These Deadly Games(9)

But what if it wasn’t?

I wiped a trembling hand down my face. What the hell should I do? I had to think for a minute—though apparently, I only had twenty of them. Think, Crystal. Think.

Alright. The way I saw it, I had three options. Option one, do nothing. See what happened when the time ran out. But if this was real … my sister would die. Okay, so option one was out.

Option two, get help. Call the police, or call Mom. But she was probably in the middle of assisting a surgery. Dad was useless out in Vegas, probably in some casino blowing the cash he used to pay the mortgage with. But again, if this was real, and this lunatic somehow found out I told someone … my sister would die.

Option three, play this “game.” If this were just a prank, okay—I’d swipe some stupid answer key, and Caelyn would be fine, and everything would be fine. But if it wasn’t a prank, her life hinged on me being stealthy. Sneaking around in a video game was one thing. But in real life, I was a total klutz. What if I couldn’t do it?

I typed out: What happens if I get caught?

She dies.



No hesitation. It was like a sucker punch to the gut. I was really going to have to do this, wasn’t I?

At the same time … games were literally my life. If there was anyone who could win—well, whatever the hell this was—it was me.

They’d picked the wrong opponent.

I studied the clue, which had reappeared. Next week’s key is locked under a desk upstairs in a room that adds up to 5 in its prime. Deliver the key to a locker double plus 9.

Video games had taught me to think fast and logically, even as adrenaline flooded my veins. I got this.

Okay, so—our school had three floors, and if the room was upstairs, it had to be between 201 and 399; actually, 326, since the room numbers didn’t go higher. Adds up to 5—meaning its digits? The number 212 worked. So did 203, 221, 230, 302, 311, and 320. In its prime, though. A prime number? Even numbers were out, then, but were the others prime? Ugh, math. I pinched the bridge of my nose. Thirteen times seventeen was 221. That left 203 and 311 … damn. I scrolled to my calculator and quickly did some random-ass division to find out 203 was divisible by seven. So 311 was the only other option. And the locker—double plus 9—double what? Double the room number? If so, 631. Easy.

Or was it too easy?

Maybe it was easy on purpose, if they wanted that answer key. Anger simmered in my veins; nothing made my blood boil like cheaters.

Room 311 was in the math wing. I only ever looked at the room numbers on the first day of school when finding my new classes, but I was pretty sure that was my precalculus classroom. And we did have an exam next week—not that I’d planned to study this weekend. That could wait until Monday; the MortalDusk tourney was my top priority.

Well … it had been my top priority.

Just a few hours ago, I was stressed about Zoey scoring twenty thousand MortalBucks before I did. How the hell had I gone from that to this?

Balling my hands into fists, I headed for the stairwell, but Mr. Richardson’s door opened behind me.

“Crys!”

Crap. It was Matty. And I was walking toward the ladies’ room, where presumably I should have already been, er … experiencing food poisoning. I turned to face him.

Concern etched lines across his forehead. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just, uh”—I gripped my stomach—“not sure it’s over.”

“Want me to take you to the nurse’s office?”

I waved him off. “No, I’ll be fine. You go ahead.” I motioned toward the men’s room down the hall.

“Nah, I left to check on you.” He adjusted his baseball cap over his short, ashy-blond hair, but couldn’t hide the way his cheeks flamed like he’d just chowed down on a bucket of jalape?os.

I bit my lip and averted my gaze.

Dammit. Randall was right, wasn’t he? Two weeks ago at Lucia Ramirez’s party, I’d been moping on the sectional after Zoey dragged Dylan to the beer pong table—wishing I were so bold, wishing I’d worn the cute outfit Caelyn laid out for me instead of my THIS PRINCESS CAN SAVE HERSELF hoodie, wishing the music were loud enough to drown out Zoey’s flirtatious laughter—when Randall flopped down beside me. Next thing I knew, we were sipping God-knew-what from red Solo cups, placing bets on how long it would take Jasmine Chopra to make a move on Matty. The gorgeous cheerleading captain had been flirting with him for weeks, to the shock of no one—Matty was a good-looking, charming nerd. A winning combo.

I’d eyed them chatting by the fireplace. “Five bucks on five minutes from now.”

“No way,” said Randall. “Twenty.”

“Bucks or minutes?”

“Both.”

I winced. That was a lot of cash. “Does flirty touching count?” I caressed his arm to demonstrate.

He snorted. “Fine.”

Unable to resist a good bet, I tapped my cup against his. “You’re on.”

As we surreptitiously watched them, I asked, “Why do you think he won’t ask her out already? Or Sara? Or Maddy?” Matty never wound up dating the girls who fawned over him.

“You’re kidding, right?” He scoffed like he thought I was being deliberately obtuse.

Was this still a sore point for Randall? He and Akira had been dating for months. “Uh … no?”