These Deadly Games(19)
Next, I had to line the pan with wax paper. That seemed weird. Why not grease the pan? Whatever. I tugged open a drawer containing aluminum foil, parchment paper, Saran Wrap, and … aha, wax paper!
I tore off a sheet, lined the pan, poured in the batter—getting globs all over the counter—and slid the pan into the oven. I wiped my hands on my jeans and searched the oven for a timer. It didn’t seem to have one, so I set the timer on the microwave for thirty minutes.
Finished with ten minutes to spare. Perching on a barstool at the kitchen island, I rattled off a message to An0nym0us1. The brownies are in the oven.
Good. Let’s play Time Trial. You have 30 minutes to get to the gazebo at Hanover Lake. Bring the package from locker 499! Ready? GO.
My toes went numb. I knew exactly what gazebo they were referring to, but that part of the lake was past Mount Morgan in Lakecrest. I couldn’t possibly get there in thirty minutes unless I drove like an absolute maniac, and that didn’t even include the time it’d take to hike to the gazebo.
I glanced at the timer on the microwave. Our old-fashioned oven wouldn’t automatically turn off after a set amount of time. I hopped off the barstool and headed for the oven to switch it off, but my phone buzzed.
TURN OFF THE OVEN AND SHE DIES. OPEN THE OVEN AND SHE DIES.
I gasped and nearly dropped my phone. My brain hurled into overdrive, processing too many emotions at once. Shock from being all-caps screamed at. Panic for Caelyn. Terror over the implication they were watching me.
How else would they know what I was about to do? I peered out the window, but didn’t see anyone outside. Remembering the security cameras in the hall at school, I scanned the ceiling, the spaces above the cabinets, the countertops. No cameras. Nothing.
But somehow, they were watching.
Unless they’d guessed my next move. Because obviously you’d want to switch off the oven before leaving the house. If going to the gazebo would take at least an hour round trip—plus whatever I’d have do there—the brownies would burn by the time I got back.
Maybe that was the idea. The hairs on my arm stood on end.
I knelt to peer into the oven’s window, but the wax paper peeking over the edge of the tray blocked my view of the batter. The brownies might burn, but they wouldn’t catch on fire, would they? Surely baking wasn’t that dangerous. The wax paper, though—that part of the recipe was bizarre.
I scrolled back to the recipe. The page had automatically refreshed and now only showed a 301 error. It was gone. The whole blog was gone. A tinny buzzing noise filled my ears as I searched Google for “wax paper oven burn” and clicked the first result, Can you put wax paper in the oven?
The article began: The short answer is a resounding no! Wax paper is not heat-resistant; the wax will melt at high temperatures and the paper itself can catch fire.
Holy hell.
The brownies weren’t a clue. They were a fire starter.
I gaped helplessly at the pan lined with my own stupidity. I’d been so busy mulling over who An0nym0us1 might be, I hadn’t even second-guessed the recipe. I never stopped to think that blog might not even be real.
My fingers shook as I shot off a message. I’m not burning my house down.
Then you’d better hurry.
CHAPTER 8
My entire drive to the lake was basically a near-death experience. I swerved around cars on the single-lane highway, blatantly blew red lights, and forget the speed limit—the trip to Caelyn’s school earlier was a turtle stroll in comparison.
Our local police force was MIA, thank God. Setting speed traps was the most action they ever got in this Podunk town. I kept imagining burly Chief Sanchez clutching his radar gun, cruiser obscured behind a shrubbery, ready to pounce. Maybe he was busy giving one of his lectures at the middle school about how “drugs are bad, mmkay?” Heck, he’d probably leap at the chance to work a kidnapping case. But An0nym0us1’s first messages burned in my mind: If you call the police, she dies.
Whiskers mewed from the back seat. “We’re almost there, Whiskey—” The word soured my mouth; that’s what Dad used to call her. His favorite drink.
I’d stuffed her into her carrier crate, which she’d resisted by sticking her legs out in every direction, the little twerp, taking up five whole minutes. But like hell I was letting her stay in a house that might burn down. She was a pampered indoor cat and wouldn’t know which way was up if I plopped her outside.
Only a few cars dotted the parking lot when I tore in and zipped into the spot closest to the trail leading to the gazebo. The lot would fill up later when joggers, dog walkers, and kids hankering to get high took to the trails wrapping around Hanover Lake to catch the last of the daylight.
I cracked open the windows before turning off the engine. “Wait here, okay?” I said to Whiskers. Like she could go anywhere else.
“Five minutes left,” I muttered as I grabbed my phone and An0nym0us1’s nylon bag from the passenger seat. “I can do this.” I’d have to sprint. I slammed the door shut and started toward the trail.
“Crystal!”
I whipped around. Leaning against a boxy clunker of a car was none other than Jeremy Fischer.
Fishman.
The pro gamer with five million YouTube and Twitch followers—the one who used to dominate the Vermont leaderboard. Now the top three spots shuffled among him, Matty, and Randall, and once I even bumped him down to number four. I knew it made his blood curdle to have a bunch of high school juniors wreck his status.