These Deadly Games(46)

Mom knelt next to me, rubbing my upper back, absentmindedly humming something she might’ve thought comforting, though she couldn’t carry a tune worth a damn. But finally, my mind slowed. My chest felt raw and sore from the spasms, but I could breathe again. My head was pounding from sobbing so hard, but I could think again.

Matty was dead. Dead.

I tried pushing past that, to make sense of the EpiPen’s reappearance. Now that I had my wits about me, I distinctly remembered opening the medicine cabinet earlier, as Matty strained for breath in the basement. In my mind’s eye, I could see the empty space in the medicine cabinet. My fingers had groped at the space. I’d felt cool metal under my fingers.

“It wasn’t there earlier.” I gripped Mom’s hand. “The EpiPen case. When I looked for it. I swear to God, it wasn’t there earlier.”

Mom stood to examine the medicine cabinet. There was no empty space—just neat rows of face creams, nail polish, toothpaste, bottles of medicine, and of course, the bright orange EpiPen case.

It was An0nym0us1. They’d broken into my house, tampered with the brownies, and stolen the EpiPens. They must’ve slipped back inside at some point to put the case back. Maybe they wanted me to lose my grip on reality. Maybe they wanted me to think everything was my fault. And it almost worked. But I knew the EpiPens weren’t there earlier. I knew, I knew, I knew.

“Crystal,” Mom knelt next to the tub again, “I know everything hurts right now. And it seems like the world is ending. But you need to know that none of this was your fault.”

I knew, I knew, I knew. She was the one who didn’t.

“When you’re in a panic,” she went on, “it’s easy to miss things that are right in front of you. There have been actual studies on this—when your frontal cortex is overstimulated and distracted, it doesn’t select all the visual stimuli to focus on. It leaves things out. It’s the same thing that happens when you’re in a rush to leave the house, and you can’t find your keys, even though they’re right in front of you. Like me this morning—the keys were in my purse the whole time.”

I cringed, choking back a sob. Of course she would think the EpiPens were there the whole time. She had no idea about Caelyn, or An0nym0us1, or any of it.

But they did this. An0nym0us1. I knew it.

I had to find them. I had to get my sister back. I had to—

Oh no. I left my phone on the kitchen table.



* * *



By the time I rushed down to the kitchen, dripping and wrapped in a towel, I could almost sense that a message was waiting for me. But Mom hovered like a gnat, so I couldn’t look at the screen—she’d see my reaction and insist on knowing what was wrong. Instead, I held off until she went to bed around eleven. She’d taken another nurse’s double shift today, and still had her own shift in the morning. She offered to call in sick, but I assured her I’d be fine.

Back in my room, I changed into a cozy pair of leggings and an oversize sherpa-lined sweater—with my phone tucked into a drawer for some semblance of privacy, thank you very much—then took a deep breath and looked.

You’re playing with fire. You already used your Get Out of Jail Free card, remember?



There was no time stamp on the message. I couldn’t tell how long ago An0nym0us1 had sent this, or how many messages they’d sent before. My stomach roiled with worry for Caelyn.

Before I could shoot off a message or say anything aloud, a new message appeared.

There you are. It’s time for a new game. Are you ready?



I squinted at the screen, head still pounding from my panic attack. Mom had offered some of my prescribed meds for when I got attacks—sort of like a megadose of Benadryl to calm me down. But it’d make me too drowsy, and I needed to stay awake. Alert. I needed to find whoever was doing this.

But now I wouldn’t have a chance.

Anger and agony tightened my throat, stifling the accusations I wanted to hurl. Why would you kill Matty? How could you? But they’d be wasted words; they’d never say. Instead, I had to think of some way to outsmart them. To get them to reveal some clue that would lead me to Caelyn. Maybe I could get them to send me another photo.

Wait, how’s Caelyn? I asked.

She’s still alive. Are you ready?



Still alive. Implying that at one point, that may no longer be the case.

Holy hell.

Well, hopefully playing this next game would help me get more clues out of this asshat. I cracked my knuckles. Alright, fine. Let’s go.

Let’s play Grand Theft Auto. Steal the minivan from the garage at 212 Sherborne Way. You have 30 minutes. Ready? GO!



My mouth dropped open. This time, I knew the address.

That was Akira’s house.

Akira didn’t have a car (“Why bother? You guys always schlep me around”), but her parents each had one. They only would’ve needed one car to get to the airport, assuming they hadn’t called an Uber or something. Either way, they must’ve left Mrs. Saito’s minivan behind.

But how was I supposed to get the car out of the garage without Akira noticing? Sure, she was a heavy sleeper—she’d overslept so many times her mom had to get her one of those alarm clocks on wheels you had to chase around the room to turn off—but like hell she’d managed to fall asleep already. Surely she’d hear the door groan open.