These Deadly Games(61)
I hurried down to the kitchen, entered our landline number in the verification field, and waited for the call. A few moments later, I was all set up with a shiny new Google Voice number. Okay. I got this.
I dialed Jeremy’s parents’ number. Ring. Ring. Ring—
“Hello?” A woman’s voice.
“Good morning, ma’am.” Oh, God. I was totally riffing here. “This is Jeanne with Citibank customer service. Can I please speak with Jeremy Fischer?” For some reason, I reflexively faked a Southern twang, trying to sound as official as possible.
“Uh … sorry, you have the wrong number.”
I grimaced, and my stomach wobbled. Had Jeremy’s parents moved as well? I’d assumed he’d moved out and gotten his own place, but maybe his whole family moved.
“Jeremy moved out a few months ago,” she went on, filling the awkward silence. Ah. This must’ve been Jeremy’s mom. “Who did you say this was?”
“This is Jeanne, ma’am, with Citibank customer service. We tried mailing his credit card to an address in—let’s see here—ah, here we go, in Lakecrest, and it was returned to sender. Now, if I could just confirm his new mailing address—”
“He’s at 2672 Bridgeport Terrace.”
Jesus, lady. Talk about trusting.
I typed the address into a new compose window so I wouldn’t forget it. “Ah, that explains it—the address he gave us was 7226.”
She chuckled. “He’s dyslexic—sometimes he still mixes things up. Do you need his phone number, too?”
“That’d be great—I’ll update our records, and I won’t bother you again.”
“Not a bother at all, dear.” She rattled that off as well. But I already had exactly what I needed.
Two could play at this game. And I never wanted to win more.
CHAPTER 26
“Thought I wouldn’t check for tracking devices, didn’t you?” I muttered as I peeled the device from the rear bumper of my car and dropped it onto the gravel lining the driveway next to Matty’s car, which his mothers hadn’t picked up yet. The gratification of finding the tracker outweighed any shock that An0nym0us1 had bothered, or that they’d stood in this very spot. At this point, it would take a hell of a lot more than being tracked or stalked to rattle me.
Fuck this anonymous asshole.
Hopefully they wouldn’t be anonymous much longer.
By the time I reached Jeremy’s street—sans GPS, using directions I’d hurriedly scrawled in my notebook—my palms were slick with sweat. It’d been thirty minutes since I turned my phone off. Thirty minutes of being invisible. I tried not to think about the horrible things An0nym0us1 might be doing to Caelyn in their fury. I had to do this. It was the fastest way I could think to catch Jeremy in the act … or to rule him out as a suspect.
My plan was this: Spy on Jeremy, turn on my phone, and reply to An0nym0us1’s message. If Jeremy looked at his phone exactly then—better yet, if he replied, and that timing also matched—I’d know he was An0nym0us1. If not, it was someone else.
Yeah, I never said it was a good plan.
I set off down the street, phone in hand, leaving my car in the bramble alongside the narrow rural street. Silver clouds hung low in the sky, threatening rain that would leave an icy sheen on the frigid pavement. I shivered from the wind that whipped by, rustling the branches overhead.
Jeremy’s house was a dated one-story ranch that sorely needed painting. The yard was unkempt, dotted with overgrown shrubberies and weeds peeking out between the stones of his front walkway. Mounds of blackened snow lined the driveway, the asphalt cracked and pitted. You’d think with his millions of subscribers, he’d be raking in enough dough from ads and sponsorships to fix up this place. Maybe he couldn’t be bothered. Or maybe he didn’t earn as much as I’d thought, especially if his revenue had taken a hit thanks to us, or he was using the money for something else—debt or medical bills—who knows? I knew nothing about his life. Maybe he really was desperate for the tourney prize money.
Someone shrieked nearby, and I startled, the jolt sending sparks over my skin. Across the street, a pair of sisters, maybe five or six years old and wearing matching bright blue puffer jackets, chased each other across the lawn as their mother sat on the front stoop, scrolling through her phone. The sight made my heart clench. I had to get Caelyn back. I had to do this.
As I crept onto Jeremy’s yard, something like vertigo tingled the pads of my feet. At least when I’d broken into Akira’s house, the night’s darkness had shielded me. Now, in broad daylight, I was exposed. Vulnerable. This wasn’t like MortalDusk—I couldn’t dart from shrubbery to shrubbery to stay concealed. If the woman across the street merely glanced my way, I was toast.
Good thing people rarely looked up these days.
I flipped up my hood, loped around the side of the house, and prowled to the closest window. Kitchen. Jeremy was clearly a slob. Dishes were piled high in and around the sink, and open bags of chips cluttered the stone-slab countertops. Pots and pans hung over the stove, and a knife block sat next to it. The slit for the chef’s knife was empty.
It could mean nothing. The knife could be in the sink or something.
Or it could mean everything.
The next window’s blinds were drawn (dammit), so I passed it, rustling through dead leaves and bramble to stoop next to a tiny window nestled near the ground. Basement. I got on my knees and cupped a visor around my eyes to cut the glare. Since the lights were off, I couldn’t see far into the room, but it seemed unfinished. Empty metal shelves lined faux-brick concrete walls, and cardboard boxes were stacked under the window.