I gnaw at the inside of my cheek as I draw my hair into a ponytail, the blonde strands frizzy from a restless night of sleep. I'm exhausted, what little strength I do have leaching out of me as I force myself to get dressed.
Last night's unexpected conversation cyclones through my head. The more I think about what Emma said, the more frustrated I am. Was she seriously trying to convince me that this is all in my head? That she's innocent, and Jordan's innocent, and I'm the one who's guilty?
When I make my way downstairs the house is empty, though slinking through the rooms in the daylight doesn't feel as ominous as it did in the dark.
Mom must be at her appointment. With the obvious dark circles beneath my eyes she'd know something's up, and I don't have the time or energy to pretend like things are okay. And I'm no closer to knowing how, or why, Emma disappeared. If Jordan can give me something, anything, to go on, then maybe I can share the burden with someone else. Keeping it to myself is interfering with my sleep.
I toss my soccer tote over one shoulder, and just as I'm about to head out the door, I turn on my phone and notice two texts waiting for me from Smith. I don't even try not to smile.
Smith: As long as we don't go into overtime, I should see you in about forty-five minutes.
Smith: Btw, I can't wait 😉
Neither can I, I text back, and something flutters in my stomach. No matter what's going on, or how stressed I might be, Smith has this way of breaking through the tension. But then, he always has. Just like in second grade. He was there for my first panic attack, and he's been here ever since—in one way or another.
I scroll through the rest of my alerts. Four text messages came in from an unknown number around one-thirty in the morning, less than an hour after Emma left my house.
Unknown: u awake? its jordan pacey. im outside ur house
Unknown: can we talk?
Unknown: id rather do this in person. there r some srs things u should prolly know
Unknown: its about emma
My mouth falls open and a rush of adrenaline tingles through my limbs.
Jordan tried to get a hold of me last night. Multiple times. She even came over—which can only mean one thing: something more is going on. All is not right in the world Emma's trying to create, and maybe Jordan is finally willing to talk.
My tote drops to the floor, my fingers moving over the screen even faster than usual.
Me: Hey! Sry I missed ur txts. I turn off notifs b4 bed
Me: I'm heading 2 the field rn. Can we talk b4 the game? Or we can meet up after. Ttys
The early morning is unusually prickly as I step into the hazy sunshine, an earthy scent lingering on the breeze. It whistles through the trees and lifts the hair around my face. I drive the entire way with the windows down, my sandal pressed against the gas pedal, letting the crisp air clear my head and strategize what I'm going to say to Jordan. This is too important to leave anything out.
"Morning, Hayes," Coach calls when I park at the edge of the field. Morning mist still creeps along the sod.
A flock of geese squawk in unison as they fly through low-lying clouds overhead. Fall clouds, fat and gray, weighed down with precipitation. Not everyone is here yet, but a few girls from the team are gathered in the dewy grass, stretching their muscles over personal narratives of last night's football game.
Coach cringes as I make my way closer. "You look like crap. Didn't you get any sleep?"
Leave it to Coach to tell it like it is. "Is it that obvious?" I say, downing the last of my caffeine. My eyes scour the area for Jordan's Jeep.
"I just hope you're ready for Cedar Falls. They've got a strong team this year. We need to give it our all."
"We've got a strong team, too. And we play to win." I stuff the empty can into my bag and pull out my shin guards and shoes, the sense of fearlessness I get whenever I'm on the field already taking over.
A grin stretches across her face as I kick off my sandals and slide into my cleats. "Now that's what I like to hear!"
As we begin our pre-game warm-ups, spectaculars spill from their cars and caravans, and set up folding chairs along the field. All the while I keep one eye on the parking lot. It's getting late. Even when I do see her, we won't be able to talk. What I need to know can't be discussed in these last few minutes before we start.
A voice interrupts my concentration. "Hello? Did you hear me? I asked how Emma's doing." Alyssa Allen stands next to me with a deep crease in her forehead, the brown hair framing her face rustling in the breeze. A soccer ball is pinched between her arm and hip as she watches me with curious eyes.
"Oh, sorry," I say. "She's doing okay, I guess."
"Well, I've left several messages on her cell—so have a few other people—but she never calls us back."
She stares at me like I'm responsible. Like I have something to do with Emma not returning their calls. I shrug. "Maybe she's not ready to talk to anyone yet?"
Alyssa shifts her weight, juts out her bottom lip. "But you've spoken to her, right? I mean, you are her best friend."
"Well, yeah." I wrap my arms around my middle to ward off the morning chill and try to come up with an excuse. "But I've been trying to give her some space, you know? Let her get used to being home."
She gazes across the field, bounces the ball off her knee and into her hands. "It must be weird for her, being back after what she went through. She's got to be fucked up in the head." She turns back to me, her blue eyes wide. "Does she seem like she is to you?"
"What? Fucked up?" I bite back the truth. "She just seems like she's trying to find a new normal. I'm sure she'll return your calls as soon as she's feeling up to it."
I hope this is enough to appease her, but Alyssa's not finished yet. "I heard a group of satanic mountain men took her and used her in their rituals."
"Where did you hear that?" I ask, trying not to snort.
She shrugs nonchalantly. "Just around. Has she told you anything about what happened?"
What little I do know, I'm not sharing. Telling Alyssa would be as good as announcing it to the entire student body through a megaphone. "The police are keeping things quiet. They don't want information leaking out to the public and jeopardizing their investigation. At least, that's what her parents said." I peer over her shoulder and into the parking lot, but there's still no sign of Jordan's Jeep. The game will be starting any minute.
