Truth or Dare

Book 1: Truth or Dare

by Jacqueline Green

Genres: YA Mysteries & Thrillers

Synopsis

When a simple round of truth or dare spins out of control, three girls find it's no longer a party game - it's do or die. It all started on a whim: The game was a way for Tenley Reed to reclaim her popularity, a chance for perfect Caitlin "Angel" Thomas to prove she's more than her Harvard application. Loner Sydney Morgan wasn't even there; she was hiding behind her camera, as usual. But when all three start receiving mysterious dares long after the party has ended, they're forced to play along - or risk exposing their darkest secrets. How far will Tenley, Caitlin, and Sydney go to keep the truth from surfacing? And who's behind this twisted game? Set against the backdrop of Echo Bay, an isolated beach town haunted by misfortune, Truth or Dare is a highly charged debut that will keep listeners in suspense from beginning to end.

Release date: May 14, 2013

Publisher: Hachette Audio

Print pages: 368

Sample

If only Sydney could follow the tide. She leaned against the pool-deck railing at the Echo Bay Golf & Country Club, watching as the ocean receded toward the horizon. Go ahead and run, it seemed to be saying. Screw it all. It was good advice, for someone who was able to take it. Unfortunately, that person wasn’t her.

“Believe me, being a lifeguard isn’t all about looking pretty in the shorts.” At the sound of her coworker Calum’s voice, Sydney glanced over her shoulder. Calum was standing a couple of feet away, talking to a girl in a black bikini. Several white-blond curls hung in his eyes, and thanks to his love affair with SPF 75, his skin looked as if it hadn’t seen a single ray of sun all summer. “The fact of the matter is,” he continued, flashing his whistle at the girl like an Olympic medal, “in a drowning scenario, I have approximately one hundred and twenty seconds to extricate the victim from the water and perform cardiopulmonary resuscitation—”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” the girl blurted out, cutting him off. Backing away, she quickly disappeared into the crowded pool deck.

Sydney laughed. Calum had been trying to score a girl at the Club all summer long—and failing with what had to be record-breaking consistency. It wasn’t that he was bad-looking. He had a swimmer’s build from all his hours spent lifeguarding, that mop of pretty blond curls, and eyes that were somewhere between brown and gold. The problem was he was clueless. He did things like calculating the odds of skin damage based on the SPF level of a girl’s suntan lotion—and then informing her about it.

Sydney knew that if he bothered to tell the girls who he was—the son of the richest man in Echo Bay, a man who had articles written about his technology company in Time magazine, a man who owned his own private island—he might have had more of a chance. At least with the tourists. But she also knew he wasn’t the type to flaunt his pedigree. And since he was working at the country club instead of lounging at it, none of the girls ever guessed.

Sydney turned her attention back to the beach. She knew she had to get back to work, but she couldn’t help but watch as, out on a sandbar, a woman focused her camera on the tall gray rock visible only during low tide.

The Phantom Rock. All summer long there had been a steady flow of tourists doing the very same thing, vying to see the spot where Nicole Mayor, one of the Lost Girls, had died six years ago.

Sydney knew that nothing fascinated people in Echo Bay more than the Lost Girls: three beautiful local girls who, over the years, had each died in the ocean during Echo Bay’s historical Fall Festival. But with the reopening of Nicole Mayor’s case as a murder trial this summer, that fascination had turned into something more like a frenzy. Suddenly everyone wanted to know everything they could about Nicole Mayor, Meryl Bauer, and Kyla Kern—the infamous Lost Girls.

“Enjoying the view?” Calum asked. Sydney spun around to see him standing behind her, his trademark lopsided smile back on his face. Sometimes it amazed Sydney how easygoing Calum was. Everyone in town knew his family’s history. His older sister, Meryl, was the first Lost Girl—drowning when Calum was in second grade. Four years later, his mom committed suicide, in practically the same spot. It made Sydney wonder if that was why he’d become a lifeguard: his way of fighting back. Not that she’d ever ask him. The one and only time she’d broached the subject of his family, he’d made it clear he had zero interest in dredging up the past. And that she understood.

“Just taking a break,” Sydney said. She pulled her long, dark hair into a loose bun, shaking her shaggy bangs out of her eyes.

“Sorry to interrupt, but…” Calum lifted his arms, which had a massive pile of rose garlands draped over them. “Looks like everything’s coming up roses.”

