All Your Twisted Secrets

by Diana Urban

  He exhaled slowly, considering it. “I don’t know.” He stared at Sasha in shock. Nobody moved. Nobody knew what to do.

  A trickle of blood ran from the corner of Sasha’s mouth down her cheek, mingling with her sweat. Oh, God. That had to be bad. “No . . .” Robbie whimpered, hovering over her.

  Sasha focused on Robbie with glassy eyes, her brow creasing from concentration. “I’m not . . . a monster. I panicked . . . I’m sorry.”

  Then her gaze trained on me. “I never meant for your sister to die. When I found out, I thought maybe she accidentally overdosed . . .” She paused to take a ragged breath. “. . . maybe it wasn’t really suicide.”

  I shook my head, tears blurring my vision. Being in denial didn’t make what she did to my sister any more justifiable. “You knew. You deleted all of your comments. You deleted your accounts.”

  “I didn’t know. But I was afraid . . .” She gasped, something gurgling deep in her belly. Her fingers hovered over the glass shard, like she wanted to pull it out but was afraid to touch it. Her fingers trembled wildly as she clasped my hand. “I never meant for . . . for . . .” She opened her mouth to say something else, but all that came out was a wheezing sound. Her eyes were glazed and unfocused.

  “Sasha.” I gripped her hand with both of mine, despite the searing pain in my arm. Despite everything she’d done—bullying my sister, torturing Priya, and even trying to kill me just now, I didn’t want her to die. Everything she’d done, she’d done out of fear. Maybe she truly was sorry. “Stay with me, okay?”

  “I never meant for . . .” She tried again. But the next moment, her eyes stared blankly toward the ceiling. Her left arm flopped to the floor beside her, and her right hand stilled in mine. We’d never know what she was going to say. She was gone. Just like that. Gone. Robbie howled as Priya turned, hunched over, and threw up in the corner next to the fireplace.

  “No. Sasha, no. Stay with me.” I shook her shoulder. Her head lolled with the movement, and her eyes remained open. “You weren’t supposed to die. Nobody was supposed to die.” She would never get to say goodbye to Zane or her parents after all. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I failed. Everyone should have gotten out of here unscathed, but I failed. How did this happen? How the hell did this happen?

  I jumped at a ripping noise to my left, sending another wave of pain rippling through my arm and chest. Diego tore one of the plastic bottles from the bomb. He gave a sniff, then raised the bottle to his lips for a swig. He swilled the liquid in his mouth for a moment. “Flat ginger ale.”

  “Holy shit,” said Scott. “So, now we know. None of it was real.”

  “Holy shit,” Robbie repeated, shaking his head at Sasha’s limp form.

  “No,” I confirmed, my voice monotone. “None of this was real. Nobody was supposed to die.”

  “I had to. I had to,” Priya repeated over and over. She sank next to the fireplace, next to her own pool of vomit, wrapping her arms around her knees. “I had to. I had to. She was going to kill you. She was going to kill me. I’m sorry. I had to. She would have killed someone if I didn’t.”

  “Shut up!” Robbie cried. “Just shut up.”

  I knelt next to Priya and wrapped my good arm around her. She gripped me back hard, and her whole body shook fiercely. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she repeated over and over.

  “It’s not your fault,” I said. After a year of torture and ridicule, Priya finally stood up to Sasha tonight. But she’d be forever traumatized by it. “None of this is your fault. You’re right; she would have killed me. You saved my life, Priya. You did what you had to—”

  The sound of a door slamming out in the restaurant made everyone turn toward the large oak door. I scrambled to my feet, clutching my right shoulder. Footsteps grew louder as they approached from the other side. I glanced at my watch. Eight thirty. We held a collective breath as someone fumbled around outside. “Oh fuck,” said Robbie. “Are they going to kill us all now?”

  My veins throbbed with anticipation. “It wasn’t real. They wouldn’t hurt us.” I crossed the room and rested a bloody palm against the oak door. Should I shout out to whoever was out there?

  “Who the hell did this?” Scott asked. The lock made a scraping noise as the key was inserted.

  I backed away until I hit the table.

