I gasp and snatch it, feeling a flurry of triumph. And that’s the game! Now I have Laurel’s prize; there is no way she can win this challenge. Mission complete.
But I don’t stop there—those bitches took my locket from me, and I want it back. Besides, if I don’t find it, they’d probably call the game a draw. So I move down the hallway with renewed energy. What I hope are fake bloodstains streak the walls, but they no longer seem so sinister. And when I hear another thump, I just shrug. Even if it is Laurel, she’s not going to win.
I enter the next room and wait for my eyes to adjust. Moth-eaten ghosts sway from the ceiling. I wave the flashlight here and there, and yet another piece of gold glints at me. My heart lifts. I run forward and grab the locket from one of the ghosts at the back. “Thanks, Casper!” I trill, clasping it. I can’t believe it. I’ve done it! I’ve won!
I fasten the locket around my neck, give the ghost a friendly pat, then back out of the room. An EXIT sign looms bright red in the distance, and I fumble toward it. But inches away from the emergency exit, I hear yet another thud. I stop, listening. Then comes a wail. I cock my head, recognizing the voice. Laurel?
“My ankle!” she cries out. I hear her breathing, shallow and quick.
I freeze, my fingers brushing against the door.
Laurel sniffles again, more desperately this time. Is she really hurt?
I wait for Mads and Char to emerge from the shadows and help her, but they don’t. I glance at the EXIT sign, then back into the darkness, everyone’s words and the guilt and anger and frustration I’ve felt in the past two days forming a thick stew in my head. Maybe I don’t want Laurel sharing my friends, but I don’t hate her. I definitely can’t leave her hurt, stranded, in a creepy, broken-down haunted house.
“Laurel?” I call out.
She answers with another cry. I pivot and backtrack, making my way toward the increasingly loud sobs. A few rooms later, I find Laurel splayed next to an open closet door, a deadfall of plastic skeleton bones spilling out beside her. She’s leaning over her ankle, massaging it vigorously.
She glances up as I approach. “What are you doing here?” she snaps.
I kneel down next to her, swallowing down all my nastiness when I notice how pale she is in the dim light. “Are you okay?”
Laurel licks her lips, wincing in pain. Then she notices the locket around my neck. A split second later, she spies her own charm bracelet on my wrist. Her face falls. “Looks like you won, huh?” she says woodenly.
“Seriously,” I say, not really caring about that right now. “What happened? Can you walk?”
“Probably,” Laurel mumbles. She sighs and shifts, trying to get to her feet. But her face pinches in pain, and she slumps back again, her shoulders shaking.
“Hey,” I say softly, gingerly placing my hand on her back. “It’s okay. If anything, it’s probably a sprained ankle or something. We’ll get you out of here. No biggie.”
Laurel looks up at me. I can’t really see her expression, but I can tell by the tear-clogged sniff that she’s really crying hard. “I don’t care about my stupid ankle!” she exclaims suddenly. “Don’t you realize, Sutton? I have no friends. The boy I love is missing, maybe dead in a ditch somewhere, and now I can’t even be in the Lying Game.” She chokes back a sob, leaning against the dusty, cracked plaster of the wall. “Everything in my life is terrible right now. So excuse me if I cry about it for a few minutes. Excuse me if I’m human.”
I shut my eyes, not wanting to see her in such pain. Once again, I hate that I’ve kept Thayer’s calls a secret. I wish I could tell Laurel what I know. Right then, watching her shoulders rack with sobs, I wish I could tell her anything that would make her feel better.
I smooth her hair back from her forehead. Then I hug her, breathing in the smell of her lilac body wash. It’s mine, actually; she pinched it from my toiletries case. “I’ve been a bitch,” I hear myself say, surprising myself.
She looks away from me, tears still shining in her eyes. “I don’t blame you,” she says hoarsely. “I’ve been a bitch, too—and a lame one at that. No wonder everyone likes you better . . . the kids at school, Mads and Char . . . Thayer.”
I flinch with surprise, wondering exactly what she’s saying. “Laurel, that’s not true,” I protest. Not anymore at least.
“Yes, it is!” Laurel cries. She scoots away from me, burying her head in her hands and crying harder. She tightens herself into a ball, arms wrapped around her legs and forehead resting on her knees. “Sometimes I don’t know why I bother at all. Everyone would probably be happier if I just disappeared, too.”