Emma That is Dead (FREE!)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

I pull it out for a closer look. It's shiny and black and stubbier than a normal pen, with a seam circling the center where the cap meets the base. But when I pull it apart, it's not a writing utensil at all. It's an electronic cigarette.

I've seen girls smoking these in the school bathroom, except this one has an emblem of a leaf etched into the golden tip. And not just any leaf. It's the symbol for cannabis.

Since when does Emma smoke weed? Is it a habit she picked while she was away—something Mizz Marigold introduced her to? What if Stef got her mixed up into something really bad?

And that's when I remember.

The last time I came through Emma's window, I watched her swallow a handful of pills. They came from a medicine bottle she tucked beneath her mattress. Why would she put her medicine there? Wouldn't most people store it in a cabinet, or even next to their bed?

My hand slinks alongside her covers, my eyes lingering on the closed bedroom door. Emma could walk through it at any moment. Do I really want to risk being caught?

Except, isn't this why I'm here? To find out what she's hiding?

In one quick motion, I flip the blankets back and crouch toward the floor, one hand lifting the mattress while the other roots around underneath. When my fingers collide with something solid, I pull it out.

My heart pounds in my throat.

It's a small blue bag with a zipper, the same one I caught a glimpse of before. Emma didn't seem to care that I'd seen it, but something tells me she wouldn't be happy now.

My fingers shake as I slide the zipper over the chain. When the mouth of fabric yawns open, two medicine bottles with Emma's name printed across the labels are inside. One is called Alprazolam and the other is Zolpidem. I recognize both. The first one treats anxiety and the second is for insomnia.

At one point, both were part of the cocktail Dr. Wilder prescribed for me, but I only took Zolpidem a couple of times because it made me see things that weren't there.

The bottle of Zolpidem is full, much fuller than how the pharmacy would fill them. I twist off the lid and look inside, but instead of finding the familiar white ovals, these pills are round and come in a variety of bright colors.

Just like the baggie of pills Smith pulled out of my glove box.

I lay the bag on the bed and slip a couple of pills into the front pocket of my jeans. I'm not going to take them, but I don't have time to inspect them thoroughly. Besides, this way I can show Jordan and we can research what they are. My gut tells me they're not meant for sleep, and I'll bet anything you can't even get them from a doctor. A dealer, maybe. It's no wonder Emma's lost so much weight.

In the distance, the sound of heavy footsteps clomping up the stairs makes me pause. When they reach the top, they take a sharp turn and grow louder as they head down the hall.

They're coming this way.

My pulse goes into overdrive. When I shove the medicine bottles into the bag, it falls to the floor, and something the size of a credit card topples out. I pick it up, and my blood turns to ice in my veins.

It's not a credit card at all. It's Emma's driver's license. The one she said was missing from her truck.

Footsteps stop outside the door. I stuff Emma's license into my back pocket and lift the mattress, replacing the bag where I'd found it. With the blankets repositioned, you can't even tell I've been snooping around.