  We stared at the door as the lock clicked, and the door opened. A young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with shoulder-length matted brown hair tied back in a ponytail, stood on the other side. A rush of cooler air followed him into the room. I instinctively took a step toward it. He held a large pink box, and shock registered on his face as he stepped into the room. “Holy crap, it’s hot in here—”

  “Who the hell are you?” asked Robbie. He barreled toward this man, growling as he ran. The stranger’s eyes widened in surprise. “No!” I yelled, blocking Robbie’s path.

  “Why not?” Robbie cried. “Who are you? Why did you do this?”

  The young man crinkled his brow. “Do what? I’m just here to make a delivery, dude. From Sweet Cakes.” He held the box out to Robbie.

  “Yeah, sure you are,” Robbie fumed.

  “Whoa,” said the deliveryman, eyeing my shoulder and blood-streaked arm. “What the hell happened to you?”

  Robbie took the box from him and shoved it into Diego’s hands. He turned back to the deliveryman, ignoring his questions. “Who’s this from?”

  “Lemme take a quick look.” The deliveryman took a tablet from his bag and scrolled down the screen. “It was paid for with cash. Let’s see . . . they would have had to leave a name for the delivery . . . yep, here we go. Meagan Abbie ordered two dozen cupcakes from Sweet Cakes and left instructions—”

  Robbie grabbed the tablet from him. “Gimme that.” He scrolled back down to the instructions and scanned them, his eyes widening as he read.

  “Who’s Meagan Abbie?” asked Diego. I shrugged, frowning.

  “What does it say?” asked Priya.

  Robbie read aloud. “‘Deliver the two dozen cupcakes to the Chesterfield at 121 Sherborne Lane at eight thirty p.m. It’s a surprise, so don’t arrive earlier. The front door will be open. Leave them in the back room next to the bar—the key is next to the bar register. Please don’t skip this last step—otherwise our party will be ruined.’”

  The deliveryman plucked his tablet from Robbie’s grip. “I thought the instructions were bizarre, but here you are.” The crease in his brow deepened as he took in the shattered windows. “Hey, were you all locked in here?” That’s when he noticed Sasha’s body. “Oh, shit! Is she . . .”

  “Yeah,” said Robbie. “She’s dead. Mind calling the cops?”

  The deliveryman whipped out his phone.

  “There’s no signal,” I told him as Diego set the pink box on the table and opened it. “You have to go outside.”

  “Got it.” He raced out the door and left us alone again.

  Diego peeled off a note taped to the inside of the lid, unfolded it, and scanned the two lines. He glanced at me, his expression a mix of relief, sadness, and shock, before reading aloud. “‘Congratulations on getting through the last hour. Now you all know who you really are.’”

  4 Hours Ago

  I spent the last hour getting ready for my guests.

  It didn’t take as long as I thought it would. I biked home after school, grabbed two duffel bags from my room, threw them in Dad’s car, and drove to the grocery store a couple towns over to pick up enough precooked food to make this dinner party look plausible—a couple rotisserie chickens, roasted yams and veggies, a platter of deviled eggs, salad mix, and a couple bags of bread rolls. I was nervous it’d look sketchy to keep my gloves on while shopping.

  But I didn’t want to get my fingerprints all over everything.

  Not that I intended for anyone to die. That wasn’t the objective of this little experiment. But if we happened to do any damage to the Chesterfield while trying to escape, Maria’s parents might try to find out who
was behind everything, and I didn’t want to get busted for the most epic prank in Brewster history. Without proof, nobody would suspect innocent little musician Amber Prescott. But I figured I couldn’t be too careful.

  Nobody seemed to notice my unnecessary gloves, and I used the self-checkout line and paid with cash. So far, so good. Everything else was in the duffel bag, so my next stop was the Chesterfield.

  I parked a couple blocks away from the restaurant so nobody would notice Dad’s car near the entrance. Getting everything into the restaurant was the tricky part. The Chesterfield’s back entrance was in a narrow alleyway, and if a neighbor spotted some stranger entering the code when the restaurant was supposed to be closed for two weeks, it could raise some eyebrows.