Sydney groaned. “No way.” Echo Bay Golf & Country Club was hosting its annual Labor Day weekend gala that night, and Sydney had already spent the whole day on decorating duty.

“Don’t shoot the messenger. Tony brought these out for us to drape along the edges of the tables. Prudently, of course,” Calum added, lowering his voice in a spot-on imitation of Tony, their creep of a boss. “He then went on to explain that prudently means wisely, or sensibly.”

Sydney laughed. “Because clearly the term is outside the scope of our limited vocabulary.” The opening notes to a Katy Perry song blasted from the speakers, and several girls—Sydney recognized them as sophomores from school—squealed loudly, jumping up from their lounge chairs to dance.

Trying to ignore the ear-splitting strains of pop music, Sydney walked up to the nearest table and began draping the garland around its edge. Two girls lounging nearby glanced up from their magazines, shooting her disdainful looks. She could tell right away they were vacationers. Like all the Boston girls who spent their summers in the beachside fishing town of Echo Bay, Sydney knew that their bikinis probably cost more than her car. Luckily, as of Monday they would all be gone: a mass exodus trickling out in their Mercedes/Lexus/BMWs, back to their real homes and real lives. Sometimes Sydney wondered what that would be like—to cast your life off like a second skin and just disappear.

“So what do you think?” Calum followed her, helping her arrange the unruly garlands. “Skinny-dip tonight?”

Sydney rolled her eyes. “You wish.” Her khaki shorts slid down on her skinny hips, and she automatically tugged them back up.

Calum raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “But seriously, you want to go for a swim after work?”

Even Sydney had to admit the pool looked tempting: Its water was a sparkling robin’s egg blue and a waterfall rushed soothingly over a small rock cave. But it wasn’t meant for her. Nothing here was. “I’d rather choke on a lobster claw,” she said, smiling innocently.

Calum made an exasperated noise. “You need to learn to have some fun, Sydney Morgan.” He backed away, aiming his finger at her chest. A man whose shoulders were the same color as his Red Sox hat sidestepped him to avoid collision. “You just wait. One day soon I’ll have you cannonballing into that pool.”

Sydney couldn’t help but laugh. “Don’t hold your breath.” Moving on to another table, she glanced at her watch. If she hurried, she realized, she could still make it home in time to use the kitchen for a couple of hours before her mom got back from work. The kitchen was the only room in their tiny apartment that worked for developing her photos. Swap a red lightbulb in for the regular one, stick some cardboard in the tiny window, add a few developing bins, and voilà: insta-darkroom.

Sydney knew she was one of the last people on the planet who still shot nondigital photos. But she loved the process of developing. When she first started, it had reminded her of chasing butterflies with her dad: how she’d swing her net down with all her might, then hold her breath as she lifted it up to find out what she’d trapped underneath. Sometimes she’d hold her breath in the darkroom, too, until—whoosh—the photos burst to life in front of her, a shower of light and shadow, black and white. No computer could match that.

It helped that Winslow Academy had a state-of-the-art darkroom, donated by an alumnus who believed students should learn about all types of photography. It was probably the only time Sydney had ever agreed with one of Winslow’s wealthy, pompous alumni. Sydney had tried something new with her latest roll of film, something a little riskier, and she was dying to see how it had turned out. Her photos hadn’t been bad lately, but not bad wasn’t going to get her into the Rhode Island School of Design. She needed amazing.

“He said he wants to pamper me. I was like, pamper away, honey.” At the sound of Emerson Cunningham’s voice, Sydney tensed up. Emerson sauntered out of the Club’s spa, a small towel wrapped around her hair and an even smaller one wrapped around her torso. Marta Lazarus was with her in a skimpy sarong, her red hair loose and wavy down her back. Sydney ducked behind an umbrella. She was in no mood to deal with either of them.

Emerson pulled the towel off her head, letting her glossy black hair tumble over her shoulders. As she scouted the deck area for empty chairs, she let her other towel fall away, too, revealing a yellow bikini that looked annoyingly good against her dark skin. Emerson was one of those infuriating people who were just genetically blessed. Her mom had been one of the first African American models to ever reach supermodel status, and Emerson had inherited her long legs and toffee-colored skin—along with her blond dad’s hazel eyes. The combination was gorgeous, and Emerson obviously knew it. “I just can’t get over how different he is from Ratner,” Emerson went on. “Remind me again why I ever dated a high school boy?”

“Because those were the only boys you knew?” Marta offered.

