These Deadly Games(54)

That memory was way better.

I shook both from my mind and switched the lights back to normal, then stared at the fixture for so long neon bulb shapes imprinted my vision. I waited, almost willing them to change again. But nothing happened. And there were no more messages from An0nym0us1.

Maybe they’d proven their point. I am everywhere, and you can’t stop me.

The low-battery warning flashed again—I had only 8 percent power left, and it always shut off around 5 percent. I crossed the room to plop the phone on its charging pad, then froze.

There were two ways to make sure my phone was truly off. One was to force-shut it down by holding the power button for ten seconds. The other was to let the battery drain. Then I’d be free from their watchful gaze for a while.

I couldn’t let them toy with me anymore. I had to figure out who they were.

Letting the battery drain seemed like the surer bet. Using the phone would make it drain faster, so I scrolled through my notifications, reading the names atop each one. Dave Wilcott. Jasmine Chopra. Blake Thatcher. Lily Chang. Maddy Curtis. Some I’d known since kindergarten, others I’d only ever exchanged five words. Yet all of them suddenly, inexplicably, wanted to be a part of Matty’s tragedy.

There was even a message from Lucia Ramirez.

Crystal, I know we haven’t exactly gotten along lately, but I just wanted you to know how very sorry I am. Matty was such a sweet guy, and nobody deserves to lose a friend like that. If you ever want to talk, I’m here. XO

I reread it, tugging my lower lip. That didn’t sound like a message a sadistic monster would send. But it didn’t sound like a message an internet troll would send, either. Was she faking kindness?

My God, this was maddening. I raked back my curls and read the other messages, thoroughly torturing myself. Talk about doom-scrolling. I was wasting time drowning in messages of sor row when I should’ve been trying to find whoever killed Matty. But how could I search for someone who was watching both my phone and laptop? If they knew I was onto them, they could easily evade me—

Suddenly, I thought of it. A life raft. I dug through one of my desk drawers and fished out the Kindle Dad gave me years ago in a futile effort to get me to read more. He thought he could entice me away from video games with yet another screen, but the joke was on him—I preferred paperbacks.

Still, this thing had one of those experimental browsers, right? I could connect to Wi-Fi and continue my search. There was no way An0nym0us1 could’ve known about this, let alone hacked it.

Its battery was completely drained. I found the right cable and plugged it into the outlet next to my desk, under the window, then sat next to it on the floor with my notebook. It took an eternity for the Kindle to turn on, but finally, it connected to Wi-Fi and I loaded the browser.

Okay. Where to start?

Suspect number one. I googled “Jeremy Fischer address Vermont,” clicked the top search result, and waited about a billion years for the page to load. Once it did, the address was right up top: 845 Camden Street, Allentown, Vermont.

“Well, that’s disturbing,” I muttered, scribbling the address next to Jeremy’s name in my notebook. Was it really that easy to find someone’s address? Was it that easy to find where I lived? I searched for “Crystal Donovan address Vermont,” and bing, my home address popped up. “Lovely.”

I tabbed back to Jeremy’s results and frowned. Didn’t he say he lived in Lakecrest? I was about to pull up Google Maps when I spotted another couple of names—Susan Fischer and Richard Fischer, listed at the same address.

Oh. This was Jeremy’s parents’ house. He’d moved since then.

Of course this wouldn’t be that easy.

Resting my chin on my fist, I tapped the back button and pored over the search results. Jeremy Fischer was a common name, even just in Vermont. The name appeared in obituaries, news stories about a sexual assault, Realtor listings, and doctor directories.

I’d have to refine my search—

Tap, tap, tap.

I gasped. The sound came from right above my head.

I twisted around to see out the window and clapped a hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming.





5 Years Ago


“My mother’s going to murder me.” Zoey checked her watch for the gazillionth time as we huddled near the gardening table where we’d found her earlier. We’d been searching for Brady for over an hour—it was after 1:00 a.m. now—and Manhunt was officially not fun anymore. He’d clearly won. Why wouldn’t he come out already?

“I’m sure she still doesn’t know we left,” I said, shivering.

Zoey threw me a dirty look. “Well, if I’m dead meat, it’s all your fault.”

Guilt and fear coursed through me. She was right—I was the one who pushed us to play Manhunt. Maybe this was a bad idea after all. I didn’t want Zoey to be mad at me. I’d just wanted us to have fun.

“Should we split up?” Randall suggested.

“No, let’s stick together.” Akira’s scarf muffled her voice, and she clenched her flashlight under her armpit, burying her hands in her pockets.

“We already looked everywhere, though,” said Matty.

Zoey yawned widely. “You guys, I’m so tired.”

“Same. And it’s freezing.” Akira let her teeth chatter extra hard for emphasis.