“I came to talk to you.” Hunter tugged at the Winslow T-shirt he was wearing. “I—I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, Tenley, but it has to stop.”
“Game?” The word made her blanch. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb, Tenley.” Hunter shifted from foot to foot, looking uneasy. “I don’t think I can take another minute of your flirty-girl act. I heard you loud and clear at lunch today.” He lifted his voice into a terrible imitation of her. “I can only imagine what other hookup secrets you’re hiding, Hunter Bailey.” He crossed his arms against his chest. “Were you sending the notes with Caitlin the whole time?”
“Notes?” Tenley spit out. “What are you talking about?”
“Last month.” Hunter glared at her. “The notes threatening to tell my dad I’m gay?”
Tenley’s eyes popped at that. Flirtatious, playboy Hunter was gay?
“I already figured out that Caitlin was sending them,” Hunter continued. “It had to be her; she was the only one who knew my secret. I just didn’t realize until today that you were in on it, too. Were you also the ones who set me up for the Flagpole of Shame last month? Was it all just some funny joke to you guys?”
Tenley blinked, feeling woozy. Water dripped into her eyes, but she barely noticed. One after another, pieces clicked together, like a jigsaw puzzle snapping into place. She hadn’t sent Hunter any notes, and neither had Caitlin. But she had a feeling she knew who had. She looked up, meeting Hunter’s gaze. “These notes,” she whispered. “Did they look like they were written with an old typewriter?”
Hunter gave her an exasperated look. “You know they did.”
“And when did you get the last one?” she pressed.
“About a month ago, a day or two before the Justice crash.” He gave her a pointed look. “A day or two before Caitlin died.” He grabbed Tenley’s arm again. “They ended then, and I don’t want them to start again.”
“Neither do I,” she said fiercely. She shoved his hand off her. “It wasn’t me, Hunter. And it wasn’t Caitlin, either. It was Tricia. It was this weird kind of… revenge game she was playing.”
“Tricia?” Hunter shook his head. “I don’t understand. Why would she do that? And how did she even know?”
Tenley opened and closed her mouth without saying anything. If Hunter was getting notes, too, there was no way he could be the darer. She glanced down at her text. The darer had been here—had shoved her underwater and then watched as Hunter saved her. Whoever it was could still be lurking, listening to her every word. She couldn’t risk telling Hunter the truth, not if the darer might hear her.
“She…” Her voice trembled, and she paused to steady it. If she ever needed to pull off a believable performance, it was now. “Let’s see,” she continued in her most flippant tone. “Tricia was practically obsessed with you, you took her v-card, and then you dumped her, like, two days later.” Tenley ticked the items off on her fingers, one after another. “And you don’t think maybe she got a little pissed off?” She put a hand on her hip. “Believe me, scorned girls have plenty of tricks up their sleeves. More than enough to figure out your little secret.”
Hunter rocked back on his heels, looking unsure. “So this whole time you really had no idea about… me? Caitlin never told you?”
“Not a word,” Tenley said. “And if you thought she would, you didn’t know Caitlin very well.”
“It was really Tricia?” Hunter looked stunned. “I can’t believe it.” He paused, kicking absently at the ground. “If it was her all along, then that means… that means it won’t start again.”
Tenley nodded mutely, unable to muster up a response. She could feel tears threatening to well, but she swallowed hard, fighting them. It just seemed so unfair. This new darer had left Hunter alone and had stuck to measly notes when it came to Sydney and Emerson. She was the one who’d had bottles thrown at her. She was the one who’d been nearly drowned in a hot tub. She was the one the darer wanted to see dead.
“It has to stay that way, Tenley.” A note of hysteria crept into Hunter’s voice. “You have to promise me you’ll keep this a secret. No one else can know.”
“Why not just tell? What will it change? Other than explaining why you never hit this.” She waved a hand over her body, giving him a small smile. It was strange: All of Hunter’s flirting had been a show, and all she felt was relief. He never had been the one she wanted. “Really,” Tenley continued. “Why not just be honest? It’s not like it’s the eighteen hundreds anymore.”
