Truth or Dare (27 page)

Tenley’s heart leaped into her throat. Sydney was crazy. A freak. Just like Rabies Boy. Who knew what she was capable of? She looked
over her shoulder. It hit her suddenly how alone they were. No one knew Tenley was there.

Whirling around, she hurled herself through the doorway. She had to get out of there. She expected Sydney to throw something at her, or chase her out—do
something
. But as she fled into the hallway, she glanced back to see Sydney holding tightly to her desk, looking as ashen as a ghost.

She didn’t waste time thinking about it. She raced full-speed to the parking lot. She was just about to dive into her car when she noticed something tucked under one of the windshield wipers. She stopped. Her limbs went numb.

A note.

Her fingers opened it clumsily.

Still want to keep Caitlin’s little Kodak moment private? Then here’s your dare. Raise a pair of your panties--initialed of course--on Winslow’s Flagpole of Shame tomorrow morning. So we can all salute the Bitch.

Tenley threw herself into her car, hastily locking the doors. Her head was spinning wildly. Sydney would have walked right past her car on her way into her apartment. She had to be the one who’d left her this note.

But why was she
doing
this? What did she want? Tenley had heard all about the latest poling at Winslow from Facebook earlier this afternoon. Hunter was acting all proud about it, as if it was some kind of badge of honor. But she knew for her it would be anything but.

The tires on Tenley’s car screeched as she sped out of the lot. She wished so badly that she could drive straight to Caitlin’s house and tell her everything. But she couldn’t. Because then Caitlin would ask how Tenley had known to go to Sydney’s in the first place, and every road would lead right back to that awful photo, which Tenley should never have kept to begin with. She blinked away tears as she steered her car through the dark, narrow streets of the Dread. She had never felt more alone in her life.

Thursday, 6:10
AM

CAITLIN TOSSED AND TURNED, PULLING HER BLANKET
tighter around her. Sunlight was just beginning to trickle into her room, but she wasn’t ready to get up yet, to face the day. She buried her head in her pillow, willing sleep to return. And slowly, slowly, it did.

She was back in the red basement. Her legs were wobbly and her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton candy. She leaned against a wall, trying to blink away the fuzziness from behind her eyes.

A hazy figure walked into the room, wearing an oversized sweatshirt. The sweatshirt’s hood hung low, concealing the person’s face, making it impossible even to tell whether it was a man or a woman. The person shoved a tray at Caitlin. There was a bowl of oatmeal on it, and Caitlin’s whole body tensed at the sight of it. Her last bowl of oatmeal had turned the world pitch black.

“Not hungry,” she choked out. Her voice sounded foreign to her ears, hoarse and foggy and laced with exhaustion.

The hooded figure ignored her, placing the tray at Caitlin’s feet.
Caitlin’s stomach growled hungrily against her will. Her mind knew to fear that bowl, but her stomach was too empty to care.

As the person turned to walk away, Caitlin slumped down to the floor, unable to hold herself up any longer. The world spun around her, the walls wavering in and out of sight. She closed her eyes, waiting for the room to right itself. In the distance, several notes of music rang out, fluttering softly through the air. She opened her eyes a crack. She recognized that sound; it was a flute, just like she played. The flute continued to play, the notes wrapping around her like an old, familiar blanket. For a moment, Caitlin was almost calm.

But then the notes began to grow louder—and louder. They filled the basement, a crescendo of sound. “No.” Caitlin covered her ears, trying to make the noise stop. But it only grew louder. “No!” The tune was everywhere: above her, below her, beside her. Her arms flailed through the air, trying to ward it away.

Smack! Caitlin’s hand collided with something hard, and suddenly there was absolute silence.

She blinked. She was in her bed, in her room, her hand resting on the snooze button of her alarm.

It was a dream. Or, more accurately, a nightmare.

She stared at the ceiling as fragments of the nightmare rushed back to her. This one had been different from the others—clearer, the details sharper and closer, as if a camera had zoomed in on them. And there had been
sound
. Someone playing a flute. In her mind she heard the notes again. That tune… it had been eerily familiar. She reached for her desk, feeling around for the journal Dr. Filstone had asked her to keep, so she could write it all down before she forgot. Maybe her brain was finally starting to glue the shattered pieces of her memory together.

