Secrets and Lies(14)

Tenley bit down on her lip. Where had she seen that girl before? She flipped to another one. In this one, the girl was leaning against her friend, her gaze distant as she stared out at the ocean. Whoever she was, Guinness clearly had had a thing for her once. She paused on one of the last pictures. In it, the girl was looking straight at the camera, a half smile on her lips. She’d definitely seen that girl before somewhere. Was her photo up in Winslow’s Hall of Fame? Or maybe she’d seen her on TV somehow? Or—

Just then, it hit her.

She had seen her on TV. Or at least her picture.

She was Kyla Kern. One of the Lost Girls.

“Oh my god,” she whispered. The photos slipped out of her grip. As they tumbled onto Guinness’s bed, something fluttered out from within the stack. It was a scrap of paper. It landed faceup on Guinness’s pillow. Tenley let out a strangled scream. Staring up at her was the darer’s trademark typewriter font.


Like a powerful photo, past mistakes can haunt us until death. Good thing yours will come soon. That’s what happens when you know too much.





CHAPTER SIX


Tuesday, 5:51 PM


Sydney pulled a photo off the darkroom’s drying rack. It was from an old roll of film, since she’d ruined her digital shots when she dropped her memory card in the sand last night. The image was a close-up of the Phantom Rock during low tide, rough-edged and coated in water, like a monster slick with sweat. She’d already developed a dozen others just like it in a desperate attempt to work off the nervous energy Tenley’s latest phone call had left coursing through her.

The darer had nearly killed Tenley. Another minute in that hot tub and Ten would have gone from Most Popular to Latest Dead Girl. Sydney shuddered. At least they could cross Hunter off their possible-darer list. According to Tenley, he’d been receiving some kind of threatening notes from Tricia, too. But Tenley already had a new suspect to replace him.

Guinness.

Tenley had been freaking out on the phone. Photos of Kyla Kern strewn across Guinness’s bed, a death-threat note, and two attacks—both near the house she shared with Guinness? In Tenley’s mind, if that didn’t scream Guinness is guilty, nothing did.

“He was getting ready to sneak that note to me,” Tenley insisted. “He was just waiting for the perfect moment. He wants us to back off. He’s obviously afraid we know too much.”

Sydney snorted at that. “We don’t know anything!” She refused to believe that Guinness, her Guinness, could be the one doing this to them.

But Tenley wouldn’t back down. “Who better to find out our secrets than someone who lives with me and dated you?” she cried. She started spouting conspiracy theories after that. The old darer was involved with Caitlin’s death, and now this new darer was trying to kill Tenley. And here Guinness was, reminiscing over Kyla—dead Kyla—with a darer’s note on his bed. “What if Guinness was involved in all of it?” Tenley burst out. “Kyla’s death, Tricia’s vendetta, the new dares, the Tenley manhunt.”

Sydney lost her patience at that. Kyla’s death was accidental. She and her friends had been out late at night on the boat float they’d made for Fall Festival when it caught on fire. The fire chief—her dad—determined that. Matt Morgan might have a lot of faults, but they didn’t keep him from being good at his job. But nothing Sydney said could change Tenley’s mind. As far as Tenley was concerned, Guinness had officially become suspect number one.

Now, as Sydney removed another photo from the drying rack, their conversation continued to torpedo through her mind. Guinness, the darer? Tenley had been so sure. But could he really do that to her?

Sydney hated the jagged pain that sliced through her chest at the thought. It wasn’t like Guinness was her boyfriend; he never really had been. It was why she’d cut things off with him in the first place. She didn’t want an almost-relationship; she wanted the whole thing. But still… He’d cared about her. Or at least she’d thought he did.

It was possible Tenley was just bitter, seeing what she wanted to see. Even though he was her new stepbrother, Tenley’d had a thing for Guinness when she first moved back to Echo Bay. She and Sydney were careful never to broach the subject now, but Sydney knew it was unlikely Tenley was fully over it. Guinness had gotten under her skin, and there was no magic switch to turn off your emotions. She knew that better than anyone.

A familiar ache began to tingle in her fingers. She moved more quickly through the darkroom, fighting it, but the urge only grew. Fire. She’d been doing so well lately, the last of the urges truly loosening their grip on her. Then the new dares started. Suddenly it was as if she were free-falling down a rabbit hole. And at the bottom was a pack of matches.

