These Deadly Games(22)

An0nym0us1 had set a trap, and I’d fallen into it face-first.

And I only had two minutes left.

“Listen…” I edged toward the trail. “There’s been some mistake. I can explain another time.”

“Oh, come on!”

“I’m sorry. I have to go.” I looped the nylon bag over my shoulder and sprinted toward the dirt path leading to the gazebo.

“You’re going to regret this!” he called after me.

Little did he know, I already regretted everything.



* * *



By the time I reached the gazebo, I was gasping for air, and a metallic taste filled my mouth. God, I was out of shape. I shot off a message to An0nym0us1—I’m here—and collapsed onto one of the benches.

The small gazebo was nestled at the corner of Hanover Beach—more an outcrop of stones and sludge than actual beach. And in the shadow of Mount Morgan, you couldn’t exactly get much sun here. It was a poor attempt at convincing us landlocked folks otherwise.

My phone buzzed, and I gasped to see a photo of Caelyn’s forearm with red text stretched over her pale skin as though etched in blood.

You cut it close. I almost cut her.



Black cloth bound her wrist to the chair, and the chef’s knife was menacingly positioned next to her arm. If the letters weren’t so perfectly aligned, it might’ve fooled me. Bzzzz. A fly buzzed near my ear and, already on edge, I jumped and swatted at myself. “Fucking hell.” The next moment, my phone buzzed.

Let’s play Prank Caller. On the burner phone, call the favorite contact. Read my script with the voice changer. Ready? GO!



“Yeah, let’s go, bastard.” I had a feeling another game was coming—otherwise, they wouldn’t have made me bring the bag from the locker. I emptied it. The thing that looked like a walkie-talkie must’ve been a voice changer. I switched it on, raised it to my lips, and pressed the large red button. “Hello, hello.” It deepened my voice and changed the tenor, making me sound a bit like Dad. My throat constricted.

But then I pictured smoke billowing from the kitchen stove, flames licking the surrounding cabinets. I had to do this fast.

I set my phone on the bench to read the script while holding the burner and voice changer, then navigated to the Favorites contacts screen on the burner and tapped the only one there: Call Me. These games were bizarre. What would they possibly make me say? Maybe they’d have me hurl insults at—

Someone picked up. “This is 911. What is your emergency?”

My heart jolted, and I reflexively pressed End Call.

What the heck? I thought I wasn’t supposed to call the police, or else. I stared at the burner. Would they call back?

Once, during a visit to Grandma Rose’s when we were little, Caelyn and I discovered an old rotary phone still working in the basement. We started dialing random numbers, fascinated by the archaic wheel. Somehow it turned into a competition to see who’d get more people to pick up. We giggled into our palms as people shouted, “Hello? Hello?” But then Caelyn dialed 911 before I realized what she was doing. “This is 911—” I’d heard the operator say before grabbing the phone and slamming it into the receiver. “Why’d you do that?” I’d asked Caelyn.

Her doe eyes widened behind her thick glasses. “I don’t know! I was curious—” The phone rang. We both screamed. 911 had called back. We stared helplessly, like ignoring Caelyn’s mistake would somehow make it go away. But Grandma picked up upstairs, and we got in buttloads of trouble.

Now a message flashed across my own phone.

You already used your Get Out of Jail Free card. Call back NOW.



How did they know I’d ended the call? The base of my skull tingled, and my eyes snapped up to the woods. Just then, something crunched over the crisp, dead leaves.

A twig snapped. The brush rustled.

And I braced for someone to lunge at me.





5 Years Ago


I rang Brady’s doorbell and bit my lip, hoping he wasn’t already holed up in his room crying or anything. I hated seeing people cry—it made my own tear ducts instantaneously burst. But I had to come get him. Being in a fight was the actual worst. I couldn’t stand the tension—it made me all queasy, and it was all I could think about.

Brady’s mom answered the door, giving me a tight-lipped smile. “Crystal.” Brady had clearly told her what had happened. Her curly, red hair was tied in a loose bun atop her head, short ringlets framing her face like fire tendrils. I always wished my curls were that defined, but they were more of a messy blob.

“Hi, Mrs. Cullen. Can I talk to Brady?”

She widened both the door and her smile. “Of course, hon.” She probably thought it was cute I’d come over to apologize or whatever. “He’s in the living room.”

“Thanks.” I dashed past her to the living room. It was warm and stuffy inside. Brady and his older brother, Andrew, sat cross-legged on either side of the coffee table next to the crackling fireplace, working on a jigsaw puzzle. Andrew was two years older than I was, with the same round features as Brady’s, friendly but quiet—whenever I spotted him at school, he had his nose buried in a book or laptop.

“Hey, Brady,” I said.