And luckily, I have one.
I turn my phone back on and sign out of my account. I enter the password for my other. The one no one knows about: Evie Langley. Evie is an ardent Sarah Slade fan who leaves simpering messages on every one of her posts. God, I’m pathetic.
I type in “Darren Foster” and search for his profile picture.
And I find him.
My breath sticks in my throat when I see the green circle on his profile pic. Active Now. Quickly, I type a DM, afraid I will lose him again.
Darren, please. It’s Sarah Slade.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling. I wait for the three gray dots to appear, wait for him to type back or block me again. But he doesn’t answer.
I type quickly:
I need to know more about Amanda. Please. Something weird is going on, and nobody will tell me the truth.
I wait again, rocking back and forth impatiently. The blackbirds eye me silently, and my stomach twists. I type again:
Am I in danger??
I wait and wait, glancing at his icon to make sure he’s still online. Active Now. Please, Darren.Please.I bite down hard on my lip and count to one hundred, hoping that by the time I’m finished, I’ll get a response.
Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. One hundred.
I peer at the screen, not breathing. Nothing. No response at all.
I exhale finally, leaning back and closing my eyes. Then I shut the phone off, crawl under the covers, and pull them up to my chin. God, the house is quiet.
Unwillingly I stare at the forest mural again. My eyes roam over the rotting oak trees, the mottled sky, and the baby blackbirds calling out for their broken mother.
I roll over, sighing. I desperately wish I had someone to talk to. My sister and I shared a room our entire lives. Right up until I stole Joe from her. The night she found out, she threw my blankets and pillows out the window. For the first night in my life, I slept alone on the couch, aching with regret.
In the days after, I wondered if she missed me in our room. Missed the late-night conversations we’d have, propped up on our elbows, laughing in the darkness. Sometimes, if one of us couldn’t sleep, we’d tiptoe to the kitchen and raid the cupboards. We’d empty our bounty onto the bedroom carpet and play endless games of Uno. When we tired of card games, we’d sprawl out on the carpet, heads close together, munching on whatever we’d found in the kitchen.
I’d ask her what it felt like to French-kiss a boy. And she’d ask me about what book I was reading, though I know she wasn’t that interested. But she listened. My sister always listened to me.
I swipe at the tears, but they don’t stop falling. Whenever I think back to all that Lizzy mess, I just lose it. I miss my sister. I wish she’d talk to me. Wish she’d forgive me.
I see her in my mind, all teeth and tears. She says those same three words over and over again.
How could you? How could you?
And I fall asleep with them still ringing in my ears.
—
I dream I’m digging a grave. I’m in the forest, standing under a giant blackwood tree, alone and afraid. It’s dark and silent, and I can hardly see a thing. I dig and dig, not even stopping to wipe the muddy sweat from my cheek. A cockatoo lands on my shoulder with an ear-piercing scream. Its eyes are two black sockets, and I stumble back in horror, thrashing and yelling.
That’s when I see the name on the headstone: Sarah Slade.
On the wind is my sister’s voice, calling and calling,How could you? How could you?
I wake up screaming.
Chapter 18
I’m going to be sick.
