These Deadly Games(45)

But now Matty was dead, my sister was a hostage, and everything was in a shambles. All thanks to some maniac. I had to find them. I had to beat them at their own game. I had to get Caelyn back, whatever it took.

If only I had a clue what it’d take.

Seeing the stress on my face, Mom stood. “You know what? Tonight calls for chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate.”

“We don’t have any,” I mumbled. Chief Sanchez had taken the bag of chocolate chips, and Mom didn’t buy lots of sweets.

“Oh, please. I keep a secret stash for emergencies.” She went into the kitchen and knelt next to the stove, revealing her hiding place. She pulled herself up by the edge of the counter, and her fingers came away coated with flour. For a moment, she looked confused. “What’s—”

Her eyes widened, realization dawning on her. In the car ride home, I told her how I’d baked the brownies that killed Matty. She quickly rinsed her hand under the faucet, obviously avoiding the subject for my sake. Because she thought it was my fault.

Was she right?

I pictured An0nym0us1 as a shadowy figure standing in this very spot hours ago. Had they brought the almond extract, drizzled it over the batter, and left it on the counter for someone to find? A kernel of doubt lingered in my mind. I had to know for sure.

“Mom,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “What do you usually use almond extract for?”

“My lattes.” She unwrapped a bar of chocolate. “I like to add a dash for flavor. You know, it’s healthier than those sugary syrups.” My heart clenched—so she did keep almond extract in the house. It could’ve been my mistake. She sighed, shaking her head. “I figured you’d never use it for anything. I guess I wasn’t careful enough.”

“It’s not your fault.” I raked back my curls with trembling fingers. “And what about the EpiPens?”

“What about them?”

“The ones we keep upstairs. Did you throw those out recently? Did they expire?”

She frowned. “No. I replace those once a year, right after the new year so I remember. They’re just a couple of months old.” Vertigo ravaged my body, like I was teetering on the edge of a cliff. “I was going to ask why you hadn’t used them…” She trailed off, throwing me a wary glance.

No. No.

Without a word, I bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Mom was on my tail. “Crystal, what’s wrong?”

I switched on the bathroom light, for a moment catching my panicked expression in the mirror before swinging open the medicine cabinet. The hinges screeched so loud it made me cover my ears. But it wasn’t the hinges—it was a feral shriek. The sound pitched me back against the wall, the towel rod digging into my spine. Mom gripped my arms, saying my name over and over. That sound—that shrill, penetrating sound—it was coming from me. From my lips.

I was screaming.

Because the bright orange EpiPen case was on the first shelf of the cabinet.

Right where it should be.





CHAPTER 18


Matty’s death was my fault. I’d mixed up the bottles of extract. I’d missed the EpiPens in the medicine cabinet.

Negligent.

Careless.

Like that time I passed Matty my Frappuccino without tasting it first. Almond, not soy. Thinking about my own problems, it never crossed my mind that something with nuts could wind up in the brownies. Almond, not vanilla.

It was my fault the boy who loved me was dead.

I’d tried to hold it together all day, to maintain my grip on reality, to keep from falling apart. But everyone has a breaking point. And as my chest tightened and my limbs went numb, when the words and sounds coming from my lips were unrecognizable, unstoppable, I knew I’d reached mine.

“It’s all my fault. All my fault,” I repeated over and over.

“It’s not your fault—” Mom cried over my sobs, but the roar in my ears drowned out her words. My vision filled with brown speckles, and I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t think anything besides the fact that I’d killed Matty.

Unable to keep my balance, I backed against the wall and slid to the floor. My muscles tightened painfully with each rasping breath, and I clenched the shaggy bath mat in my fists as fierce spasms racked my body. Jumbled, nonsensical words tumbled from my lips as Mom knelt next to me, trying to calm me as I curled into the fetal position, gripping the mat so hard my fingertips felt like they’d been cut off. Warm, fat tears dripped from my eyelashes and nose, splotching the bathroom tiles. “Matty’s dead … He’s dead … I did it…” I choked on the words as fresh spasms overwhelmed me.

Mom stood, slid open the bathtub’s glass door, and twisted the faucet. I had my first panic attack when I was eleven years old, after what happened to Brady. After what we’d done to him. I’d collapsed in the backyard, unable to breathe, and Dad had carried me inside, filled the bathtub with hot water and lavender bath salt, and dropped me in, fully clothed. The soothing floral scent and the sensation of my clothes billowing around me in the warm water had lulled me back to reality. Not that reality had been easy to face. But at least I had control over my own body.

Now I was too big to carry. “Come on. Try to stand.” Mom helped hoist me to my feet, and I managed to scramble into the tub. She clutched my hand as I sank into the rising water, my jeans bloated around my legs, salty tears mingling with the lavender salt she poured into the water. The heat and steam quelled my trembling, at least.