One of Us Is Next(96)
Emma nods. “Yes. He was mad, and we argued. But eventually he said he’d drop it, because it wouldn’t work if I wasn’t all in. I deleted ChatApp from my phone, and I thought that would be that.”
Her voice breaks again. “But the game kept going. Then Brandon died and…” Tears start falling fast, streaming down her face and onto her dry, cracked lips. “I didn’t know what to say or do. I was so scared all the time. I started drinking to try to calm down, and then I couldn’t stop. I broke my phone and threw it away because I thought it might get me in trouble. And I’m sorry, I’m sorry for everything, I’m so sorry.” She crumples against Mom, who holds her gingerly, like she’s not sure how Emma is supposed to fit against her anymore.
I squeeze my eyes shut so I won’t cry, too. It’s all beyond horrible. All I can think is This never would have happened if Emma and I were still close. Emma and I would still be close if Dad hadn’t died. Dad wouldn’t have died if it weren’t for Brandon. It’s the worst kind of vicious circle, and I’m starting to see how it could take over your mind.
Martin lets Emma cry for a few minutes, sifting through his folder until her sobs turn to sniffles. When she finally detaches from Mom and wipes her eyes, he says, “I know that was difficult. Are you all right to continue?” She nods. “Can you tell me exactly when you stopped corresponding with Jared? The date and, ideally, the time?”
Emma takes a shaky breath. “I mean—it was pretty much right after the text about Phoebe went out. I spent the night at my friend Gillian’s house, but I couldn’t sleep. I started messaging Jared, and we argued until he agreed to stop the game. I logged off and went to bed, right before midnight, I think. That’s the last I ever spoke to him.”
Martin’s looking at the papers in front of him. “That would be February nineteenth, then. Is this the conversation you’re referring to?” He hands Emma a sheet of paper, and she nervously licks her lips as she takes it.
“Are these printouts?” she asks. “Of our ChatApp conversations?”
“Yes,” Martin says. “Pulled from the burner phone Jared used. Just skimming them, it looks like they’re consistent with what you told me, right up through February nineteenth. As you stated, you asked him to stop the game and, after some initial dissent, he agreed.” For the first time since I met him, the lines around Martin’s mouth get grim. My skin starts to prickle even before he says, “But after that, we have a problem.”
“What do you mean?” Emma licks her lips again as Martin holds up another sheet of paper.
“This is a transcript from the morning of February twentieth,” he says. “When the conversation between ‘Phoebe’ and Jared started right up again.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Phoebe
Wednesday, April 1
My stomach drops as Mom says, “Emma,” in a low, warning tone. Emma turns to her, wide-eyed, and Mom adds, “You need to tell Martin everything.”
“But I did,” Emma insists, looking shocked. “That’s not possible. Let me see.”
Martin hands her the paper, and I edge closer so I can read it, too.
Phoebe: Sorry about what I said earlier. I didn’t mean it.
Jared: Didn’t mean what? That I’m “too extreme” and you’re out?
Phoebe: Yeah. I freaked for a sec but I’m on board now.
Phoebe: Let’s do this.
“No, no, no!” Emma drops the paper like it’s on fire, staring at it with what seems like genuine confusion. “That’s not me. I never communicated with Jared again after the night at Gillian’s.” She looks beseechingly between Mom and Martin, like she can get them to believe her through sheer force of will. “I swear to God. I swear on Dad’s grave. Can’t you…I don’t know, check the IP address or something?”
Martin looks grim again. “I’ll see how trackable the technology is, but messaging apps are tricky. Now, if we had your phone, we could possibly work with that. Is your device entirely unsalvageable?”
Emma flushes and drops her eyes. “Yeah. I smashed it with a hammer and threw it into a dumpster. I don’t even know where it is anymore.”
“I see.” Martin’s tone is calm, but he can’t be happy about that.
Mom leans forward, her voice tense. “Isn’t it possible this young man wrote all those chat messages to himself once Emma stopped talking to him?” she asks. “He’s obviously disturbed.”
“It’s possible,” Martin says. “Jared was certainly under an enormous amount of mental strain from his brother’s arrest, his father’s illness, and his mother’s suicide. That may be a theory worth advancing, particularly if the later correspondence shows a marked difference in speech patterns.”
Emma stretches out her hand like a drowning person who just spotted a life preserver. “Can I see more of them?”
“Of course.” Martin hands her a sheaf of papers and a pencil. “Here’s the rest of the February twentieth conversation. If you see anything that strikes you as dissonant, make a note.”
Emma starts reading, and I do the same. After “Phoebe” returns and promises to keep the game going, Jared spends a good half page patting himself on the back for his brilliance. “Phoebe” agrees—and as I read those responses, a tiny spark of hope takes hold of me. This truly doesn’t seem like Emma’s messaging style. “Phoebe” is using way too many lols and question marks, for one thing. And the flattery toward Jared seems excessive. Could Mom’s Hail Mary theory actually be right?