Sailor, who until now had been sleeping at her feet, leaped into the
crook of her arm, nestling close. Caitlin finished with her journal and pressed her head into him, his fur brushing against her cheek. He was warm, a little ball of heat like usual, and his even breathing—as steady as a clock—helped calm Caitlin’s nerves.

“Let’s spend all day in bed, Sailor,” Caitlin whispered. “Joint sick day. What do you say?” No sooner had the words left her lips than her alarm blasted to life. Her fifteen-minute snooze time was over. WMVR filled her room, an old Rolling Stones song finishing up as the DJ launched into News on the Ones. “The Mayor family is finally speaking out about the conclusion of their daughter’s trial,” the DJ announced. “Mrs. Mayor has called the conviction a triumph, and has said that she and her husband are able to come to peace with the loss of their daughter at last.”

With a yawn, Caitlin switched off the radio and pulled herself out of bed. Thinking about the Nicole Mayor trial was not how she wanted to start her day. Sailor looked up at her, fixing her with his round black eyes. “I know, Sailor.” She sighed. “I thought the sick day sounded good, too.” She went over to her closet, scanning the rows of clothes with bleary eyes. “But no rest for the weary. Or the campaigners.”

At least she’d showered the night before. She pulled out a pair of gray jeans and a thin, striped sweater that bloused at her hips. She was ready in a record fifteen minutes. Grabbing her phone, she headed downstairs for breakfast. She would eat anything but oatmeal, she decided. As she headed into the kitchen, she was surprised to see that she had two missed texts from Emerson. She opened the first one.
You up?
it read. It was sent at 2:43
AM
. She scrolled to the next one, which had come minutes later.
Cait??? Call me if ur up!

Sorry Em
, she texted back.
I was asleep. Everything ok?? Pick u up in 20?

Ok c u in 20
, came Emerson’s reply.

She kept thinking about Emerson’s texts as she set out Sailor’s food and poured herself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and milk. What could Emerson have needed to talk to her about at almost three in the morning? She wondered what she’d been dreaming about at that point. Something else in the red basement? The thought made a thin line of panic rise in her chest. She suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore. On the floor, Sailor nosed his way through his bowl of food, his tail wagging rapidly. Why hadn’t the person in her dream just looked up? All it would have taken was one tiny glimpse, and Caitlin could have seen a face—and known if it was Jack Hudson or not. But with that hood on, it could have been anyone.

Caitlin had just forced herself to finish her cereal when her mom strode into the kitchen. Her blond hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she was wearing a blazer and heels, which meant she was spending the day at the gallery instead of in the studio. She leaned against the fridge, smoothing out an invisible wrinkle in her skirt. “Hi, Caitlin,” she said. Caitlin tensed, knowing exactly what was coming next. Whenever her mom wanted to interrogate her during breakfast, she always leaned against the fridge instead of sitting down. “How’s the campaign going?”

Caitlin brought her bowl to the dishwasher, keeping her back to her mom. “It’s good,” she said, her voice neutral. “The cupcakes were a hit, and I’m handing out my buttons today.” She’d dragged the boxes to her car last night before bed. Five hundred buttons, all stamped with white wings that read
LET ANGEL THOMAS TAKE YOU UNDER HER WING!

“I knew the cupcakes would be a good idea,” her mom said. “You know Theresa suggested them, right? And I got an e-mail from your aunt Monica this morning, offering more of Theresa’s services. Why don’t you give Theresa a call later? Find out her strategy? She
was
student-body president both her junior and senior years of high school, after all.”

“I know,” Caitlin said, trying to act as if she hadn’t heard that fact about a thousand times before.

Both times her cousin Theresa had run for president, Caitlin’s aunt Monica had e-mailed daily updates to the entire family on the status of Theresa’s campaign.
On the Trail
was always the subject line, and the e-mails would be chock-full of such scintillating facts as:
Theresa successfully secured the debate squad vote today!
And:
Theresa is up 15% in a poll conducted by her pollster, Mary L. Chou!
When Caitlin’s mom, in all seriousness, had asked who Caitlin’s pollster was, Caitlin had lied and said Emerson, just to avoid the inevitable “but Theresa had one” lecture.

“I really think you could use her insight,” her mom continued sternly. “Have you even finished your speech yet?”

