These Deadly Games(35)
“He didn’t ask because he trusted her,” Zoey fired back, her voice trembling.
“Will you stop trying to blame Crystal?” said Dylan. “This is traumatic enough.” My heart clenched. Did he really believe this wasn’t my fault? Or was he repaying me for believing he didn’t steal that exam?
Zoey crossed her arms. “Of course you’re taking her side. But she basically fed Matty poison. It’s more blood on her hands.”
My heart went cold, and Dylan’s dark eyebrows shot up.
“Zoey!” Akira shouted, her eyes darting to Zoey’s parents, who’d just returned.
“Guys, stop it,” said Randall. “This isn’t anyone’s fault.”
“Bullshit,” said Zoey.
“Zoey, watch—” her mother started scolding.
“I know, I know, watch my language. Because that’s really what fucking matters right now.” Zoey stormed from the room, and her mother followed, yelling after her. A moment later, the front door slammed.
Mr. Bloom hung behind awkwardly. “Crystal, when does your mother get home?”
“I … I’m not sure. She’s working a double shift today.”
“Ah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, can I give anyone a ride home?” Randall, Akira, and Dylan all shook their heads. After waffling a bit, he said to me, “If you need anything at all, come right over,” before slinking out.
I clasped my chest, struggling to breathe, like the room had run out of oxygen. Zoey was right. It was more blood on my hands. Whether it was an accident or a trap, I was the one who’d baked those brownies.
Akira wrapped her arms around me. “This wasn’t your fault, Crystal.”
“Maybe it was,” I croaked, tears drizzling down my cheeks.
“Maybe,” said Randall. My eyes snapped to his, but he didn’t look angry. “Maybe you picked up the wrong bottle. But Matty forgot his EpiPen. We didn’t call 911 sooner. And I told him to shut up when he started coughing…” His face screwed up, and he brought a fist to his mouth. I’d only seen him cry once before. We’d sworn never to talk about that night again.
Now it might be a secret Matty literally took to his grave.
“It was an accident,” said Dylan. “A horrible accident.”
Was it, though? If Randall was right, so many things had to coincidentally go wrong. Technically, it was possible. But technically, An0nym0us1 could have broken in, drizzled almond extract over the batter, left it on the counter, swiped everyone’s EpiPens, and disabled my phone from calling 911.
Which was worse?
I dropped into the seat next to Randall, my chest heavy, drowning under the weight of all this uncertainty.
“Shit,” Randall said suddenly, gaping at his phone, “I missed seventeen calls from my mom.”
I’d vaguely wondered why his parents hadn’t come over yet. Akira’s were still in California with her sister, trying to move their flight up to tomorrow night, and Dylan’s dad was taking a train back from New York in the morning.
“Did she find out what happened?” Akira asked.
“I dunno, she didn’t text. And she’s not picking up,” Randall said, phone to his ear. “I should go home. Er … Matty was my ride.”
“Mine, too,” said Akira.
“I can take you both—” Dylan started offering.
“No, I’ll drive them,” I said, heart jolting at the thought of being left alone. An0nym0us1 had promised a new game tonight. Once I was alone, God knew what they’d make me do. I still hadn’t found Lance Burdly. I needed time to think.
Dylan frowned, like that didn’t make any sense.
“I … I don’t want to be alone. Not yet.” It was the truth, but he didn’t have to know why. Though I hated sounding like a scaredy-cat.
Dylan covered my trembling hand, his fingers warm over mine. “You can come. But I’m driving.”
* * *
“So, who’s first?” Dylan docked his phone on the dashboard and pulled up his navigation app.
“Randall,” said Akira from the back seat. Randall sat next to her, uncharacteristically quiet, his anxious face glowing in the dark from his phone screen. I couldn’t tell what he was more worried about—Matty or his mother.
“Remind me where you live?” said Dylan.
Randall lived on the other side of Hickory Farms, where we went to pick apples and pet the goats when we were little. I’d only been to Randall’s a couple of times, and not in several years; we gravitated to those of our houses with basement dens (and therefore less parental interference), which his lacked. He cleared his throat. “It’s 379 Pearson Drive.”
Pearson Drive. The peculiar familiarity made a chill settle at the base of my spine. It couldn’t be …
As Dylan turned out of my driveway, I twisted to see Randall. “Do you by any chance know anyone named Lance?”
He frowned. “Should I?”
“Is he one of your neighbors?”
“Definitely not the ones next door. But I don’t know everyone on the street, so maybe? Why?”
“Never mind, just curious.” I faced forward, swallowing the unease creeping up my throat as Dylan switched on the radio. Some hip-hop song blared so loudly I jumped out of my skin. Akira and I clapped our hands over our ears.