These Deadly Games(23)

“Hey.” He refused to look at me, pinching a puzzle piece as he scanned the edge he was working on.

“Listen, I’m sorry about before. Come back and—”

“Can’t you see we’re busy?” Andrew snapped, surprising me—he was usually so soft-spoken. He glowered at me and motioned to the board like I couldn’t see for myself what they were doing. I winced, guilt building in my gut. Brady must’ve told him, too.

If Zoey were here, she’d say something like, “Um, chill, Brady’s been here for, like, two seconds.” She didn’t mind confrontation so much. In fact, she kind of relished it.

I simply ignored Andrew. “Brady, I’m real sorry. I want to be on your team. Come play with us.” Brady finally glanced up.

“You really wanna be on his team?” Andrew asked skeptically. Brady watched, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Yes! What happened before … I was just mad at Zoey about something else. She’s been all weird lately…”

Brady tilted his head. “Weird how?”

He wouldn’t understand. It suddenly seemed so petty to worry over Zoey inching me out in the halls. Although … if Brady felt shunted out before, maybe he would get it. Maybe I could confide in him.

But I didn’t want to get into it with his brother listening. “It’s no big deal, I’ll tell you later. But c’mon, we have to get back over there. We can’t let them form an alliance!”

At that, Brady leaped to his feet. There’s nothing worse than an alliance in which you’re not included.

If only that were true.

If only that were the worst thing that would happen that night.





CHAPTER 9


I had no idea I’d get murdered in the woods twice today.

And by the same person, no less. Jeremy must’ve followed me here. He’d lied about that email before to mess with me. Now he’d get to reenact his MortalDusk slaying in the flesh—sans fire staff, obviously.

The rustling got closer. I imagined a hooded figure in shadow clutching a knife, bearing down on me. I had to run, to at least find a branch or something I could use to defend myself. But my legs were locked up, frozen in fear—

A chipmunk darted from some nearby foliage and up a tree.

Gah! I clutched one of the gazebo’s wooden beams, slowing my breathing. Paranoia was practically oozing from my pores. I had to get a grip. Just then, my phone vibrated with a photo message.

A gloved hand clutched a knife in front of Caelyn, and a black cloth covered her mouth and nose. Jesus. The blade wasn’t the only danger—if she panicked, and couldn’t breathe … “She has asthma, you son of a bitch.”

Thinking fast, I tried taking a screenshot. Nothing happened. I frowned, pressing the usual buttons on the side of my phone again.

The image disappeared, replaced by red text on white.

No screenshots. Call again, or I won’t let her use her inhaler.



So they knew about her asthma. They’d found her inhaler on her—wait … Had they heard me say that? If they’d disabled my screenshot functionality, they must’ve had complete control over my phone. I glanced at the front-facing camera.

And that tiny black dot peered back like the eye of fucking Sauron.

Shudders tore through me. That’s how they knew my every move. My phone’s cameras. It seemed so obvious now.

They were always watching.

Always listening.

I was so creeped out I raced to the lake’s edge and wound my arm back, about to chuck my phone into the sparkling water. But I stopped myself. Tossing my phone would sever my only connection to Caelyn. And it might count as forfeiting the game. I couldn’t risk it. I had to go through with this call. To save her. To keep my house from burning down. I had to get it over with, like tearing off the world’s stickiest Band-Aid.

I returned to the gazebo, raising my phone in front of my face. “Fine. I’ll do it.” No point typing out messages anymore. I swallowed my fear and redialed with shaking fingers.

“This is 911. What is your emergency?”

A script appeared on my screen as one long text block. I held the voice changer to my lips and read. “Yeah, hi. Uh … my name is Lance Burdly.” Even the uh was in the script. “I’m at 379 Pearson Drive in Newboro. I need an ambulance. But no cops. My mother and sister were having a fight, and my mom was getting violent. So I grabbed the gun from her nightstand—”

I clasped my mouth. No. No way. I couldn’t read the rest. But I had no choice.

No. There was always a choice.

Option one, hang up. Refuse to play this twisted game any longer. But then Caelyn would die.

Option two, tell the operator the truth. Get the police’s help. But would the cops even believe me? Either way, then Caelyn would die, and my house would burn.

Option three, read the script. Get this over with. Then somehow outplay An0nym0us1 and find my sister.

You can’t outplay your opponent if it’s already game over. I had to choose option three.

But then I’d fight back.

“Hello?” said the operator. “You said you had a gun?” Despite her persistence, her voice was calm and steady, like she’d talked to dozens, maybe hundreds of people in domestic abuse situations before.

The voice changer masked the tremor in my voice as I read, “I grabbed the gun from her nightstand, and I shot her. I shot my mother. She isn’t breathing.”