Emerson smiled smugly. “Not anymore.” She pointed at two empty chairs, positioned right in the sun. “Perfect.”

“Uh, except for him.” Marta made a face in the direction of a third lounge chair nearby, where Joey Bakersfield was sitting. He’d been there for hours, hunched over the green notebook he was always doodling in, his long, sandy-colored hair falling across his face like a veil. Earlier, Sydney had heard one of the cocktail waitresses ask if he wanted to order anything, but like usual with Joey, she’d been met with total silence.

“Leave that to me.” Strolling over to the lounge chair, Emerson stopped short in front of him and cleared her throat. Joey looked up in surprise but, of course, he said nothing. Emerson leaned over him, her face tilting toward his. For a second it almost looked like she was going to kiss him, and his eyes widened slightly. But then she paused, and even from where Sydney was standing, she could hear it: “You’re in a No-Rabies Zone, Bakersfield.” It was something people had been saying to Joey forever—an allusion to the old rumor that he’d had rabies as a child. Emerson straightened back up, making a shooing gesture with her hand.

Sydney turned away. She’d seen enough of Emerson and her games this summer. At school, with its back rows to sit in and darkroom to escape to, it was easy to avoid girls like Emerson. But here at the Club, it was Sydney’s job to be around her. And she was sick of it. She just wanted to finish draping these stupid garlands and get home to her roll of film. She couldn’t wait to spool the negatives and let the images spill out around her. Sydney and Calum had made their way through most of the tables on the deck when her phone dinged. 1 new message, the screen blinked when she extracted it from her pocket. She thumbed in her password, wondering if her mom had gotten stuck covering yet another overnight shift. One of the other nurses in her ward was out on maternity leave, which meant her mom was pulling double duty. Sydney hated the bags that were starting to bloom under her eyes, so dark they could almost pass for bruises.

But it wasn’t her mom who had texted her. It was Guinness.

Her heart rate went from 60 to 120 in one second flat.

“Be right back,” she mumbled to Calum. Slipping out of her flip-flops, she took off for the beach. She wanted to read the text in private.

“Where’s the fire?” Calum called out behind her. She ignored him, but his words only made her heart race faster. Jogging down the stairs to the beach, she wrangled her way past the families lining up for umbrella rentals. There were kids playing and parents yelling and down by Cabin Crab, someone calling out order numbers, but she barely heard any of it. She dropped down in the sand, tucking her legs beneath her.

Guinness had finally texted her. She wanted so badly to be angry with him. To forget him, to swear him off. She should probably delete his text without reading it.

But instead, she took a deep breath and clicked it open.

Hey Blue, long time no chat. I’m in town. Looks like for a while. When can I see you?

Sydney couldn’t help but smile at Guinness’s old nickname for her. Blue. He used to call her that all the time, because of the turquoise-blue eyes he thought made her so photogenic. She read his text again, and then a third time. Her face felt hot. Considering his radio silence since she sent him her last batch of photos a month ago, she’d been sure he’d moved on. Found someone else, maybe, someone older and more talented.

But now he wanted to see her. And he was around for “a while.” That had to mean he was at his dad’s summerhouse. She felt a sudden urge to ditch the Club and drive straight there, but she forced the idea out of her head. Things had changed. She couldn’t just run back into his arms as if nothing had happened.

“Hey, Syd! A little help?”

Sydney looked up. Calum was leaning over the pool-deck railing thirty feet away from her, waving energetically.

Sydney hauled herself to her feet, slapping the sand off her palms on the back of her shorts. “Coming,” she called back. But she couldn’t resist reading over Guinness’s text one more time, especially that last part: When can I see you?

“I finished up the garlands, but Tony wants us to do a final sweep of the deck before we clock out,” Calum said as Sydney jogged up the stairs. He held up an empty trash bag. “You sweep, I’ll bag?”

“Yeah, sure.” Sydney automatically took the broom Calum handed her. On the other side of the pool, she saw Emerson and Marta laughing extra-loudly, begging for attention, but for once she couldn’t care less. She wondered how long she should wait to text Guinness back. A couple of minutes? An hour? Longer? She decided to go with two hours. He always made her wait for his responses, after all. Sometimes for months.

“So, you going to the party tonight?” Calum asked, pulling her out of her thoughts.

She looked up, surprised. Calum had gone away to boarding school in seventh grade, and ever since he’d switched back to Winslow Academy last year, he hadn’t exactly been the life of the Echo Bay social scene. Not that she was either. “Party?”

