These Deadly Games(12)

I shot off a message: I don’t remember the third number.

8 minutes until she dies.



Frustrated, I wiped my forehead. If I was right about the first two numbers, there were forty possible combinations. Could I try forty combinations in eight minutes? Blowing air between my lips, I turned the dial with trembling fingers, accidentally going past 17. Guh. I tried again, this time accidentally going past 25. I shook out my hand. Get a grip. You can open a lock.

I tried each permutation, starting with 0 for the last number. Each time I tugged the handle, it wouldn’t budge. Finally, I got to 39. This had to be it. The last possibility. I spun the dial and jerked the handle.

Nope.

Alright. Think. I must have been misremembering 25, because I was 100 percent sure the first number was 17.

I tried again, shaking my head each time the handle stayed rigid. Tears of frustration welled in my eyes. I must have been out of time by now. An0nym0us1 hadn’t said anything. Were they hurting Caelyn? Were they plunging that knife into her body? My chest tightened. What should I do? Should I call for help? Should I keep trying to get the locker open? I jiggled the handle as hard as I could, but I couldn’t bust the door open, or magic it open, or—

Our school principal, Mr. Chen, turned down the hall, heading straight toward me. I gaped at him, still thumbing the lock. Oh no. He knew about the exam, didn’t he? I was done. And that meant Caelyn was done. No, no, no.

But Mr. Chen stared at his phone, expression tense, until he reached Mr. Richardson’s door. He poked his head in. “Hey, Paul. Everyone. Sorry to interrupt, but could I see Dylan for a sec, please? Bring your things.”

My phone buzzed with another message.

Shame you need to use your Get Out of Jail Free card so soon. 27–35–23. Bring the package home. Then you can talk to your sister.



Relief flooded my veins. I didn’t realize I had a Get Out of Jail Free card, but I’d take it—though something about it unnerved me. Usually, I’d reserve shield potions and other protections until the end of a game, when I’d need it most. What would I wish I had this for later?

I squinted at the numbers: 27–35–23. Wait. I was sure the first number had been 17. Absolutely sure of it.

At least, I thought it was …

I swallowed my confusion and spun the knob, letting out a bitter laugh as I swung the door open. A nylon bag dangled from one of the hooks. I went to grab it but stilled as Dylan joined Mr. Chen in the hall. He spotted me and threw me a baffled look.

“What’s up?” Dylan asked Mr. Chen, clutching his backpack strap on his shoulder.

“Come with me, please.” Mr. Chen glanced at a sticky note he pinched between two fingers and led Dylan a few doors down. “This is your locker, correct?”

My heart froze. That couldn’t be … Was that the locker I just slipped the answer key into?

Dylan’s posture relaxed. “Oh, this is one of those random locker searches. For drugs, right?”

“Can you open it for me, please?” said Mr. Chen. The bell rang, making me jump. I gripped the edge of the locker door so hard my knuckles turned bone white.

“Yes, sir,” said Dylan. “No worries, I’m clean.”

Mrs. Chesser rushed past me as students spilled into the hall, her heels tapping on the scuffed tiles. She joined Mr. Chen and Dylan, clutching her phone to her chest. Dylan glanced between the two of them before spinning the lock. He was probably wondering why two teachers needed to be present for a random drug search.

My breath caught in my throat as that helpless feeling tightened my chest again. Mr. Chen knelt and poked around Dylan’s notebooks. He stood and patted down his jacket. And then he reached into the top cubby and pulled out the folded exam. He raised his eyebrows. “Sandra, is this—”

Mrs. Chesser snatched it from him. “These are the answers to next week’s exam … How did you get this?” As though she’d had it in some high-security vault.

Dylan’s eyes widened, and his face went beet red. He shook his head. “I … I didn’t…”

Mr. Chen touched Dylan’s elbow. “Come with me, son. We’ll discuss this in my office.”

“But that’s … that’s not mine.”

“No, it certainly isn’t,” said Mrs. Chesser, her mouth settling into a grim line. She didn’t look angry—just incredibly disappointed.

As Mr. Chen led Dylan past me toward his office, he nodded at me and offered a tight-lipped smile. Dylan caught my gaze for the briefest moment and cringed. He must have been mortified, and confused as hell. And probably scared—if he couldn’t convince Mr. Chen he didn’t steal the test, he’d be suspended. Colleges would see this on his transcript when he applied in the fall. He dreamed of going to MIT … Oh, God. What the hell had I done?

But I didn’t do this. Not really.

Right?

Mrs. Chesser headed back toward the stairs, staring at her answer key as she snaked through the crowds. I tried edging out of her way, but she bumped into me, anyway.

“Sorry, Crystal.” For the briefest moment, she narrowed her eyes at me, tilting her head. Did she suspect me? I was just in her classroom, right at her desk. She shook her head ever so slightly. “I hope you feel better soon.” Then she continued down the hall.