These Deadly Games(86)
Slow as a sloth, I reached the window and stooped to peek inside. Dylan’s laptop was propped open on a faded blue floral couch, and he wore a stony expression, fists clenched at his sides. Nobody else was there. Caelyn must’ve been in the basement. His headphones flattened his tousled hair—was he blasting hip-hop, stressed out of his mind?—and without his tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, he looked like the sullen boy I remembered from my childhood. Now that I knew he was Andrew, I couldn’t believe I’d never spotted the resemblance before—that none of us had.
But why would we have? It was like when you ran into a teacher at the grocery store. Out of context, you didn’t recognize them at first.
Dylan was utterly out of context. We never imagined Andrew would move back to town, let alone change his name and appearance, claim to be two years younger, wheedle his way onto our esports team, and plan a deadly game of vengeance. I’d almost let this boy steal a piece of my heart while he tried to steal everything else from me. Had he ever liked me at all? Obviously not. What I’d thought was flirty snark was actual resentment.
He paused at his laptop and scratched his temple. Classic brainstorming move. He was trying to think how to find me.
But I’d found him first.
If Caelyn were in the basement, could I free her out from under his nose? The pain in my wrist pulsated as though in response, evidence of my clumsiness so far today. I considered my other options.
Option one, confront him—try to reason with him and talk him out of this madness.
Option two, call the police. Akira’s phone was still in my car. But if he heard their sirens—
A breeze rustled the wind chimes next to the front door, brushing my curls back from my face. That’s when I noticed the smell. Rotten eggs. I cringed. What the hell was that?
The sulfuric odor triggered a memory from chemistry class—the same gas safety unit in which we’d learned about carbon monoxide. “Natural gas is colorless and odorless,” Mr. Ferguson had told us, passing around a jar of diluted hydrogen sulfide. “So gas companies make the stuff smell like rotten eggs so in case there’s a leak, you’ll know.”
Matty had winced when he took a whiff. “Ugh, it smells like a million farts.”
Mr. Ferguson chuckled. “Well, if your house ever smells like a million farts, tell your parents right away, or call 911. And do not, under any circumstances, light a fire.”
That’s what it smelled like now. A million farts.
Had Dylan somehow filled the house with natural gas? If I called the cops, all he had to do was strike a match …
Oh, God. I had to get Caelyn out of there. Now.
I slinked off the porch to seek out basement windows, getting déjà vu from Jeremy Fischer’s house as I crunched over dead leaves and overgrown weeds, hoping Dylan didn’t hear. Behind the house were two windows into the basement. Bingo. I wiped a layer of grime from one of them with my fist and peered inside. It was dark—I couldn’t see much. The entire window frame was big enough for me to crawl through, but even if I could magically turn the lock inside, the window pushed in from the bottom, and I wouldn’t be able to fit through half the space.
I had to break the glass. I scanned the backyard for some sort of blunt object, then jogged to the garage. Dylan’s Jeep was parked inside, and some folded cardboard boxes were stacked against the back wall. Other than that, it was empty.
What about the storage locker? The one behind the garage, where we’d found Brady? Was it still even there?
My fingertips went numb, and I swallowed hard. Well, it was worth a look.
I dashed around the garage and found it standing there, same as ever. The storage locker, the door from my nightmares—always running toward it, always trying to save Brady from the monster trying to snatch us both as the distance elongates between us and I can’t move fast enough. Why the hell didn’t the Nelsons get rid of it? I touched the handle; the cold metal made me shudder. Unwilling to hesitate lest I chicken out, I threw open the door, half expecting a body to tumble out.
Of course, none did. And inside was exactly what I needed.
I grabbed the rake and hurried back to the basement window. There was no way to do this quietly. Hopefully Dylan wouldn’t hear it over whatever he was listening to. I flipped the rake in my grip, wound back, and drove its handle at the window, biting back pain in my wrist as the old glass cracked and shattered after a few more well-placed pummels. I froze, clutching my wrist and listening for footsteps rounding the house.
But all remained still and silent.
I used the rake to clear the window’s edges of any lingering glass shards. The pungent, rotten egg smell wafted from the window, making me crinkle my nose. I squatted and scream-whispered, “Caelyn?”
No response. A wooden desk stood next to the window. I slid in legs-first, careful not to press my palms into any broken glass, lowered myself onto the desk, and hopped to the floor. The room was carpeted and vaguely damp, like there’d been flooding at some point and the room hadn’t properly dried, and the sulfuric smell mingled with must and mildew. Old-fashioned metal filing cabinets and bookshelves lined the walls, stacked with ancient books and magazines. Stairs led up straight ahead, and to the left, a door.
I opened it and nearly gagged. The odor was stronger in here. I edged into the windowless room. The light was already on. “Caelyn?” This room was unfinished—boxes and bins were stacked against the faux-brick concrete walls, like the one behind Caelyn in the pictures and videos, and like Jeremy’s basement—walls like these must’ve been common in unfinished basements. In one corner stood a cat tree that long since homed any feline residents and a wooden dollhouse almost as tall as I was. There was a chair next to the door, but there were no tied-and-bound thirteen-year-olds.