“Yeah, haven’t you heard? Tenley Greer’s back in town. Remember her? She’s throwing some huge end-of-summer bash.”

“Nah,” she said, carelessly shoving the broom toward the back of the deck. Her stomach flipped; maybe she would even see Guinness tonight. Or would that be giving in too easily? “I’ve got better stuff to do.”

Tenley had been in Sydney’s grade at Winslow Academy until she’d moved away in eighth grade. Sydney had never understood everyone’s obsession with her. As far as she remembered, Tenley had been just like Emerson and Marta: a pretty, rich girl who thought employee was another word for loser.

But every girl at Winslow had acted like Tenley was the second coming or something—vying desperately for invites to her ridiculous games of truth or dare. Sydney had witnessed one of those games down on the beach once. From where she’d been standing, it had looked anything but fun.

Sydney pushed her bangs out of her eyes. Thinking about the girls at school always made her wish she’d never won that scholarship to Winslow back in second grade. But she had, and her mom would never let her give it up. Besides, she knew there wasn’t a public school on the planet with a darkroom like Winslow’s.

“Well, I plan on going,” Calum continued. “Apparently all the lifeguards are invited.” He grabbed his whistle off his chest and gave it a big, fat kiss. “I knew this baby would come through for me one day!”

“Mmm,” Sydney murmured, rounding the edge of the deck. Her thoughts were already zooming back to Guinness. He was so different from the guys at her school. And it wasn’t just his age, either. It was how he held himself, too, and the things he cared about. She was pretty sure he’d never watched a game of football in his life. Maybe she could text him back after an hour, actually. One hour was plenty to make him wait, right?

“Uh, Syd? I think you might need this.” Calum bent down, pulling something she’d just swept into the trash bag back out. It was a flip-flop. She looked closer. It was one of her flip-flops. She’d forgotten to put them back on after running down to the beach. Calum arched his eyebrows at her. “You sure everything’s okay?”

Guinness’s words rang through her mind. When can I see you? It wasn’t like she was rushing off to meet him, she told herself. She was just texting him back.

“Syd?” Calum’s dark brown eyes were filled with concern.

“Everything’s fine,” she promised, offering him a smile.

And it was.

Guinness was in town, and he wanted to see her.

“I’d say a five,” Caitlin decided, fidgeting a little on the couch. This was something they’d been doing for years in her therapy sessions—rating her nightmares on the Richter scale. One was a blip on the nighttime radar; ten was earth-shattering.

“A five.” Dr. Filstone tightened her sleek auburn ponytail, looking thoughtfully at Caitlin through black-rimmed glasses. “That’s an improvement, Caitlin.”

Caitlin gave her a weak smile. The truth was, last night’s nightmare had been more like a nine. She was alone in that awful red basement, and she knew there was something important behind her, something she had to see. But when she tried to turn, hundreds of hands shot out from the wall, reaching for her. They smothered her face and covered her eyes and wrestled her to the ground, until all she could see was blackness.

She knew if she confessed any of that to Dr. Filstone, though, she’d be forced to talk about the kidnapping yet again. Her nightmare last night was the same one she’d been having forever, the one that took place in the basement where she’d been held. Just the thought of having to revisit the whole thing made slivers of pain prick behind Caitlin’s eyes. When she was first sent to therapy at the end of sixth grade, her kidnapping—and her resulting nightmares—were all they’d talked about. But more than five years had passed since she was kidnapped.

“… Caitlin?”

Caitlin’s head snapped up. “Sorry, what?”

“I asked how you felt about going back to school on Tuesday.” Dr. Filstone rested her chin on her hand in the talk-to-me gesture Caitlin knew so well.

“I’m a little anxious about it,” Caitlin admitted. She looked out the window at the long, gallery-lined road known as Art Walk. If she strained her eyes, she could just make out the green awning of Seaborne, the gallery her mom owned. “I used to love the first day of school,” she said. “I just know it’s going to be a crazy year. Between my APs and college applications and running for student-body president, I feel like something’s going to have to give—and right now sleep seems like the only good option.” Especially, she added silently, if these nightmares keep up. Dr. Filstone gave her an encouraging nod.

“On top of that,” Caitlin continued, “I told Emerson I’d try out for cheer squad, and I want to keep up my hours at the animal shelter because supposedly Harvard likes community service on applications, and somehow I got roped into signing up for the Fall Festival Committee, which means I’m going to be working on that all next week, too. Oh, and did I tell you that Abby Wilkins decided to run against me for president? Miss Purity Club Founder herself.”

