As much as I hate to, I need to see Emma and squeeze out more information. Though judging from how things have gone so far, it won't be easy. Since she's been home, what little clues she's shared have added up to a big fat nothing.
But if I can get her talking about her disappearance maybe something will leak out? It's worth a shot, and basically the only option I have.
After dinner, I tell Mom I have a bunch of homework and lock myself in my room. Cooper's stretched out on my bed, his tail twitching as I pace back and forth, continuously checking the time on my phone. When I'm confident Mom has settled in for the night, most likely with a regency romance in her lap and a glass of wine beside her, I push open my window and lean over the pane.
Emma's bedroom light is still on.
It's now or never. I slide over the sill and creep down the roof, taking my time so I don't slip and fall. Once I'm at the ledge, I lunge toward the closest tree, and the rest is as simple as dismounting a ladder.
A swift wind blows the hair from my face the moment my feet touch the grass. With my hands curled into my sleeves, I dart across the yard and hoist myself onto the iron pergola beneath Emma's balcony, scaling the vine-covered trellis with ease. I heave myself over the wooden rail, the light penetrating Emma's sheer curtain guiding my way. But when I peer through the window, the room is empty. My shoulders deflate.
What am I supposed to do now ... snoop around her bedroom while she's missing in action? A hollowness spreads in my chest. I turn to leave and then stop.
An empty room means I can poke through her belongings and she'll never even know I was there. Besides, I'm already here and don't want this to be a wasted trip. I need to figure out what's going on before it's too late. Too late for what I don't even want to think about.
Before I chicken out, I push open the bedroom window and slide inside, closing it half-way in case I need to make a quick escape.
It looks the same as always, clothes and shoes scattered across the floor, the bedcovers half-hanging off the bed. A lot about Emma has changed, but keeping a tidy room isn't one of them.
My gaze scans the perimeter, unsure of what I'm looking for. I guess if it's something important, I'll know it when I see it, but nothing unusual catches my eye.
If I were evidence, where would I be?
I hide things I don't want my mom to see beneath the rows of folded panties in my dresser. I tiptoe to Emma's night stand and ease open the top drawer, sifting to the bottom of her silky undergarments. Snapshots of Emma and Smith are strewn across the wooden base, with occasional photos of me and Mey or some of the soccer players tossed in the mix. Cradled in the crease where the bottom meets the side is a strange looking pen.
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.
By the time Emma barges in, my heart is hammering in my throat. When she sees me, she comes to an abrupt halt, her shiny black boots cemented in place. "What the hell are you doing here?"
This sounds familiar.
Unease settles over me. "I thought we shared an open invitation?"
I'm referring to the night she snuck into my room, but the words come out sharper than I intend. When her eyes narrow, I realize it was the wrong thing to say. Painting us as enemies isn't the smart way to play this. If I'm going to get anything out of her, I need Emma on my side.
I turn to the window and close the gap, my brain grasping for an excuse. "Sorry. I would have texted first but my phone is dead."
Lie number one.
The expression on Emma's face says she doesn't believe me. "What do you want?"
My throat goes tight. "Smith is mad at me." It's the first thing that pops into my head, and it's the truth. But we both know whose fault that is. So I decide to play stupid.
Emma's jaw works back and forth, as if she's debating what to say. "Oh. What happened?"
Perfect. She's playing stupid too.
"He found something in my car, something that doesn't belong to me. I don't know how it got there."
Lie number two.
Fuck. I already blamed Emma for planting the pills. If Smith and her have spoken since it happened—and I'd be willing to bet they have—he probably told her all about it. I need to fix this and fast, not let her feel like I suspect she was a part of it.
"You didn't leave anything in my car by mistake, did you?" I fight to keep my expression neutral. "I told him it could have been yours, but after I thought about it, I realized you'd never do something like that. Drugs, I mean." I swallow and look away.
Lie number three.
Emma peeks over her shoulder before closing the bedroom door. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
She plops onto the bed and stretches out, her hands behind her head and feet crossed at the ankles. Her boots oversized like clown shoes on her too-skinny legs.
"That's what I figured, but I had to ask." I shift my weight, Emma's driver's license like a brick in my back pocket. "I leave my car unlocked. It was probably some stupid kids playing a trick or something. Sorry I wasted your time."
Lie number four.
"You're not wasting my time," she says with a growing smirk. "I'd love to hang out with my best friend. Wanna play What Am I like we used to?"
What Am I? The brain teaser game from when we were kids. We haven't played that since junior high.
"I'll go first," she says. "If you have me, you want to share me. If you share me, you haven't got me. What am I?"
When I don't respond, she rolls her eyes. "Let me guess. You'd rather talk?"
I take that as an invitation and sit on her bed. "I went to see Jordan."
Emma snuggles deeper into her pillow and closes her eyes, as if she's basking on a lounge chair next to a pool. "And how is she?"
"Fine, considering."
"Considering what?"
I can't stop my eyebrows from scrunching together. "Considering she almost died."
She waits a beat, and then, "Any word on what caused the accident?"
I don't want to endanger Jordan any more than I already have, so I choose my next words carefully. "She said it was raining, and when another car tried to pass she lost control and slammed into the guardrail. After that it gets fuzzy—which got me thinking about you."
Lie number five.
"How so?" she asks, a note of skepticism in her voice.
I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. "The day you were kidnapped, you said things got fuzzy, too. Has anything else become clear? Any details that might help your case?"
"Seriously? Not this again." She lets out an exaggerated sigh, but never once opens her eyes. "How many times do I have to tell you to let it go?"
"I'm sorry," I say, trying to sound dejected. "I just want to help."
"The police have all the help they need," she snaps, and then hesitates. "So, did they stop?"
The abrupt change of subject is like a slap to the face. "Did who stop?"
Emma clenches her jaw and the muscles contract along her neck. "Whoever ran Jordan off the road."
"You know how it is on Fibber's Ridge." I tuck one of my legs underneath me. "All those twists and turns make it difficult to see what's going on. They probably didn't realize what happened."
Lie number six.
Emma shifts onto her side and finally opens her eyes. "Did she say anything else?"
I shrug. "Like what?"
"Never mind." She pushes herself up onto her elbow and studies me. "I'd be careful around her if I were you. Jordan's not as nice as she seems, and don't even get me started on all the lies I've caught her in."
"Why would she lie about her accident?"
"I didn't say she was lying about that. I meant in general. You can never be sure if what's coming out of her mouth is the truth."
The irony in Emma's statement doesn't escape me. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was talking about herself. But I play it off with yet another lie. "It's not like Jordan and I are close or anything. I just wanted to see how she was feeling, that's all. I don't imagine we'll be speaking again any time soon."
Emma resumes her previous position, hands behind her head and feet crossed at the ankles. "I guess if that's all you wanted..." She lets the sentence die off.
She's kicking me out, which is fine. Because I can't wait to get home and take a closer look at her license, namely the picture and expiration date. Make sure it's the same one she had before she went missing.
Because if it is, Emma had it with her all along, yet she never once mentioned it to the police. As far as they know, it's still missing.
And that means it might be the evidence we need to prove she's lying.