Forty-five minutes later Tenley had seen what had to be every type of door in existence—rounded, rectangular, wooden, painted, metal—but not one had been purple. She took a sharp left off Ocean Drive. Her phone had remained dormant since she got in her car, and she had no interest in returning to an empty house. At least out here, she was doing something.
A few streets later she was in Matt Morgan’s neighborhood. If she couldn’t hunt down the purple door, a Matt stakeout would have to do. She parked a few blocks away from his apartment, where he wouldn’t spot her car. There was a small side street that wound to his home, and she started down it on foot. Two rows of beach shacks formed a barricade on either side of the road, trapping the icy wind between them. She clamped a hand over her knit cap to prevent it from flying away. In the summer, this alley would be overflowing with tourists taking a shortcut to the beach. But today it was empty, not a person in sight. It made the street seem strangely still, as if the whole town had drifted off to sleep.
The sound of footsteps rang out behind her. Her heart skipped a beat as she glanced over her shoulder, but no one was there. Just the wind playing tricks on her ears. Still, she picked up her pace.
She was halfway down the street when her phone beeped with a text. “About time, Em,” she muttered. She paused, digging her phone out of her purse. But the name on the screen wasn’t Emerson’s.
Blocked.
Footsteps suddenly reached her ears again. She whirled around, but once more she saw no one. Her breath came out in short, cold bursts. She started walking again, faster, as she clicked open the darer’s text.
Let your punishment begin.
Tenley’s mind collapsed in fear. Her mouth opened, but before she could scream, something slammed into her head from behind. Pain exploded through her, making spots dance in her vision. She had time for only one thought. Caught.
Then everything went black.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sunday, 11:33 AM
Emerson’s computer blurred before her eyes. This English essay was worth 30 percent of her grade, but every time she tried to muster up the brainpower to write a conclusion, other thoughts crept in. Like the fact that she’d missed last night’s party, and Marta still hadn’t called to ask why. Or the fact that her ex might be a murderous stalker. Or how all she wanted right now was to hear Josh’s voice. And did she mention that her ex might be a murderous stalker?
“We’re leaving, Emerson!” her mom called up from downstairs. Sunday was errands day in the Cunningham household. “You sure you can’t come?”
“Still working!” she yelled back. She heard the low drone of voices, then the front door slammed shut. Her parents had spent all morning pressing her about the identity of the man in the video. It hadn’t been easy to hold her ground, but she’d done it. Lying to her parents was hard enough, but it was their disappointment that cut right through her. No matter how many mistakes she’d made over the years, she’d always been able to look at her parents and see her purest self reflected in their eyes. But this morning, they’d looked at her as if she were a stranger.
Emerson dropped her forehead onto her desk. Between her parents, Matt, and her social life, her head was a minefield. And waiting for the darer wasn’t helping matters. It had been three whole days since she’d heard anything, three whole days of bated breath and jumping unnecessarily every time her phone rang. Three whole days of silence—which meant it had to be coming soon. And whatever it was, after three days, it was going to be big.
When the doorbell rang at 12:03 PM, Emerson was almost expecting it. Time became elastic, stretching and bending as she walked to the door. Everything was magnified: her breath in her ears, her footsteps on the stairs. Her mind screamed for her to flee, but her body kept moving numbly forward. Three whole days, tapering down to a single moment.
She pulled the door open. There was no one outside.
She stepped onto the porch and scanned the periphery. The yard was still, and so was the street. The only movement came from a large gust of wind. Emerson blew out a breath. She should know by now: The darer was like a shadow, quick and twisting, able to disappear into nothingness.
A soft, flapping noise drew her attention to the corner of the porch. A sheet of paper had been taped to the railing. Her mouth went dry as she walked toward it.
Typewriter font graced the top of the paper.
Go to 566 Seaview Ave and light Kyla’s breakup letter on fire. Hurry, or mommy and daddy see this.
A photo was taped underneath. It was dark and grainy, like a still taken off video surveillance. But it was clear enough. The image showed Emerson standing on an X-shaped pile of rose petals in the Bones, wearing nothing but her underwear. Her hair was mussed, and there was a frantic expression in her eyes. It made her look wild: an animal that couldn’t be tamed.
