Page 19

I feel my way overto the attic trapdoor on my hands and knees and slam my heels down on it in an attempt to kick it open, but it won’t open from the inside. The way the ladder folds up into itself and automatically latches underneath makes it impossible. My breath comes out in hot, wild bursts. It sounds like roaring in my ears. It’s too hot. I scream and bang my fists on the floor, then listen. I know at least Chase and Mila are down there.

The silence seems to stretch out for an hour, and the sound of my own panicked breathing echoes in the hollow room so loudly it creates the illusion of a chorus. I squeeze my eyes shut so a stray beam of moonlight won’t seep in through the window and illuminate a roomful of faces, quiet watchers sitting silently around me, breathing the same hot air in unison, still and patient as death. It strikes me that the chorus that isn’t there sounds louder the more I panic, and if I hold my breath, I would have proof that it’s my fear getting the best of me. But if I hold my breath and the chorus continues, what then? A quiet shuffling, dust scraping across the attic floor, a sense of sudden closeness? A rhythmic pulse of air on the back of my neck, timed to the gasping breaths? A hand on my arm, or throat, ice-cold and strong as steel, the grip of bones closing to crush? Terror washes over me as my breath freezes in my throat, and I cover my ears and scream.

There’s a sudden burst of fresh air, and I hear Chase’s voice. “Chelsea?”

I launch myself toward him and feel my way down the stairs, and he grabs my waist halfway down and helps me back into Kennedy’s room. “There’s something up there.”

He climbs the stairs cautiously, looks around, and returns. “It looks empty to me.”

“There was something. And someone slammed the door on me.”

“What were you doing up there?”

“Looking for Ryan!” I point to Mila. “You said you heard him up there.”

“I said I heard someone up there. Everyone else was accounted for.” But Ryan was accounted for too. If Kennedy is telling the truth, he wasn’t even here. Mila gives me a look. “It wasn’t a ghost.” But as she speaks, she tugs at her hair like a child clutching a security blanket, so hard it makes my skull ache.

I hand Chase the book and hold the candle up for him to see. “Someone made this into a flip-book. Look.”

He glances down at it dubiously but begins to flip the pages. As the stick-figure scene plays out before him, his face transforms, his lips going taut. When the book flips to the last page, a flash of color catches my eye and I reach for it. It’s the tarot card. The woman standing on the boat. I gaze up at the attic. Wherever he is now, Ryan was up there at one point.

Mila takes the tarot card. “What is this?”

“Nothing. One of Emily’s cards.”

“It looks a lot like Kennedy. Trust at your peril?”

But Chase ignores us, still staring at the flip-book. “This isn’t funny.”

I stuff the tarot card into my pocket. “I didn’t do this. Look at me.”

Chase raises his eyes to mine. For the first time this evening, I see actual fear in them.

“I didn’t do it.”

“For fuck’s sake, Chase, she’s not lying. She’s terrified.” Mila takes the book and flips through several times, studying it without emotion. “Five figures. One is a hangman.” She snaps it shut. “There are only four of us. Unless Ryan really is still here. But then where is he?”

“Unless it’s Emily,” I whisper. Ryan wouldn’t do this. Couldn’t.

“What’s going on?”

We snap our heads up in unison. Kennedy stands in the doorway, holding another candle.

Chase puts his arm around Mila. “Chelsea got trapped in the attic.”

He had to throw me under the bus. “I thought I heard something up there.”

Kennedy’s eyes fall on the book in Mila’s hand. “What are you reading?”

“Some old library book.” Mila hands it to Kennedy. “A ghost story.” There’s no mistaking the mocking undertone in her voice.

Kennedy flips through the pages carefully. “Lovely.” She drops the book and slams her purse down on the dresser. “I assume whoever made that masterpiece is responsible for this, too.”

Chase reaches into the purse and pulls out a handful of cards from the Truth or Dare game—blank ones. “These are templates. Someone used these to make the messed-up cards.”

Mila glances at me but doesn’t say a word. Someone with a beating heart.

