Morgan only offers the smallest disappointed shake of her head, ignoring her question. You’re pathetic, her expression seems to say. As if she sees straight through Briar— past her expensive clothes, past the layers of makeup— to the damaged, ugly parts she tries so desperately to hide.
“Fine,” Morgan clips. “Keep being the deer.” Her predatory gaze rakes over Briar, putting a flush in Briar’s cheeks. “Guess that makes me the hunter.”
Before Briar can respond, Morgan spins, her boots thudding on the stairs.
“Morgan!”
Briar tears after her. A new surge of anger spikes in her chest as Morgan barges into her bedroom and beelines for her bureau— but Briar is at her heels this time.
“Stop. Stop it! Morgan, stop!” Briar bats away Morgan’s hands before wedging herself between Morgan and the dresser.
But the motion pulls them into a tangle of limbs and curves and hair, and Briar battles a traitorous warmth inside her as she registers everywhere they’re suddenly touching: the metallic studs of Morgan’s belt digging into the skin beneath her crop top; rough threads of fishnets grazing her bare thighs. She scrambles to ignore all of it.
“You want to fight dirty?” Briar hisses. “Fine. Tell me why Finn was staring at you at the carnival.”
Morgan rolls her eyes. “Didn’t we go over this? I don’t even know who—”
“You don’t know who Finn is, you’ve never heard of him, blah, blah, blah.” Briar raises her chin. “Save it. I know you’re lying.”
Morgan’s nostrils flare. “Well, you’d know a lot about lying, I suppose.”
“This isn’t about me.” But anxiety flares inside her anyway, and Briar rushes to continue before Morgan can say anything else. “My best friend vanished into thin air, and the next day, you’re living in his apartment? I saw him looking at you last night. I saw your expression when we showed up this morning. No more bullshit, Morgan. I want the truth.”
“The truth?” Morgan makes the word sound like a swear. “Like what I saw happen thirteen years ago? That kind of truth?”
A knot twists inside Briar’s stomach. Her remaining boldness plummets to the floor. “That’s . . . that’s not what I was talking about.”
“Ah, so it’s selective truth you’re after,” Morgan replies. “How convenient. Thing is, I’m not interested in hiding behind lies. I prefer unfiltered, ugly honesty. I know I can take it.” She leans in closer, strands of her dark hair skimming Briar’s bare shoulder. “Can you, Pom-Poms?”
The room suddenly feels too small, the line of conversation threatening to sew Briar’s throat shut in panic. Morgan slowly examines her as if she can tell, making Briar feel like a caged mouse in a lab.
“I didn’t think so,” Morgan says softly, and there’s something new and sad in her voice. Almost like pity. Somehow that stings worse than the heat of Morgan’s ire, and Briar scrapes for something— anything— else to say.
“I tried to be nice to you,” she blurts, cheeks reddening. “I tried to sit with you at lunch in first grade! I invited you to my family’s Christmas party that year too! You’re the one who didn’t want to be friends. Not me.”
Morgan snorts a surprised laugh. “Yeah, okay. That invitation must have gotten lost in the mail.”
Briar scowls. “It didn’t! Your sister told me you wanted nothing to do with me!”
“So what?” Morgan presses. “Even if your warped version of history is true— which it isn’ t— what are you saying? Your delicate feelings were hurt, so you decided to turn me into the world’s biggest outcast?” She scoffs. “Yeah, come to think of it, I can see exactly why someone wouldn’t want to be your friend.”
Briar’s throat burns with desperation to defend herself, and for a second, she nearly confesses to sending Morgan those bouquets after Mrs. Parker-Blake’s funeral. See? she could say. I’m not the monster you think I am. I know what it feels like to lose someone.Instead, Briar rummages for something that could cut deep, make Morgan bleed until their scars match.
“Ididn’t turn you into an outcast,” Briar seethes. “You did that all on your own. You were a bitch to everyone at school, so— surprise, surprise— you were always alone. You did weird shit our entire lives, so— shocker!— people thought you were a witch. But go ahead, blame me for everything. Easier to do that than look at yourself, right?”
Something flashes in Morgan’s eyes, and Briar’s mouth twitches.
“Dirty enough for you, Morgan?”
With an annoyed exhale, Morgan leans closer, flattening Briar’s spine against the dresser. “You,” Morgan snarls, “are the most delusional person I’ve ever met. We both know you never wanted to be my friend. You wanted to make sure I never told a soul about what really happened on the beach that day when we were kids. Isn’t that right, Pom-Poms?”