Alyssa glances over her shoulder. "Waiting for someone?"
"Um—yeah. Smith is supposed to be here after his brother's lacrosse game."
"Oh my God, he is so ridiculously hot this year! He, like, blossomed or some shit over the summer—I mean, not that he was gross to begin with." Alyssa spins the soccer ball on one finger and gives me a knowing smirk. "Emma's going to be totally pissed when she finds out you're dating."
"Actually, she knows. I told her and she's cool with it." And according to Emma, she is.
Alyssa's lip curls as I turn away, scanning the area for Coach. But she's across the field, speaking to the referee. Their heads are bent together, their lips moving as they whisper back and forth. When she heads back in our direction, her expression is grim, her face an ashy shade of white.
"Huddle up, team. We need to talk." Coach motions us closer. Her eyes are shiny like she's fighting to hold something in. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but something happened last night." She pauses, takes a shaky breath, cups her hand on the shoulder of the girl standing next to her as though she's trying to steady herself. "Sometime after the football game, when Jordan Pacey was driving home, she took a turn too fast near Fibber's Ridge. Her car went over the guardrail."
A collective gasp rises from our group and then ... silence. I glance around at my teammates, dread twisting in my gut.
I'm familiar with Fibber's Ridge. The roads are dangerous there, with their twists and turns, the rocky foothills edged with deadly slopes. Even the most experienced drivers can miscalculate the bends and embankments. They can careen over the cliffs, their cars rolling until they end up in the lowlands below.
"Is she okay?" someone asks, but I don't pay attention to who. My eyes are glued to our instructor, waiting for her reply.
Coach hesitates before answering. "A state trooper noticed fresh tire marks in the road. It couldn't have been long after it happened. When they located her Jeep, Jordan was alive. She was air-lifted to the hospital and is in critical condition."
Shit.
I fixate on the facts: Jordan's been in an accident. On Fibber's Ridge. She's in critical condition.
It's a miracle she even survived. I can't imagine the horror she must have felt as her vehicle flipped, one end over the next, until finally thudding to a stop. The pain and fear that must have consumed her, not knowing if that breath would be the last one she'd ever take.
My eyes blink rapidly, my breaths coming out too fast. "But she's okay—right?"
Coach doesn't answer. All she does is shake her head and divert the question. "Right now, Jordan needs our prayers. I let Cedar Falls know what's going on. They're willing to reschedule the game."
As the team discusses our options, a feeling other than worry settles in my chest.
Fear.
Jordan's accident happened after she sent those texts. What if she isn't okay? What if I'm never able to talk to her again? She has something to confess about Emma—something she said I should know. What if she's never able to tell me?
The team decides to stay, but there's no way I can play, not after Coach's announcement. The girls will be better off if I'm not here. I shake my head, trying to examine these new developments, a golf ball-sized lump swelling in the center of my throat.
"Arbor?" Coach's voice echoes in my skull, thick and muted, as if it's coming from under water.
I stumble backward and bump into Alyssa. Her eyes are red and she looks like she's about to cry. "I'm sorry," I mumble, still inching toward the parking lot, but I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for.
Coach straightens her shoulders, an obvious attempt to regain control. Concern is etched in the lines of her face. "Arbor, you don't have to stay if you're not up to playing, but are you able to drive home safely?"
My hand reaches for my soccer tote as I continue to back away. "I'll be fine. I just can't do this right now." The words come out ragged, each one hoarser than the last.
I turn on my heel and tear off toward the parking lot. Coach's voice calls after me though I have no idea what she's saying.
I'm not watching where I'm going, or maybe it's the unease obstructing my view, but before I gain much distance between myself and the field, I crash into a solid mass. My gaze sweeps over the obstacle, straining to make sense of why it's here, existing in the open, in everyone's way.
It reaches for me, grips my shoulders, imprisons me in its orbit.
"Arbor? Are you okay?" It has a voice. It's soft and soothing and knows me by name. The shape sharpens, the details materializing before my eyes. Smith. He's here, at the game. He came to watch me play.
I collapse into him, my legs losing the strength to hold me up.
"What happened?" he asks, slow and uneasy.
"It's Jordan ..." I choke back a sob, unable to discern why I'm so upset. It's not like she's dead. She's alive—at least, for now. But it's more than a matter of life and death. She's the only one who knows what happened to Emma.
His fingers work through the hair along my face, firm yet gentle, a futile attempt to knead away the stress. "What happened to Jordan?"
I take in a gulp of air and fight to stabilize my voice. It doesn't work. "She was in an accident. Last night. She texted me before she ..." My voice trails off.
"Jordan got into an accident while texting you?"
"No!" I shake my head, agitation rippling through me, and try again. "She texted me but I was asleep, and then she got into an accident."
He nods, his eyes searching my face for more. Like he doesn't want to ask, but knows he has no choice. "Is she alright?"
"I don't know. She was life-flighted to the hospital."
Smith envelopes me in a hug, his arms holding me close. "She'll be fine. You'll see," he mumbles into the top of my head.
Tears roll down my cheeks, fast and furious, because I know that may not be true. "You don't understand. She has to make it. She has to!"
"And she will." His hand runs down the length of my head, over and over, as if he's petting a dog. "You shouldn't drive like this. I'll take you home."
"I can't leave my car. I have to drive to my dad's later."
"Well then, at least let me follow you," he says.
I suck in a shaky breath and nod into his chest, too many what-ifs spiraling through my head. But the same one plays over and over, like a song programmed to repeat:
What if I never learn Emma's secrets because Jordan takes them to the grave?