She didn’t want to become that person again, the one who let fire ravage everything that mattered to her. But that didn’t stop the urge from spreading through her body, hot and enticing, begging for a release.

Sydney took a deep breath, starting blindly at the drying rack. Every therapist she’d ever seen had told her the same thing. The best way to stop an urge was to kill it at the root. And this time she knew exactly what the root was. She grabbed her phone and opened a new text. There was only one way to dispel Tenley’s suspicions. Have apt 2 myself 2nite, she texted Guinness. Want 2 come over? Need 2 talk.

Guinness’s response came almost instantaneously. Be there in an hr.

Sydney moved quickly through the darkroom, cleaning up. She’d been hoping one of these shots would work for the RISD application’s “unique and awe-inspiring hometown image.” But that clearly wasn’t happening.

She blinked as she emerged into Winslow’s brightly lit hallways. She did an automatic scan of the corridor. Empty. Relieved, she made her way toward the exit. There was no one to follow her, at least for now.

Night had always been her favorite time to be at school, when there was actually space to breathe. It was the only time she could really appreciate the beauty of Winslow: the sweeping molding that lined the ceilings, preserved for more than a century; the redbrick starfish in the center of the auditorium floor; the carved wooden archway over the double-door entrance.

She ran a finger along a row of shiny green lockers. If she hadn’t won a scholarship to Winslow Academy in first grade, she’d be stuck at Harbor High right now, with its dented, scratched-up lockers and a mop closet instead of a darkroom. She found herself forgetting that lately. As much as she hated most of Winslow, with its Flagpole of Shame and yacht-party gossip, she couldn’t help but love this part—the elegance, the advantages. And, of course, the anonymous wealthy alumnus who’d insisted on using his donation to restore Winslow’s old darkroom, despite the digital age.

Tacked up on one of the lockers was a pink sheet of paper. Abby’s official Homecoming Nomination Memo. Sydney’s eyes went automatically to the third name on the list. She kept expecting it to vanish, replaced by a big JUST JOKING. But there it was, in the same bold font as all the others: SYDNEY MORGAN. It made no sense. Winslow’s hierarchy of popularity was written in stone, and Sydney’s place had always been at the very bottom. She was pretty sure Miss Hilbrook had a better chance of being crowned queen than she did. So how had her name ended up on the ballot?

She ran a hand through her shaggy hair as she headed out to the parking lot. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to the dance and she certainly wasn’t going to campaign. This might be someone’s idea of a joke, but she refused to play a part in it.

She’d just turned her car onto Echo Boulevard when a loud blast of horns rang out behind her. As she glanced in her rearview mirror at the convertible that had swerved onto the street, causing the commotion, a figure next to the Crooked Cat Diner caught her eye. The person was wearing a long navy coat with the hood up, obscuring his or her face. Whoever it was seemed to be staring right at her.

Up ahead, a car slowed for a pedestrian, and Sydney slammed on her brakes, just barely avoiding collision. When she checked her rearview mirror, the person was gone. Sydney squeezed the steering wheel, turning her knuckles white. Had she just imagined it? Ever since she got that text, her imagination had been out of control. Everywhere she went, she could swear she saw shadows out of the corner of her vision, leaving her skin prickling with goose bumps. At school today, she’d actually screamed when she bumped into someone in the bathroom—positive it was the darer. But it was just Principal Howard, who proceeded to ask her if she needed to see the school counselor. Humiliating.

Trying to distract herself, Sydney turned on the radio. The sound of commercials blasted through her car. She was about to change the station when a familiar name caught her attention. “Danford Academy, a preparatory school in the heart of Boston, has made this year’s ranking of top boarding schools in the country,” the ad announced. Sydney turned the volume up, suddenly interested.

A few weeks ago she’d learned that Joey Bakersfield had transferred to Danford. She felt awful when she found out he was gone. She, Tenley, and Caitlin had wrongly accused him of being the darer—of stalking them. After the night out on the Justice, when they learned the real darer was Tricia, she and Tenley went to the police and had all charges against Joey dropped, explaining that they’d been mistaken, that it had been nothing more than a childish prank by their friends, and Joey hadn’t even been involved. Sydney had hoped to talk to him and apologize in person, but he left for Danford before she could. She’d sent him two separate e-mails saying how sorry she was, but she’d never heard back.