If her parents were holding on to any last remnant of the little girl they remembered, this photo would crush it. Emerson fought the urge to scream. How did the darer always manage to go straight for her jugular? Anger coursed through her as she looked back at the note.
566 Seaview Ave
Matt’s apartment.
She’d told Matt once how much her parents’ opinions meant to her. He of all people would know what this would do to her. Her mind was suddenly a hazard zone, explosions popping one after another. It made sense that Matt would want her to destroy the breakup letter Kyla had written; it was the only solid evidence linking them together. But why make her get rid of it in his apartment?
Emerson leaned against the porch railing. Of course. It was simple, really. If the deed happened at Matt’s apartment, he could be absolutely sure she followed through. And he could be the one to wipe away all signs of the crime.
It was the last bit of proof she needed. Matt was involved.
Still… there were pieces that didn’t fit. How had Matt, who used a half-broken ten-year-old computer, set up and accessed hidden surveillance in the Bones? More and more, it seemed that Matt was working with someone else—a woman who was filthy rich and tech-savvy.
Emerson crumpled the note in her fist. Her parents couldn’t see that photo. Once again, the darer had pulled her strings, and she had no choice but to obey.
She had Kyla’s letter and a pack of matches in her car before she had time to lose her nerve. She dialed Tenley’s number as she sped toward Matt’s apartment. The answering machine picked up. “Call me, Ten,” she said tersely. “I think I have proof that Matt’s involved.”
She tried Sydney next, but her voice mail picked up, too. “Syd, it’s Emerson.” Emerson took a sharp turn toward Matt’s street, eliciting a series of angry honks. “Call me as soon as you get this, okay?”
She was already pulling onto Matt’s street as she ended the call. She abandoned her car in the first parking spot she found and raced the rest of the way on foot. Fear and anticipation wormed through her in equal parts. In some ways, the waiting had almost been worse. Silence could scream louder than words. At least now, following a note, she stood a chance. The darer had to slip up only once, and the game would be theirs.
She was panting by the time she reached the beach bungalow where Matt rented the second floor. She’d brought her house key, left over from their time hooking up, but she didn’t need it. The front door was already unlocked.
Upstairs, the apartment was empty. She looked at the ceiling, but it was bare. That didn’t mean there wasn’t a camera on her somewhere. She turned in a quick circle, taking a sweep of the apartment. It looked the same as always: neat, but not exactly clean, with a thin layer of dust on top of the TV and gathering in the corners. There was an odd, sharp smell to the place, too, and it made Emerson wonder how long it had been since the apartment had been scrubbed.
Hurry, or mommy and daddy see this.
Emerson started for the kitchen sink, but it was piled high with dishes. She jogged to the bathroom instead. She could light it there, in the sink, where she could douse the flames with water before the fire had a chance to spread. She flicked a match, watching the flame leap to life.
Immediately, she could tell something was wrong. The flame should have nibbled gently at the letter, eating its way slowly through Kyla’s words. Instead, it blew up to ten times its size, consuming the page in a single bite. Within seconds the whole sink was on fire, heat pouring off the flames as they surged up and out and down, submerging the porcelain fixture in orange.
Emerson jumped away as a flame bit at her finger, leaving a red mark behind. Her legs bumped hard against the bathtub, and she grabbed onto the shower curtain to catch her balance. But instead of steadying her, her hands slipped, unable to catch a grip. She crashed onto the floor. Pain reverberated up her spine, but all she could focus on were her palms. They were wet, coated in a greasy sheen.
She scrambled back up and touched a finger to the mirror, then the wall. Everything was wet, layered in the same slimy grease. She inhaled deeply. Of course. That strange, sharp scent she’d noticed! The bathroom had been doused in gasoline.
She’d been set up.
The fire was spreading, sliding over the floor and along the walls, the air so hot it pricked at her skin. She leaped over a stray flame, throwing herself into the living room. She raced toward the front door. Behind her, the bathroom was a wall of orange, fingers of fire stretching toward the living room. Smoke swirled around her, thickening the air.