“Mostly,” Caitlin lied. Avoiding her mother’s eyes, she slammed the dishwasher shut and went into the mudroom to grab her backpack. She’d barely written two words of it so far. Unzipping her backpack, she peeked inside to make sure her pill bottle was still resting safely at the bottom. If her day continued on this track, she was going to need one of those pills by first period.

“So you’ll call Theresa?” her mom pressed, following her into the mudroom.

“I have cheerleading practice after school and then a meeting for the Fall Festival Committee,” Caitlin told her. “But yes, I’ll call Theresa after.” When it came to the long-standing competition between her mom and her aunt, it was just easier to say yes, even if it meant having to deal with her annoyingly perfect cousin.

“Good,” her mom said. She paused, and for a second she looked as
if she was going to say something else, but then Caitlin’s dad blew into the room, straightening his tie and running a comb through his hair at the same time.

“Hi, honey,” he said, bending down to kiss the top of Caitlin’s head. “Hi, honey,” he repeated, kissing Caitlin’s mom on the cheek. He grabbed a banana and headed for the door. “Bye, honey. Bye, honey,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll be at the office late tonight!”

Caitlin’s mom glanced at her watch as the door slammed shut behind him. “I’d better get going, too. I’ve got a long day of preparing for Festival crowds.” She squeezed Caitlin’s arm, which was the closest she usually came to hugging. “Don’t forget to call Theresa, okay?”

Caitlin nodded, keeping the smile pasted on her face. But as soon as she heard the car start up in the driveway, she let it slide right off. “Bye, Sailor boy,” she said, bending down to pet him good-bye. He looked up from his food long enough to lick her hand. She gave him a final pat on his head before jogging out to her car.

Emerson lived closer to town, and as Caitlin drove to her house, she could already see the Festival trucks rolling in, clogging up the streets as they brought food and booths and supplies in for Saturday. Caitlin wanted to feel excited. According to Eric Hyland, the head of Winslow’s Festival Committee, this Festival was going to be even more incredible than past ones: a true celebration of Echo Bay and its fishing-town roots. But instead of excitement, Caitlin felt the strangest sense of doom, as though nothing at all was working out the way it should. “That’s called stress,” Caitlin told herself with a sigh, pulling up in front of Emerson’s house. She glanced into her backpack as Emerson climbed into her car, checking once more to make sure her pills were still there.

“Hey, Em,” she said, looking up. When she saw Emerson, she had
to suppress a sputter of surprise. Her friend was a wreck. Her skin was blotchy and tear-stained, her eyes were red and swollen, and her hair, always so smooth and shiny, was frizzing at the crown. And to top it off, she was dressed in dark jeans and a plain black sweater, not a necklace or embellishment in sight.

“Oh my god.” She grabbed Emerson’s arm. “What’s wrong, Em? You look like you’re in mourning.”

Emerson sagged against the seat, looking miserable. “We’ve been fighting. You know, me and… him.” She buried her face in her hands. “I think he’s breaking up with me,” she burst out, her words muffled by her fingers.

“Oh, Em.” Caitlin reached over, rubbing Emerson’s back. She hated seeing her this upset, but she couldn’t help but feel a little relieved at the news. She’d never liked all the secrecy shrouding Emerson and Mystery Man’s relationship. It would be so nice to have the old Em back, the one who used to give her play-by-play reenactments of all her dates. “I’m so sorry.”

“And I lost the anklet you lent me!” Emerson wailed into her hands. “I think I left it in his truck.”

Caitlin did her best not to react. Tenley was not going to be happy when she found out the anklet was gone, but Emerson was upset enough as it was right now. “It’s fine,” she assured her. “It’s just jewelry.”

Emerson dropped her hands. Tears brimmed in her big hazel eyes. “Thanks,” she whispered.

“Listen,” Caitlin said, grabbing Emerson’s hands. “Everything’s going to be fine.” Another truck rattled past, heading toward town. Caitlin forced a smile onto her face as she gestured after it. “Starting Saturday, we have the Festival to keep us busy. We’ll spend the whole weekend together, okay?” She squeezed Emerson’s hand. “Two single
girls Festival-ing it up.
And
,” she said, remembering suddenly, “we have a party to go to Saturday night! Tenley’s planning on commemorating her win with tubs full of lemonade vodka. You’ll forget all about him in no time.”