A note was tucked under the Volvo’s windshield wiper.
A cold calm descended on Emma. She stood up, moving robotically. Her mind was eerily still as she walked to the car and carefully pulled back the wiper to grab the piece of paper. She held it in her hand for
a moment, feeling the Mercers’ eyes on her. She knew without looking where it had come from, but if she didn’t open it, if she didn’t see the familiar, blocky handwriting, she could still pretend to
herself that the note could be anything. From anyone. A parking ticket, a flyer for a party, a love note. Anything but what it really was.
But she had to open it. Because the person who had left it was probably still watching.
She unfolded the note. It was on the same lined notebook paper as the other notes she’d gotten. The handwriting was rigid, the letters carved so deeply into the paper they almost tore through it in a few
spots.
Sutton didn’t do what I told her, and she paid for it. Don’t make the same mistake. Keep up the game, or Nisha won’t be the only person you care about who dies for your sake.
Her gaze shot up. She looked frantically up and down the rows of cars, trying to see who might have left it. How long had it been there? How had the murderer known so quickly that the body had been found? The
parking lot glittered serenely around her. Several rows away, two girls in aviator shades got out of a silver Miata, one sipping a Frappuccino. Then Emma glanced toward the school, and her blood ran cold.
A boy sat staring out a window, a notebook open on the desk in front of him. His lips were twisted into an ugly, knowing smirk, a look of delighted malice lighting up his eyes. He watched her hungrily, almost
eagerly, like he couldn’t wait to see what she’d do next.
It was Garrett.
Emma refused to look away. Adrenaline surged through her body, and she held Garrett’s gaze, determined not to reveal how terrified she was.
“Sutton?”
Back on the lawn, Mr. Mercer had taken a few uncertain steps toward her. Mrs. Mercer and Laurel watched her with wide eyes from the picnic table. Emma propped herself up against the side of the car.
“What is that? Are you okay?” Laurel asked, frowning. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
If only, I thought grimly.
“Flyer. For a car wash,” Emma muttered, shaking her head. “Sorry. I . . . I guess I’m kind of in shock.” She glanced again at Garrett. He had turned back to his notebook and was scribbling something
frantically. Then, without glancing at her, he lifted the notebook so she could read what he’d scrawled there.
Bitch.
Lined paper, block letters. Scrawled with a savage intensity. Her knees started to tremble. Still staring straight ahead, Garrett put the notebook back down. He didn’t look at her again—but he didn’t have
to. She knew he’d already seen everything he needed to see.
“Let’s get you all home,” Mr. Mercer said, shuffling them into his SUV. As they pulled away from the school, Emma risked a glance back toward the window, but the glare from the late-afternoon sun hid
Garrett from view.
It didn’t matter. I could picture him just as clearly as if he’d been in front of me. Garrett—sweet and affectionate Garrett, my over-eager boyfriend—had another side. An angry side. A temperamental side.
And that night in the canyon, a violent side.
9
BAD COP, BAD COP
“I’ll get it,” Emma called into the kitchen, grabbing the money that Mr. Mercer had left on the entryway table. The doorbell rang again. No one had been in the mood to cook dinner, so they had decided to
order gourmet pizza from a place called Flying Pie.
All afternoon she’d been folding and unfolding that note, staring down at the angry scrawl, thinking of the look on Garrett’s face from that window as he watched her. Nisha won’t be the only person you
care about who dies for your sake. She read the words over and over. The thought paralyzed her. Everyone, everyone was at risk now—and the killer was a step ahead of her at every turn. She couldn’t make a
move without endangering someone she loved.
Since she got home her phone had been chiming with texts, but she turned it off without even checking it. Mads and Char, Thayer, Ethan—the thought of talking to any of them made her stomach squirm.
Especially Ethan. What if the text was intercepted somehow? What if the murderer found out that Ethan knew her secret? Her very first threatening note had said Tell no one.
“Coming,” she yelled, as the deliveryman knocked. She opened the door. “Thanks for wait—” But the words died in her throat. It wasn’t the pizza guy.
It was Detective Quinlan.
He wore a badly fitting brown suit, immaculately clean and pressed, and his shoes shone like he’d just pulled them out of the box. His expression was unreadable behind the soup-strainer mustache that hung
over his upper lip. His eyes were the cold gray of granite.