“Try telling my dad that.” Hunter set his jaw in a straight line. “Especially before his Senate term is up. You don’t understand. I’m supposed to be the football captain son. Not the gay son. He’d never forgive me.” He took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Please. Just promise me you won’t tell anyone.”
The desperation on his face was raw and unmasked. It was what the darer had done to her, too—to all of them: made them feel as if they had no options, no way out. “I promise.” She gave him a thin smile. “How about we go to the homecoming dance together? It will be the perfect cover.”
Hunter nodded. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. He glanced at his watch. “I have to get going. It’s our last week of practice before the homecoming game, and Coach is already going to kill me for being this late. Think you can manage not to fall into any more hot tubs?”
Tenley forced a laugh. For a minute she’d actually managed to calm her racing heart, but at the mention of the hot tub, it kicked back into overdrive. “I’ll try my best,” she said weakly.
As soon as Hunter was gone, Tenley gathered up her stuff. She had no interest in being near the hot tub for even a minute longer. But as she took off for her house, her skin suddenly prickled, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. It was a feeling she knew all too well. Someone was watching her.
She whipped around, her heart in her throat. But the yard was empty. In the woods, a breeze lifted the fallen leaves, swirling them through the air. Tenley shivered as she glimpsed behind them. There were whole acres back there, vast and rolling, enough space to mask anything—or anyone.
She was overcome by a sudden desire to sprint to her car and drive straight to the police station. But the thought left her more scared than ever. The darer had threatened her against telling anyone, especially the cops. And if this hot tub stunt had proved anything, it was that these weren’t empty threats. So instead, she broke into a jog, hurrying the rest of the way to her house. She couldn’t stand the idea of being alone, so when she got to the top of the stairs, she turned left instead of right. She stopped in front of Guinness’s bedroom.
“You in there, Guinness?” She knocked loudly on his door. When there was no answer, she tried again. “Guinness? Come on, open up!”
She twisted the handle. The door flung open easily, and she stepped inside, half expecting to find Guinness grinning up at her from his desk. But the room was empty. She flipped on the light, wrinkling her nose as she looked around. Guinness clearly hadn’t let their housekeeper, Sahara, near his room in weeks. It was a mess: clothes strewn everywhere, a graveyard of camera lenses under the window, and a whole slew of coffee mugs littering the desk, a slightly rank smell wafting out of one. A pair of boxers tangled with her feet as she took a step forward, and she quickly kicked them off.
She knew she should get out of there. Guinness would be furious if he found out she’d set foot in there without him. But her eyes had already landed on the photos scattered across his bed. There were dozens of them, and she found herself inching forward, unable to resist. Guinness had always been such a closed book, but his photos were the window to what was written on those pages.
She glanced over her shoulder, listening for footsteps. The house was quiet. She sat down gingerly on the edge of Guinness’s bed and gathered up the photos. She’d expected artsy shots of Echo Bay, or lovelorn images of Sydney, but these photos were different. They were dark and a little fuzzy, and they were all candids.
They were taken at some kind of beach party. Everyone in them was around her age, but she didn’t recognize anyone. She paused on one of the pictures. In it, a young-looking Guinness was standing with a group of guys, beers lifted in a toast. Most of them were wearing those ridiculous layered bracelets that had been in style for guys when Tenley was in middle school. “No. Way,” Tenley murmured. These had to be Guinness’s high school photos.
She shuffled eagerly through more of them. There were a lot of typical group shots—girls preening, guys brooding—but what caught Tenley’s attention were a bunch of photos toward the end of the stack, all featuring the same girl. She was beautiful in a wholesome, girl-next-door way: strawberry-blond hair, full pink lips, freckles smattered over moon-pale skin. In one image, Guinness had zoomed the camera right up to her, so close that her face filled up the whole shot as she threw back her head, laughing.