  Dammit. I was probably overthinking this. For all anyone knew, I was staff coming to check on the place. My nerves had been going haywire all day. Everything had to go perfectly tonight.

  I pulled my faux-fur-lined hood over my eyes and snapped the clasp under my chin. There were a few people milling around, but everyone stared at their cell phones as they walked. I slung the duffel bags over my shoulders and hauled the grocery bags to the restaurant in one trip, grunting at the weight. I’d seen Maria enter the lock and security codes plenty of times when I was the lookout for her and Sasha as they snuck in to swipe booze. Once I got the back door open, I typed the security code into the beeping panel near the door. Maria’s parents closed the restaurant whenever they went on vacation. I didn’t have to worry about anyone raining on my parade.

  In fact, that’s how I got this whole idea—it was in the library, when Maria recounted how she and Sasha locked themselves in the supply closet during their last tequila run. All the locks in this place must have been ancient. Sasha’s words replayed in my head: If I had a gun, I literally would have shot myself. Like suicide was something anyone should ever joke about.

  But it made the idea for this little prank pop into my head, and I’d rushed off and spent the next two weeks turning the idea over and over, scheming all the little details, figuring out how I could steer the conversation in the room so that ultimately, everyone would turn against Sasha. Everyone would choose her to die. It’d be the perfect way to teach her a lesson, to get her to understand how she treated everyone around her—and to prove I was nothing like her.

  And once I mailed out the invitations, there was no going back.

  I hauled my bags through the kitchen and out to the main dining room. The door to the private back dining room was already propped open. I dropped everything on the floor next to the fireplace and switched on the light. This room would be perfect. It was big enough to spend time searching for a way out, but small enough to make everyone feel claustrophobic. This needed to feel scary. This needed to feel real.

  I slung my jacket across one of the chairs and fished my phone from my purse, scrolling through my movie score playlists. My battle music playlist seemed like a good fit for the occasion. I was readying for a battle of sorts.

  After popping in my earbuds and slipping the phone into my back pocket, I let out a shiver, rubbing my gloved hands together. It was chilly in here—Maria’s parents probably turned off the heat to save energy while they were gone. I found the thermostat out in the main room next to the bar, switched it on, and adjusted it to the low seventies.

  Back in the private dining room, I unzipped the first duffel bag and pulled several platters with matching concave lids I’d found at HomeGoods. I wasn’t sure if the Chesterfield had platters with lids, and I’d need to cover at least a few trays so the bomb and syringe would be hidden when everyone first sat down. After a bit of hunting, I found a tablecloth, more fancy platters (with lids!), baskets for the bread rolls, plates, silverware, glasses, and pitchers—everything I’d need to make it look like a convincing setup for a dinner party. The rotisserie chickens smelled delicious. They’d be cold by the time everyone showed up, but it wasn’t like anyone would notice. And at least Priya would be able to eat something if she needed to. I shook some steamed veggies onto the platters with the chickens to complete the dish.

  After I laid out the rest of the food and filled the glasses with water, I unzipped the second duffle bag and set the most important items on the biggest platter.

  The bomb.

  The syringe.

  And the envelope.

  At first, I envisioned using a prop gun as the fake weapon. But after what happened with Phil, I couldn’t bring myself to buy any sort of gun—not even a fake. Besides, there were too many ways a prop gun could go wrong—namely, it’d be too easy to know it was fake. With a syringe of poison, all I had to do was make everyone think one drop could kill them. Like hell Sasha’d want to risk testing it.

  So I’d ordered the fake syringe with a throwaway Amazon account, and it looked like the real deal. It was almost too easy. If my parents found it in my room, I could always claim it was a toy from when Maggie played doctor. I’d never be able to pull that excuse with a prop gun.

  I switched on the Bluetooth timer I’d fastened to the bomb last night and set the domed lid on the platter. Then my stomach dropped. If I didn’t have a signal down here, would the Bluetooth timer work? It wouldn’t need a signal or Wi-Fi or anything, right?