Now that she’d started talking, she couldn’t seem to stop. “Emerson says I have nothing to worry about, but I don’t know.… People might not like Abby, but they respect her. They look at her and they see… Hillary Clinton. And if you had a choice, isn’t that who you’d want working with your principal?” Caitlin leaned back against the couch, pain stampeding across her temples. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate her looks—her light blond hair and willowy frame and big green eyes—but sometimes she worried they kept people from taking her seriously.

Dr. Filstone made a sympathetic noise. “Do your breathing,” she urged. Caitlin closed her eyes, counting to ten as she breathed in and out, in and out. She felt the pain in her temples begin to recede, just a little. “Would you like to try hypnosis again?” Dr. Filstone asked gently. “It might help you relax.…”

Caitlin nodded. When Dr. Filstone had first brought up hypnosis, a month ago, she had balked at the idea, imagining swinging pendulums and sleepwalking drones. But after Dr. Filstone explained that hypnosis just put people in an extremely relaxed state, Caitlin had agreed. She’d been so stressed all summer, and the promise of relief, however temporary, had been too tempting to refuse.

And Dr. Filstone had been right. With her eyes closed and Dr. Filstone’s lulling voice taking her down, down, down in an elevator, she’d felt amazing. It was as if all the worries and fears and nerves that had been jamming her up for so long were suddenly nothing but bubbles, light enough to float right out of her.

As Dr. Filstone began talking her through the mental exercise, Caitlin quickly succumbed to her voice. Slowly, she could feel the knots working their way out of her neck, the pressure lessening in her head. “The elevator opens and places you in your private garden,” Dr. Filstone said, her voice low and soothing. “Step out and feel the sun on your shoulders, the flowers tickling your ankles.”

Caitlin felt her worries float away from her, dissipating into the blue sky. Somewhere far back in her consciousness, she knew she wasn’t really here; she knew she was on a couch in her therapist’s office. But as she walked into the garden, leaving the elevator behind, the knowledge receded, too. She was in her garden now. Nothing else mattered.

She breathed in deeply, feeling every last muscle in her body relax. Slowly, her eyelids floated shut. But instead of drifting off, she suddenly tensed. Out of nowhere, something in the air had shifted.

Her eyes flew open. She was no longer in the garden, but in a basement. The basement. Her heart began to pound. The room looked exactly the way it did in her nightmares: red walls, red carpet, red curtains. The color of blood.

But somehow she knew: This was real. Not planted in her head like the garden, not haunting her sleep like the nightmare, but a memory—digging its way out. And just like in her nightmare, she was sure there was something behind her. Something she had to see.

Slowly, she turned around. This time, no hands reached out for her; no fingers sealed her eyes shut. Instead, she found herself facing a wooden bookshelf. A toy train on the middle shelf caught her eye. It was made of painted steel, and was clearly meant to be some kind of circus train. Each car was carrying a different animal: perfectly sculpted steel tigers and lions and elephants. She reached out. Her fingers closed on cold metal.…

“Caitlin?” Dr. Filstone’s voice reached her from a distance. Caitlin pulled away from the lion car. “Caitlin? It’s time to come back now.”

On command, Caitlin blinked. Slowly, the world came back into focus. The big walnut desk. The diplomas hanging in their gilded frames. Dr. Filstone in her leather rolling chair. Caitlin sucked in a breath. That train… it was so familiar.

“How was it?” Dr. Filstone asked. “Were you able to fully let go?”

Caitlin felt a tremor run through her. She’d let go, all right. But what exactly had she seen? Could it have been some kind of repressed or lost memory? Her time in that basement was nothing if not lost—blanketed in a thick haze, thanks to the drugs her kidnapper had slipped her. But maybe Dr. Filstone’s hypnosis had cleared away some of that fog.

The thought made the hair on her arms stand up. She wasn’t so sure she wanted to remember. “Not this time,” she lied, her voice wavering slightly.

Dr. Filstone watched her narrowly for a second, then jotted a few notes down on a pad. “Well, we can try again next time if you want,” she told Caitlin. “But for now”—she tapped the small clock sitting on her desk—“it looks like our time is just about up.” She watched Caitlin for another second. “Are you keeping a dream journal as we discussed?”

Caitlin nodded and stood up. “I am.”

