Then a string of messages pops up:
Fuck you, Phoebe, for not showing up.
Yeah I used your name.
WE HAD A DEAL—Darkestmind
My jaw drops as Maeve turns to me, eyes wide. “Oh my God,” she says. Fritz whines softly at the tension in her voice. “This cannot be a coincidence. Do you realize what this means?”
I do, finally. I’ve made fun of Maeve the entire time she’s stalked the Vengeance Is Mine forum, because I didn’t believe there was any connection between the delusional ramblings on there and what’s been going on in Bayview. Now these messages are smacking me in the face with how wrong I’ve been. I point at the user name on the screen in front of us. “It means Darkestmind and Intense Guy are the same person.”
“Not only that,” Maeve says urgently. Fritz drops his head on her knee, and she strokes one of his floppy ears without taking her eyes off the computer. “I’ve thought all along that Darkestmind is the person behind Truth or Dare. Remember? He kept talking about Bayview, and a game, and he even said tick-tock, just like Unknown always did. So if I’m right about that—Intense Guy is also Unknown. The three strands we’ve been following all lead to a single person.”
“Shit.” I’ve been staring at the messages from Darkestmind for so long that the words are starting to waver. “So you’re saying we just followed the Truth or Dare texter?”
“I think we did,” Maeve says. “And he officially does not go to Bayview High. I knew it wasn’t Matthias,” she adds, almost to herself. “You could tell that little taste of visibility he got from Simon Says terrified him.”
“Okay, but…” I blink a few times to clear my vision. “What the hell is this guy even talking about? He says he and Phoebe had a deal. A deal for what? Ruining her life at school? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t understand that part, either,” Maeve mutters. Her face gets thoughtful. “Do you think it’s possible there’s something she’s not telling us about all this?”
“Like what?”
She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Like maybe she really does know the guy, but it’s a bad-breakup kind of thing and she doesn’t want to talk about it.” Then she grimaces. “Really bad. That guy looked like he was out for blood.”
Out for blood. The words strike a chord in me, and I sit up straighter. “Hold up,” I say. “I just had a thought. Let’s assume we’re right, and that Intense Guy equals Darkestmind equals Unknown. By the way, let’s stick with one nickname, because this is getting confusing. I vote for Intense Guy. That’s the most descriptive, and also, I came up with it. Anyway. Does Intense Guy have some kind of bone to pick with Brandon?” I gesture at Maeve’s screen. “I mean, this is a revenge forum, right? Nate thinks someone might’ve messed with the construction site landing. Intense Guy led Brandon there with a Dare. So maybe that wild theory I tossed out the other day was actually right, and he hurt Brandon on purpose.”
“But why?” Maeve asks. “Do you think he was jealous, maybe? Because Brandon was hooking up with Phoebe?” Her hand stills on Fritz’s head. “The whole game kicked off with a rumor about Phoebe and Derek, didn’t it? Maybe this guy can’t stand the thought of her with anyone else.”
“Maybe,” I say slowly. “But you weren’t with Phoebe in the playground. She genuinely seemed clueless about him. And I was thinking along different lines, more like—” Maeve’s phone buzzes and I pause. “Is that Phoebe?”
Maeve picks up her phone. Her entire face changes, taking on a rosy glow like somebody just injected her with pink champagne. “No,” she says, fighting a smile as she lets go of Fritz so she can text with both hands. “I’m just going to…answer this real quick.”
“Tell Luis I said hi,” I say, gazing around the kitchen. Fritz pokes his nose into Maeve’s thigh a couple of times, then sighs and flops onto the floor when he can’t get her attention back.
My eyes land on my mother’s black laptop bag, sitting in the empty chair where she always leaves it when she gets home from work. Being an insurance adjuster isn’t a nine-to-five job, and Mom usually hauls her laptop out at least once a night to work on a case. But right now, she and my dad should be gone for at least another hour.
When Maeve finally puts her phone aside, I say, “Maybe we’ve been asking the question from the wrong angle.”
“Hmm?” She still looks a little fizzy. “What question?”
