the street at midnight, a dozen yards away from a museum that was totally engulfed in flames. People have questions, April.”
“So I go to a new house. Whatever. It’ll be just like all the others.”
“Not all homes are the same.”
“What do you know about it?” April didn’t mean to snap. She certainly didn’t want to yell. But there was a little piece of paper poking her in the back of her neck and she didn’t want to just rip it out and risk tearing the only new shirt she’d ever owned.
The woman eased around to April’s side of the bed then sat down on the rumpled sheets. “You’re right, April. I don’t know how it is at other homes. I only know how things are at Winterborne House.”
The woman deftly ripped the tag from April’s shirt, but April’s mind was back in the museum, looking down on a small chest with a tiny crest. And then April was looking up at the Woman in White, asking, “Winterborne?”