“The question is, who planted them in my purse,” Kennedy demands.

Mila folds her arms over her chest. “You have unrestricted access to this house and everything in it. It would take a ridiculous amount of planning for anyone else to pull this off.”

Kennedy looks taken aback. “The only one who has the slightest reason to mess with any of us is Ryan. Emily was his sister. He blames us for her death.”

Chase shakes his head. “No. No way.”

Kennedy looks to me. “Tell them.”

I avoid Chase’s anxious gaze. “He doesn’t blame us—he just has some questions, that’s all.”

Mila groans, and Chase and Kennedy immediately start arguing.

“What is so wrong with that?” I shout above them. They quiet down. “I agree with him. Last year was messed up, but the worst part is the feeling that everything we think we know is a lie because the truth is, maybe one of us did start the fire. Maybe it wasn’t outright murder, but it didn’t just happen, either. This house did not spontaneously burst into flame, no matter how good a lawyer Mr. Hartford is. Am I really the only one who isn’t afraid to admit that? I know there are things that don’t make sense to all of us. Like why were you outside, Kennedy?”

“I don’t recall,” she says quietly.

Mila looks at her sharply. “You don’t recall taking us out on the boat?”

Kennedy sighs, frustrated. “Sure. Yes. Fine. We went on the boat. Why does it matter?”

“Everything matters,” I explode. “Why were all the doors locked? Why did Ryan come back for Mila? Why did no one come back for me? Or Emily? How did the attic door break? How did she get in there if it was broken? She climbed up, closed the door behind her, and it spontaneously broke in that precise window of time?”

The others are looking at me meaningfully, and my face flushes. I know what that look means. I was the only one in the room. I’m the only one who can answer that question. “There’s more to the story,” I say finally.

“Maybe all that’s left of the story is the end,” Chase says gently.

“No.” Kennedy pushes the Truth or Dare cards across the dresser, away from herself. “Someone is trying to make it look like I did this. It’s obviously not over.”

Mila rises. “It is for me. I am officially opting out. It doesn’t matter who’s doing this. Just why. Maybe it’s a creepy revenge game. Or maybe there really is a killer. Maybe someone decided to lure us back to the crime scene, figure out what we know, then bam. Sharp, shiny things at high velocities. I tried to stick it out for you, Chase, but I am not waiting around to find out which one of us dies first. This is not going to end well.” She spins on her heels and runs down the stairs to the front door.

Kennedy runs after her. “Wait!” The front door slams behind them.

“Mila!” Chase calls after her. He turns to me reassuringly. “She’s not going anywhere without her bags. She’s just freaked out.”

I glance up at the attic. “She’s not the only one, Chase.”

“Yeah,” he says under his breath. “You’re not kidding.”

I follow him downstairs, but as Chase joins the others outside, I stop short. The cellar door is ajar. I reach out hesitantly to close it, but pause when a flash of white at the bottom catches my eye. Another tarot card. My heart pounds against my rib cage. I should be completely alone in the house. Unless.

“Ryan?” I call out.

Silence.

I close my eyes, draw a deep breath, then open them and run, taking the steps two by two, skidding across the dusty cellar floor as I collect the card. I gaze back up to the door beginning to close, almost imperceptibly slowly, and my heart is bursting in my chest as my shoes pound against the wooden stairs, dust in my lungs, just a sliver of light, an inch of space until the door clicks shut and seals me in. I throw myself against it with a scream that comes from deep, deep within me, from a place of childhood fears and forever anger, of the unfairness of time, of one inch left and closing.

And I make it. I barrel through.

Gasping in disbelief, I gaze down at the tarot card. It’s a dark-haired girl on a starlit wooden path lined with tall trees that looks very similar to the path leading to the dock, beckoning, her long hair lifted by the wind in ribbons, her eyes glowing in the darkness. The caption reads: Queen of Wands: follow not into the dark. It looks a lot like Mila. I look out the open front door with a sinking feeling and join the others.

I follow Mila into the dark.