“You asked why Intense Guy, in particular, would hate Brandon,” I remind her. “But maybe we should be asking this instead: what could Brandon have done that would make anybody hate him enough to want him gone?”
Maeve knits her brow. “I don’t get it.”
“I was just thinking about a conversation I overheard between my mom and dad. You and I weren’t talking then, so I didn’t mention it, but I’ve been wondering about it ever since. My parents were saying how ironic it would be if Mr. Weber sues the construction site, because of some lawsuit involving Brandon that Mom’s company settled three years ago. And my dad said something like, ‘The case shouldn’t have gone that way. All it did was show a kid like Brandon that actions don’t have consequences.’ When I asked them about it, they clammed up and said it was confidential. But maybe if we knew what happened back then, we’d know why somebody would go through this much trouble to target Brandon.”
“So are you going to ask your mom again?” Maeve says.
“No point. She wouldn’t tell me.”
“What if you told her about all this?” Maeve asks, gesturing at her computer. “I mean, your dad already thinks Brandon’s accident was sketchy, right? But he doesn’t know it was part of a game that deliberately led Brandon to the construction site. We’re the only ones besides Sean, Jules, and Monica who know that, because we’re the only ones who saw the video from Sean’s phone.”
I swallow hard. “We could, I guess. But the thing is…basically, my dad thinks I’m an idiot.” Maeve starts to murmur a dissent that I wave off. “It’s true. He does. And if I come at him with this, ranting about texting games and anonymous forum posts that disappear, and how I think some rando I followed to a park is behind it all? He’d never take me seriously.”
“Okay,” Maeve says cautiously. She looks like she wants to argue the point, but all she says is, “Then I guess we’ll just have to wait and see if your parents connect any of the same dots. They’re the experts, after all.”
“I don’t want to wait,” I say. “I want to know what Brandon did three years ago that was bad enough to get him involved in some kind of hush-hush settlement.” I lean over and grab my mother’s laptop case by its handle, hauling it onto the table between Maeve and me. “This is my mom’s work computer.”
Maeve blinks, startled. “Are you suggesting we…hack it?”
“No,” I say. “That’s ridiculous. I’m suggesting you hack it. I don’t know how.”
I open the case, pull out a black, blocky PC that looks like it’s from the early aughts, and push it toward her. She lays a hand on the cover and hesitates, her eyes wide and questioning. “Do you really want me to do this?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Can you?”
Maeve makes a dismissive psssh sound. “Challenge accepted.”
She opens the cover and presses the power button. “If your mom is running an old version of Windows there are some login workarounds—although, before I try that, what year was Kiersten born?” I tell her, and she murmurs, “Kiersten plus birth year equals…okay, no. What about Katie?” We repeat the process, and Maeve’s brow furrows. “Wow, I get six more tries before the system locks me out. That’s way too many. Kelsey is the year after Katie?”
“Yeah, but—” I pause when she grins widely, turning the screen to face me as it powers up to an old picture of a family hiking trip. “You’re kidding me. That actually worked?”
“Parents are the single
worst threat to any type of cyber security,” Maeve says calmly, flipping the screen back toward her. “Okay, let’s search all documents for Brandon Weber.” She types, then leans back in her chair, squinting. “Nothing. Maybe just Weber.” She presses a few more keys, then grimaces. “Ugh, that’s a lot. We’re cursed with common last names tonight. Emails, phone directories, a bunch of other stuff…” She keeps scrolling and muttering to herself while I load our empty dishes into the dishwasher and top off the glasses of Sprite we’ve been drinking. Then I sip mine while she works.
“I think I’ve figured out your mom’s naming system,” Maeve says after a few minutes. “Cases are all tagged a certain way. So if I put those keywords in and cross-search with Weber…that’s a much smaller universe of files. And this was three years ago, you said?”
“Yeah. When my mom first started at Jenson and Howard.”