The room spins at her words, and Briar grinds her teeth so hard, her jaw might snap. But she won’t give Morgan the satisfaction of seeing her fear or the guilt that’s heavy in her stomach like lead. Instead, she summons the calmest voice she can find to reply. “I’m starting to think you don’t know my actual name.”
“Which would be the worst thing in the world for someone like you, wouldn’t it? Pretty little prom queen. High school freakin’ royalty.” Lashes narrowing, Morgan cages Briar against the bureau with a hand on either side. “But girls like you never leave towns like this one. Everyone’s eventually gonna forget who you are. It’ll be like you’re dead. Worse— like you never even existed at all.”
Briar bites the inside of her cheek, grasping for anger to replace the hurt spreading through her chest.
Like you never even existed at all.
“Is that a threat? ’Cause that’s exactly what’s happened to Finn.” Briar dares to press closer, their noses all but brushing. “You know more than you’re saying. And I won’t stop until I figure out what.”
With that, Briar wrenches away to snatch her scissors, pointing them directly in Morgan’s face. “Now back the hell off,” Briar threatens. “And get out of my house.”
If Morgan is shaken by the sight of two blades inches from her skin, she doesn’t let on.
“What are you gonna do? Burn me at the stake?” Her crimson mouth curls in a darkly bemused grin. “I dare you.” She leans in even closer, the scissors all but kissing her lashes, her whisper edged with something that’s not altogether anger. “Go ahead. Light me up, bitch.”
Briar’s face flushes, and Morgan takes a satisfied step back. A rush of cool air slips between them, replacing the blistering warmth from the press of Morgan’s curves against Briar’s.
“Seems like we’re both looking for something,” Morgan says, straightening her clothes. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll return what’s mine.”
With that, she stalks from the room, leaving Briar alone with her pounding heart and the lingering question of what Morgan was so hell-bent on finding in the first place.
A bubble of frustration swells inside her, and she hurls the scissors at her bureau before pulling out her phone and sinking to the carpet. Briar brings her knees to her chest and taps the screen until she reaches Finn’s name.
She stares at the space where his photo should be, conjuring the gray of his Berkeley sweatshirt, the glare on his rounded glasses, the lilt of his voice in the middle of the night. The way he’d always ask, What’s today’s date? As though he lost time and gravity in his sleep and needed her to anchor him back to earth.
Those late-night calls started over a year ago, right after Finn moved into his own place. The topics always wandered, as though he’d bring up anything to hear her voice. You know how people say Loch Creek was founded as a safe haven for the accused during the Salem Witch Trials? he asked her once.I think that was a cover.
But he never spoke about one thing for long, and talk of Loch Creek’s history was woven into Finn’s other abstract thoughts. Mostly, he’d just ask questions. Do you ever wonder who you’d be if you’d made different choices? Do you wish you could go back and live a day you already lived?
Do you ever feel like you lost something?
The calls stopped after graduation.
Or, more accurately, she stopped answering.
But now, Briar wishes she’d picked up every single one. She wishes she’d turned every word Finn ever breathed into ink, because there must be clues somewhere— Finn wouldn’t disappear without leaving breadcrumbs, a puzzle piece, a hint.
At that thought, Briar freezes.
There were numbers all over his window, Kai’s voice echoes in her ear. I meant to look this up; I thought it was a phone number. But it’s too many digits.
She gasps and scrolls until she finds the photo Kai sent to their group text earlier. A string of twelve numbers.
Briar fleetingly pictures Finn in AP Calculus, scratching out equations even their teacher didn’t understand. Math is cool, he once said, because numbers aren’t just numbers. They can tell stories, make predictions. Let you know exactly when and where something is going to happen. Numbers can be time. Numbers can be a place.
“Oh my god.”
Briar swipes into a search engine, fingers flying against the screen before scrambling to her feet with another gasp. She races into the hall and down the stairs, then barrels outside just as headlights flood her vision.
Kai’s car.
She runs to meet them, and before he or Astrid can speak, Briar’s breath rushes out.
“The numbers you found on Finn’s window,” she exclaims. “You’re right— it’s not a phone number. It’s coordinates.” Her heart pounds in time with her next words. “And they lead right to the mirror house at the carnival.” ...
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
