These Deadly Games(11)

Sure enough, it was marked up with how we should “show our work” to arrive at each solution. The answer key. That woman was organized to a fault. I could only imagine her house—carpets freshly steamed, kitchen counters clutter-free and gleaming, bank account passwords neatly listed on the fridge.

I returned the folder, locked the file cabinet, and left the key in the exact position I’d found it. How did An0nym0us1 think they’d get away with this? Surely Mrs. Chesser would notice her answer key missing before next Tuesday—she’d probably notice a single paper clip out of place. And once she knew, she’d probably create a new test.

Shaking my head, I started stuffing the answer key into my backpack.

At that exact moment, someone opened the door.





CHAPTER 4


Mrs. Chesser walked in, and my heart actually stopped. According to science, I should have died.

“Crystal!” She tucked her blunt-cut shoulder-length hair behind her ear as she glanced at her phone. “Don’t we still have twenty minutes till next period?”

Thinking fast, I shoved the answer key deeper into my bag and whipped out my math binder. “Yeah. I’m not feeling well, so I’m heading home early. I just wanted to drop off my homework first.” I tried to keep my voice steady as I found yesterday’s homework assignment, which I’d rushed through between classes earlier this morning before my world turned upside down. It was probably mostly incorrect, but that was the least of my worries.

She frowned. “Oh, honey, you could’ve just handed it in on Monday.” She took it from me and glanced over the sheet, her frown deepening. “In fact, maybe you should take the weekend—”

“Cool, thanks.” I snatched back the paper. “I’d better go! Really not feeling well.”

Before she could say anything else, I darted out the door and down the hall. Now, where the heck was locker 631? I glanced at the nearest locker: 3135.

My locker was … I didn’t even remember the number, just that it was right next to the water fountain in the history wing. It was mainly a glorified coatrack, since most of my textbooks were online this year.

My phone buzzed. It was a notification from An0nym0us1.

5 minutes until she dies.



“I know, I know,” I whined and typed out: I got the test.

4 minutes, 40 seconds until she dies.



Jesus. Okay, the locker had to be downstairs. I raced down to the second floor—nope, the lockers by the stairwell were in the mid-thousands. It had to be on the first floor. I went all the way downstairs and down the hall, past my locker, breathing fast as I scanned the numbers.

There it was. Locker 631. Right near Mr. Richardson’s class.

While most lockers were assigned, there were random empties scattered throughout the building. The combination locks were built into each locker, so I had no clue whether this one belonged to anyone. I tried the handle, but it was locked.

I sent a message to An0nym0us1: Locker 631, right? What’s the combo?

2 minutes until she dies.



What the hell? I pressed a palm to my forehead. Think. I had to think. I glanced up—the vents at the top of the locker extended nearly the full width of the narrow metal door. I dropped my backpack and yanked out the exam, folded it in half, and slid it through one of the vents, prodding the edges until they no longer peeked out.

I typed another message: It’s done.

No response.

The test is in the locker.



No response.

Oh, God. What was going on? Was I too late? Did he—or she—whoever it was, had they already killed my sister? I did what they said to do. I did it within twenty minutes. Why weren’t they answering me?

Let me talk to my sister.



No response.

I paced in front of the locker, glancing down the deserted hall. If anyone walked by, they’d think I was a total freak show. I dodged into a nearby stairwell to continue my frenzied pacing in private.

Finally, my phone buzzed.

Let’s play Concentration. Get the package from locker 499. The combination is 17–35–23. You have 10 minutes. Ready? GO!



Um. So much for riddles—

Suddenly, my screen flashed, and a picture appeared. A gloved hand gripped a chef’s knife in front of Caelyn, who was out of focus in the background. The blade gleamed from the camera’s flash, and the glove was black and thick, like an insulated ski glove. My heart plummeted so aggressively I thought my organs would reshuffle. Caelyn must be petrified. What if she had an asthma attack during all this? Would the kidnapper let her use her inhaler? Would—

A new message appeared.

Did you concentrate?



Tendrils of heat snaked up my neck. Damn. This was a memory game. That photo was a distraction, and I fell for it like an anvil. I’d forgotten everything—the locker number, the combination, all of it.

Okay, wait. I squeezed my eyes shut, struggling to remember. Locker … 499, right? And the first number was 17—I remembered because Akira just turned seventeen last week, and my brain had involuntarily made the association.

But the rest? Gone.

Well, I could at least find the locker.

I slipped back into the hall. There were still twelve minutes left in this period. I skittered past Mr. Richardson’s room and found locker 499 close by. Leaning against it, I strained to visualize the remaining numbers. The second was 25, maybe? But the third number may as well have been in hieroglyphics.