These Deadly Games(55)

“Yeah, let’s go back,” said Zoey.

“We can’t just leave him out here,” I said. After we’d made Brady feel like chopped liver earlier, he’d be extra hurt if we abandoned him now.

“Try calling his cell again?” Akira suggested.

Matty shook his head. “I mean, I already called five times.”

Randall scanned the woods with his flashlight. “You know what, dude? I bet the li’l shrimp went home. He said he wanted to keep us searching till morning.”

Matty shoved Randall playfully. “Calling him things like ‘li’l shrimp’ is what got us into this mess.”

Randall guffawed. “Yeah, yeah.”

But I frowned. “I don’t think he’d cheat. That’s not like him…” But then I thought of how his brother, Andrew, would buy Brady’s painted rocks, so he’d win our summertime sales competitions. Maybe he would cheat.

“Yeah, well, he did this time,” said Randall.

“Can we please go home?” said Zoey. “This is ridiculous.” Everyone nodded.

“But—” I started.

Zoey stomped her foot. “Come on, Crystal. Brady’s probably home asleep, sticking it to us. Let’s just go.”

As they trooped back toward Zoey’s house, I lingered behind, scanning the nearly pitch-black yards once more. My phone was out of battery, so I no longer had a flashlight. “Brady?” I called, though not loudly, not wanting to wake anyone. Shadowy blobs littered the yards—swing sets, toys, hedges, tree stumps—and I tried to find a flash of red in the dark, trying not to imagine some creature slithering closer. But eventually, the darkness drove me to follow my friends.





CHAPTER 23


The last thing I expected was to see someone standing outside my window, nose practically pressed against the glass, staring down at me. I was already on edge, and my heart jolted fiercely enough to send shock waves to my toes.

Sorry, Dylan mouthed, grimacing remorsefully, though there was laughter in his eyes.

I scrambled to my feet and slid the window open. “What, like today hasn’t been terrifying enough?” I clutched my chest, willing my heart to slow, reminding me of poor Mr. Lewis’s cardiac arrest.

“Sorry, sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I told you to text—”

“I saw your light on and figured this was your room.” He passed me a thermos before hoisting himself inside. “Why were you on the floor?”

“Oh … just … reading?” I motioned to the Kindle.

He examined the space behind my desk chair. “Your reading nook isn’t very nooky.”

“Your face isn’t very nooky.” I cringed. That didn’t work.

My phone buzzed. Shit. My heart went berserk again as terrifying possibilities flooded my mind. For some reason, I’d assumed An0nym0us1 would leave me alone if Dylan was here. But this was too dangerous—I should never have agreed to let him be alone with me. What the hell would An0nym0us1 make me do?

Whatever it was, I couldn’t ignore it. As Dylan slid the window closed, I flipped my phone over.

Let’s play Truth or Dare. If you tell him the truth, I’ll dare you to kill him.



Oh, God. A shiver ran through me with such force I visibly shuddered. Dylan locked the window, turned around, and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

A new message replaced that text.

See you in the morning.



I flipped the phone facedown again, trying to keep my fingers as steady as possible. Trying not to show that Dylan’s life could be in my hands. “Nothing, just … got a chill. From the window being open. Anyway…” I jiggled the thermos, making the liquid inside slosh around. “What’s this?” As long as I didn’t tell Dylan what was happening, he was safe. At least, I hoped he would be.

“Hot chocolate. Er … I wanted to return the favor. You know, comfort food. Drink. Whatever.”

The brownies. He still thought I baked those for him. Some “favor” that was, though—those brownies ended up killing our friend. Thinking of Matty again, my eyes reflexively watered like someone had punched me in the stomach. Dylan’s face fell. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” He seemed about to reach for me, and I remembered how he’d hugged me in the hospital parking lot, his cheek flush against mine. I wanted that again, to be comforted, safe. But it felt wrong, somehow.

So I turned from Dylan, blinking away my tears. “No, it’s fine.” I twisted off the plastic mug and cap and inhaled the rich scent, triggering a memory of hiking the trails near Hanover Lake with Dad, our Sunday morning tradition. I loved the fresh pine tree smell, the satisfying crunch of dead leaves under my boots, the way the sun shimmered off the lake like scattered crystals when we topped Mount Morgan. I loved how Dad would spout these outlandish facts, like, “Watch out for the ants—they’ll stink if you squish ’em!” and “Every few years, the trees conspire to make extra acorns so squirrels can’t gorge on them all, and more trees grow.” I’d try to argue (“Trees don’t conspire!”), but then I’d google it later, and he was always right.

But once on the cusp of winter, I shivered so hard my teeth audibly chattered. Dad suggested drinking some hot chocolate to warm my belly, so we stopped to dig my thermos from my backpack. I took a sip and cringed, slapping my lips. “Ugh. It tastes funny.”