Phoebe
Tuesday, July 21
I wake up with a horrifying sense of déjà vu—my head hurts, my throat is dry, my vision is hazy, and I have no idea where I am. Except this time it’s a hundred times worse, because as soon as I try to move, I can’t. It takes a few moments of confused, futile struggling to realize that I’m tied to a chair. Just like Reggie.
The thought is enough to still my movements. I start taking deep, measured breaths, trying to calm my racing heart and get my bearings. I’m in a small room with a single window covered with what looks like plywood. There’s a desk in one corner, piled high with boxes, and empty bookshelves lining the wall in front of me. The air around me is dusty and smells faintly of mildew. I don’t think this is Evie’s apartment; not only does the room look like it hasn’t been used for years, but the flooring and the crown molding around the windows and door frame are completely different.
And she’s not Evie; she’s Chelsea Alton. I keep forgetting that.
I carefully twist my hands back and forth, testing the bonds that are holding me. The time in Chelsea’s apartment is slowly coming back to me: how I tried to leave and she stopped me, the way the two of us struggled for what felt like hours until she managed to get her arm across my throat, choking me to the point that I thought I was going to die. I saw my mom’s face in my mind’s eye then, and the last thing I remember thinking was She’s already lost so much.
But not me, as it turns out. Not yet.
Chelsea could have killed me. She could easily have killed me, instead of bringing me here. And while that part’s not great—Never let them take you to a second location is the first rule of any self-defense class—it gives me enough hope that when I hear footsteps approach, I don’t fully panic. I keep taking deep breaths, slowing my pulse enough that when the door opens and Chelsea appears, I manage to rasp out “Hi.”
She shakes her head, almost like she’s amused. “Hi yourself, Phoebe.”
“What’s…what’s going on?” I ask. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t you already know?” Chelsea asks. “You’re the one who came looking for me, after all.”
“But I didn’t…I didn’t know who you were until I saw your wallpaper. I remembered that, from the night you…from the night of Nate’s party.” It’s ludicrous when I’m sitting here tied to a chair, but for some reason, I don’t want to say From the night you kidnapped me. It feels vital to be as nonconfrontational as possible. “I was coming to ask you about Sana, because Owen thought she might have put Reggie’s necklace into his backpack.”
“You found that?” Chelsea frowns. “Too bad. That was for later.”
“For later?” I echo. “You were…framing Owen?”
“I mean, it wasn’t the primary plan,” she says. “More of a side benefit.”
“But why?” I ask. “Owen’s just a kid!”
She crosses her arms. “You really don’t remember?” I stare at her, confused, until she heaves an exasperated sigh. “You weren’t the target at Nate’s party, you know. That was Vanessa. I drugged her drink, but then you grabbed it and took off. By the time I saw you again, you’d already downed the whole thing.”
Vanessa? I want to ask why—I can’t see where Vanessa fits into any of this—but there are bigger questions pressing on my brain. “So…that was you in Nate’s backyard? I wasn’t imagining things? You were there, and you told me I’d made a big mistake.”
“Well, you did,” Chelsea says, sounding irritated. “You screwed up both our nights. But I was going to help you. Take you home and deal with Vanessa another night. You passed out almost as soon as I got there, so I started tapping your cheeks, trying to wake you enough that you could walk. When you came to, you started babbling about how you couldn’t take it anymore. And you told me what Owen had done.”
Oh God, I don’t remember any of that. “What…what did I tell you?” I gulp.
“Everything,” Chelsea says, and my stomach plummets. “And listen, I get wanting Brandon Weber to pay for what he did. As a general rule—I’m good with revenge.” My blood chills as she adds, “But I’m sick to death of toxic boys doing whatever they want with no consequences. All you did with Owen was create another Brandon, and you couldn’t even see it. So, you became the target instead.” Her eyes gleam. “My practice.”
Makes perfect.
I can’t bring myself to say the words or ask about her father; I’m afraid that sharing too much of what we know could make her angry or put my friends in danger. My dry throat burns when I say, “But you…you didn’t want to hurt me, right?” It comes out like a plea, and my heart sinks when she remains stone-faced. “Or Reggie?” I add. “Bronwyn said…she said that was an accident.”
A muscle in Chelsea’s cheek jumps. “Bronwyn’s a smart girl,” she says.
“And now…” I trail off, knowing what I have to ask but afraid to go there. There’s a third person missing, and while it seems likely that he’s Chelsea’s ultimate target…what if she’s working with him? What if we have all of this wrong? Is Jake going to suddenly pop around the corner, laughing at how we’ve been running around in circles, grasping at bits and pieces of information without ever seeing the big picture?
I shudder at the thought. Despite the position I’m in, I’m not as afraid of Chelsea as I probably should be. But I would be absolutely terrified to see Jake.
I swallow hard and ask, “What happens now?”
“Chels!” Another voice booms from somewhere else in the house, startling me. It’s a guy’s voice, but not one I recognize.
Chelsea leans out through the doorway and calls, “Hang on, Gavin.” Gavin? I know that name from somewhere, but my brain is spinning too fast to place it.
“I can’t hang on,” the voice calls back. “I need you in the kitchen, now. We’ve got a situation.”
“Where are we?” I ask, suddenly petrified of being left alone. I don’t like the sound of a situation at all. “Whose house is this?”
“Mine,” Chelsea says. “I grew up here. My family still owns it. It’s been empty for years, though.” She gazes at the cobwebs lining the bookshelves and adds, “Gavin helped me bring you here before he went to work. Maybe I should’ve left you in the apartment, but…it seemed safer to have everyone in one place.”
“Everyone?” I gulp. “Who else is here?”
“Chels!” Gavin calls urgently. “Did you hear me?”
“Coming!” Chelsea calls, her eyes still fixed on me. “Phoebe, do you have any idea how difficult it’s been to act like Little Miss Perfect at Café Contigo all summer? Smiling at those Bayview assholes while you barely lifted a finger? I’m exhausted. So do us both a favor, and don’t make things any harder than they have to be. I’m out of patience.” She turns for the door and adds, “Also, my brother used to practice his drums here. The room is soundproof, so you’re only going to give yourself a sore throat if you start screaming.”
“Wait, please!” I say. Panic is starting to squeeze my lungs, making it hard to breathe. “What are you going to do next?” Chelsea doesn’t reply, and desperation turns my voice raw. “Who else is here?”
“You’ll see,” she says before stepping through the door and closing it behind her.