Her fingers fly across the keyboard, and she cracks a small smile. “Okay, we’re down to two documents. Let me try opening one.” She double clicks and nods, as though she just got exactly the result she was expecting. “Password protected, but—”
Fritz suddenly sits bolt upright, barking madly, and takes off running for the front door. Maeve and I both freeze except for our eyes, which snap toward one another in mirrored panic. The only time Fritz ever moves like that is when a car pulls into our driveway. “I thought you said your parents weren’t coming home till later,” Maeve hisses. She starts shutting down the computer as I scramble to my feet and follow Fritz. He’s still going berserk, and I hold his collar as I open the door and peer outside. The headlights shining into my eyes are a lot smaller than I expected.
“Hang on,” I call to Maeve from the doorway. Fritz keeps barking, his tail thumping against my leg. “Don’t put the computer away. It’s Kiersten.”
Maeve pauses. “Would she be okay with what we’re doing?”
“Oh hell no. But I can distract her for a few minutes. Email yourself the files, okay? Come out to the driveway when you’re done.”
I open the door just enough to push through without letting Fritz out, and jog down the front steps. My movement triggers our garage floodlight as Kiersten’s headlights flicker off. Her car door opens, and she steps onto the driveway. “Hey!” she calls, waving both hands in greeting. “I was nearby for a work thing so I just wanted to—”
Before she has a chance to finish, I’m hugging her so hard that I almost knock her over. “It’s so good to see you!” I yell, lifting her as far off the ground as I can manage.
“Um, okay. Wow.” Kiersten pats my back gingerly. “Good to see you too.” I lower her onto the driveway without releasing her, and her pats get a little harder. “You can let go now,” she says. Her voice is muffled in my shirt. I keep clinging, and she practically punches me between the shoulder blades. “Seriously. Thank you for the enthusiastic welcome, though.”
“Thank you,” I say, hugging her tighter. “For gracing us with your presence.”
“For what? What do—” Kiersten stiffens and pulls back, craning her neck so she can get a good look at my face. “Knox, are you drunk?” She sniffs me noisily, then uses three fingers to pull down the skin beneath my left eye. “Or high? Are you on something right now?”
What the hell is keeping Maeve? “I’m fine,” I say, disentangling myself hastily. “I’m just happy to see you because I wanted…” I pause for a few beats, searching my brain for something that will hold Kiersten’s interest enough to make her forget we’re still standing in the driveway. She narrows her eyes and taps a foot, waiting.
I swallow a sigh and say, “Relationship advice.”
Kiersten’s entire face lights up as she claps her hands together. “Finally.”
Maeve comes out the front door then, her laptop bag slung over one shoulder. Kiersten’s eyes pop, and she turns to me with a hopeful expression. “Not that relationship,” I mutter as Maeve waves. “Still friends.”
“Too bad,” Kiersten sighs, and holds out her arms for a hug from Maeve. As Maeve strides past me to greet her, she whispers, “Got them.” Whatever she found better be good, because I’m about to give up at least an hour of my life for it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Phoebe
Thursday, March 26
When I get home my mother is out, at another Golden Rings wedding planner get-together. She’s left a note for me on the kitchen island: Emma’s still not feeling well. Owen has eaten & there are leftovers in the fridge. Can you make sure he does his homework?
I set the note down with a sigh. I’d told my friends I wasn’t going to say anything to Mom about what just happened at Café Contigo and Callahan Park, and I meant it. But a not-small part of me is tired of feeling like my own parent. It’s not my mom’s fault, I know that. She’s doing the best she can. But I ache when I think of how I used to crawl into her lap when I was little and spill all my problems. It felt so good, getting them out.
Those were kid-sized problems, though. Broken toys and bruised knees. I wouldn’t even know where to start if I tried to explain the past six weeks of my life. Or Emma’s. Whatever’s going on with my sister, one thing is clear: she doesn’t have anyone she feels like she can confide in, either.
It sucks we can’t be that for each other.
The apartment is quiet, except the faint video game sounds coming from Owen’s room and the hum of the dishwasher. The one and only thing about our apartment that’s better than our old house is that the dishwasher actually works. We used to have to hand-wash everything before loading it into the dishwasher, which always struck my dad as funny. “It’s the world’s most expensive drying rack,” he’d complain. Every once in a while he’d try to fix it, but all of his usual handiness deserted him when it came to that dishwasher. The last time he’d tried, water ended up pouring out of a pipe in our basement closet.