“Good.” Dr. Filstone made another note in her pad. “All right, I’ll see you next week, Caitlin.”

Caitlin gave Dr. Filstone a shaky wave before heading out of the office.

She couldn’t stop rehashing what she’d seen during hypnosis. Was it a memory? She thought of that painted steel train. She’d seen it before somewhere. She was positive. But where?

It was what the kidnapping had done to her memory: filled it up with craters so deep she could never reach the bottom. Dr. Filstone called it repression. But to Caitlin it felt more like an invasion, as if somewhere deep inside her brain, a meteorite had crashed. She blew out a frustrated breath.

She wanted to believe what the cops had told her: that there were no loose ends in the case, that it had been tied up long ago. After she’d been safely returned home, the cops found the DNA of a man named Jack Hudson on her jacket, which had surfaced at the beach. It was just the proof they’d needed, and they’d immediately arrested Jack.

But something about it had felt wrong to her, off. When she’d told her parents that, they’d gently explained that she was just experiencing post-traumatic stress. So she’d dropped it.

Then, right before the trial, Jack had killed himself—hanged himself from the rafters of his house. He’d left a note behind, with only five short words on it. I can’t be this man. An admission of guilt, according to the cops. As was his suicide, many said. Innocent men didn’t kill themselves. The case was closed.

But sometimes, when Caitlin had one of her nightmares, she got the strangest feeling that they were trying to show her something, tell her something. And more and more, she feared that it was about Jack Hudson.

As she crossed through the waiting room, Caitlin was so lost in her thoughts that she almost walked straight into Delancey Crane. Delancey’s huge blue eyes widened at the sight of her. “I’m so sorry, Caitlin,” she gushed, breaking into an eager smile. In a conservative green dress, a matching headband taming her dark, bushy curls, Delancey looked more like she was going to church than to therapy.

Caitlin tried not to wince. Of all the people to randomly run into at Dr. Filstone’s office, Abby Wilkins’s Purity Club cofounder would not have been her first choice. “Don’t worry about it,” Caitlin said. Delancey wasn’t exactly her favorite person—especially the way she was constantly flaunting her gold promise ring like it was a decree of purity—but Caitlin plastered a friendly smile on her face, pretending to be happy to see her. “I didn’t know you saw Dr. Filstone.”

Delancey shrugged. “My mom has decided that therapy is the only way to self-actualization,” she explained. “So here I am. Actualizing.”

Caitlin forced out a laugh. “Sounds like my parents,” she lied. “Well, I’d better run,” she said, giving Delancey a friendly squeeze on the arm. “See you Tuesday?”

“I’ll see you tonight,” Delancey corrected. “You’ll be at Tenley’s, right?”

“Of course,” Caitlin replied with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. She couldn’t believe she’d almost forgotten about Tenley’s party. Tenley had been texting her about it nonstop since she got back into town two days ago. She was calling it the jailbreak party: With practically all the parents in town busy at the Club’s gala, everyone who mattered would be able to break out and join the fun. “See you there.”

Delancey nodded eagerly, and Caitlin gave her a friendly wave before heading out to the parking lot. But even after she stepped into the sunshine, she couldn’t get that hypnosis session out of her mind. She didn’t even know if the flashback, or hallucination, or whatever it was, was real. Maybe it was all just the work of an overactive imagination.

That had to be it, she decided as she reached her blue VW convertible.

She’d just started her car when her phone buzzed with a text. Mani pedis b4 the party? Tenley had written. @ Nifty like old times??

Caitlin’s heart gave a little thump. Before Tenley moved away, they had gone to Nifty Nail Salon almost every week. It was a crappy salon in the next town over, with a flickering neon sign and chairs that shook instead of massaged. But it was theirs. For a wild second she thought about saying yes. Just skipping out on cheerleading tryouts and driving straight to Nifty to let the smell of old nail polish and overly perfumed oils chase everything out of her mind. But she knew she could never let Emerson down like that.

Her temples screamed out in pain, and she reached up automatically to rub them.

I wish, she wrote back. But got cheer tryouts. Give me an A.…

She gunned the engine and pulled onto Art Walk, making her way slowly through the crowded downtown area. There was a quicker way to get to school, but it meant crossing through Dreadmore Cliffs, or the Dread, as everyone called it, and Caitlin tried to do that as little as possible. There was something about the Dread that made her nervous. Its closely packed apartment buildings, maybe, or the thin layer of rust that seemed to settle over everythi