  I set aside the lid and pulled my phone from my pocket. As usual, there was no signal in the Chesterfield. The timer was set to one hour and two minutes. I’d need that two-minute head start—it’d look a little suspicious if I tapped something on my phone at the same moment I lifted the lid. I opened the Bluetooth timer app and stared at the timer on the bomb as I hit Start. The timer began ticking down. I let out a relieved breath, reset the timer, and replaced the lid. I might be able to pull this off after all.

  My next challenge was the door. I needed to get the door to swing shut once everyone was in the room. The door automatically locked when closed, which I’d first learned when it locked behind Robbie and me, right before our first kiss. I pulled the brass key from the keyhole on the outside of the door. I’d need to leave it on the bar for the cupcake delivery person to grab once it was time to let us out. I bit my lip, scanning the room. Was there another key hidden anywhere? What if the delivery person didn’t show up? Then we’d really be trapped.

  Hiding a spare key inside the room was too risky, though—if someone found it, the whole prank would end early. I’d have to risk going without it.

  I tested the inside lock with the door open to ensure I’d be able to let myself out after testing the door, and stuck the key in my other back pocket.

  Now I had to test swinging the door shut from the table. If this didn’t work, I might have to call the whole thing off. I’d bought a spool of dark brown nylon rope online. Like Diego once told me, you really can find anything online. The brown rope blended into the hardwood floor and the Oriental rug, and was barely noticeable. Hopefully it’d be strong enough for me to loop around my ankle and yank the door shut from my place at the dining room table. I’d already fastened one end of the rope into a noose for my ankle. When my parents went grocery shopping last weekend, I’d practiced wiggling the noose onto my foot and kicking my bedroom door shut. At first, it seemed impossible, but wearing peep-toe shoes helped me feel the rope with my toe, and it seemed to work.

  The large oak door swung open toward the bar outside. The plan was to tie one end of the rope to the doorknob, and carefully run the rope to the table under my seat. After wiggling my foot into the noose and tightening it, I’d extend my leg and slam the door shut. But this oak door was a hell of a lot heavier than my bedroom door. I let out a deep breath. If this didn’t work, the rest of it would be moot, and I’d need to pack everything back up and haul it out of here. Not to mention the supposed scholarship winners would show up tonight to no host, no Amber, and no idea what the hell was going on.

  After setting the noose under the table where I’d be sitting, I unspooled the rope until I reached the door and measured out enough length to run slack down the door and across the
floor so nobody would trip over it.

  Hopefully.

  I cut the rope with scissors and tied that end around the doorknob, making it loose enough so I could slip it off after the door shut. I’d have to race to inspect the door before anyone else could get to it, slip off the rope, and hide it somewhere. I glanced around the room. I could throw it under the dining table. With the red tablecloth draping near the floor, hopefully nobody would spot it. But that seemed risky. There was also a sideboard running along the wall next to the door. Ah, even better—I could kick the rope under the sideboard. Nobody would find it there.

  Hopefully.

  Sweat broke out on my forehead, and I wiped it with the back of my hand. There was an awful lot of hoping going on here. I didn’t like depending on luck. So many things could go wrong. But it was too late to chicken out now.

  I sat in my chair to give this a practice run. Without too much effort, I got my foot into the noose and made a circular motion with my ankle to kill the slack in the rope. I shot my foot forward. The door slammed behind me.

  I grinned. This might work after all.

  I reset the door and rope setup and did a few more practice runs. I’d have to wait until everyone was seated and talking to kill the slack—otherwise someone might trip over it. But if I moved fast . . . if I waited for a moment where everyone was distracted . . . this could work. After the final practice run, I reset the door one last time and inspected my handiwork. The rope blended almost perfectly with the grain of the oak door. If you didn’t know to look for it, you wouldn’t spot it. Then I set the old brass key on the bar for the cupcake deliveryman to find.

  Now for the finishing touches. Of course, there would be no host tonight, so I taped a sign to the host podium near the front entrance directing everyone to the Winona Room, with an arrow pointing toward the private dining room. Then I fished a battery-powered webcam from my duffel, set it on the top shelf of one of the china cabinets, and covered it with a red cloth napkin. A red light was barely visible underneath. It wasn’t actually streaming a recording anywhere, of course, but nobody would know that.