“We should just get a new dishwasher,” I’d told him as I helped position plastic beach buckets on the closet floor to catch the water. I didn’t think about what things cost, back then. A new dishwasher didn’t mean much more to me than new sneakers.
“Never,” Dad said bracingly. “This dishwasher and I are locked in a battle of wills. One day, I will prevail.”
Now I realize that we couldn’t afford it. After he died we could suddenly afford everything—Mom took us to Disneyland, even though we were too old except Owen. She marched us through rides during the day, and cried into her hotel room pillow at night. We had new clothes and phones, and she got a new car so Emma and I could have hers. Everything was perfect and shiny and we didn’t want any of it, not really, so we didn’t mind when it stopped.
I kick the base of our quiet, efficient dishwasher. I hate it.
I’m not hungry, so I open the cabinet beneath the sink and conduct my new ritual: checking Mom’s alcohol supply. Last night, a lone bottle of tequila remained. Today it’s gone. It’s sort of shocking that Mom hasn’t caught on to what’s been happening with Emma, but then again, Emma has all of us well-trained to trust that she’ll always do what she’s supposed to. If I didn’t share a room with her, I wouldn’t know either. And I wouldn’t have this sick, worried feeling in my stomach every time I walk into the apartment. I never know what I’m going to find, or how to make any of it better.
This has to be the end, though, now that Emma’s gone through all of Mom’s alcohol. My introverted, straitlaced sister can’t possibly have connections for getting more. With a sigh, I shut the cabinet door and head for our room to check on her. Chances are, she’s left a mess for me to clean up again.
When I crack our door, the first thing that hits me is the sound—a low, gurgling noise. “Emma?” I ask, pushing through. “You okay?”
She’s lying on her bed, twitching. At first I think she’s breathing in mucus, like she has a terrible cold, but then it hits me—she’s choking. Her eyes are closed, her lips blue,
and as I watch in horror her entire body starts to convulse. “Emma! Emma, no!”
The word sounds like it’s being ripped out of me. I lunge forward to grab her shoulders, almost tripping over the tequila bottle on the floor, and haul her onto her side. She’s still making the gurgling sound, but now it’s mixed in with a wheezing noise. “Emma!” I shriek, hitting her back in a panic. Then her entire body contracts and a stream of vomit pours from her mouth, soaking both my shirt and her sheet.
“Phoebe?” Owen peers around the door. “What’s happening?” His mouth falls open when he sees Emma. “What…what’s wrong with her?”
Emma gags once, then flops motionless on the bed. I prop her up so her head is angled on the pillow and vomit can continue to trickle out of her slack mouth. “Get my phone. It’s on the island. Call 911. Tell them our address and that someone here has alcohol poisoning. Now,” I add, when Owen doesn’t move. He darts out of the room as I grab the edge of Emma’s sheet and try to clean out her mouth. The sour stench of vomit finally hits me, and my stomach rolls as I feel wetness seeping through the front of my T-shirt.
“How could you do this?” I whisper.
Emma’s chest is rising and falling, but slowly. Her lips are still tinged blue. I lift her hand and feel for her pulse beneath the clammy skin of her wrist. It hardly seems to move, especially in contrast to how fast mine is racing. “Owen! Don’t hang up! Bring me the phone!” I yell.
Owen returns to the bedroom, clutching my phone to his ear. “This lady says someone’s coming,” he whimpers. “Why is she poisoned?” he adds, his voice quavering as he stares at Emma’s limp figure. Her hair is hanging in her face, too close to her mouth, and I push it back. “Who poisoned her?”
“Nobody,” I grit out. Not literally, anyway. I can’t speak to whoever or whatever has been poisoning her mind these past few weeks, but I’m starting to think it’s not Derek. If Emma managed to avoid falling apart after she found out he and I slept together, surely she wouldn’t nearly kill herself over a few unanswered Instagram messages. There has to be something else going on here. I reach my hand out to my brother. “Give me the phone.”
One of Us Is Next Page 23
