When I'm back in my room, I pull Emma's license from my pocket and sink onto my mattress, turning the laminated card over in my hands. Cooper molds himself to the small of my back as I study every detail.
It's definitely hers. The picture and expiration date are exactly as they should be.
So why did she tell the police it was missing?
I need to give Jordan an update and let her know what I found. But when I reach for the phone, my stomach takes an unexpected dip.
No new notifications.
In the back of my head, I hoped Smith would call to clear things up between us, but I guess he's not ready to talk. Apparently Mey's given up on me, too. After I avoided her all day, who can blame her? She's giving me space, which is exactly what I wanted. So why does it make me feel like shit?
I push down the disappointment, take a calming breath, and pull Jordan's number up on the screen. It rings three times before going to voicemail.
Shit.
It's just after eight. By the time I left the hospital, her eyes had drooped into slits. She must be sleeping. She did just get out of a coma after all, and we learned in health class that our bodies repair themselves while we sleep.
Jordan needs all the sleep she can get. If our visit taught me anything, it's that she has a long way to go before she's back on her feet. In the meantime, I should try to get some rest myself. If I'm going to expose Emma, I'll need to keep my wits about me.
I kick off my boots and head downstairs, Cooper batting at my heels as I bounce down the steps. Mom is still snuggled under a blanket with her book. When she glances up, her sleek black readers are perched on the end of her nose. "How's the homework going?"
"It's done." I stretch my arms over my head and yawn, some of the tension leaching from my muscles. "And that means it's time for bed."
Her dark eyes flick toward the clock. "But it's not even eight-thirty."
"I haven't been sleeping well," I say as I continue toward the kitchen. "I'm going to take Benadryl with my medicine. Maybe that will help."
"Don't take more than one. I don't want you to overdo it."
"I know, I know." I feel her eyes on me as I disappear around the corner, knowing full well I'm going to take two.
Outside, heavy clouds cover the moon and an eerie darkness stretches across the lawn. Tree branches claw at the side of the house and I can already make out drops of rain clinging to the windows. I reach into the cabinet and pull out my bedtime medications, but when I pop off the first lid, I'm surprised to see there's only one left.
How had I not noticed that before? I always order ahead of time to avoid running out. The last thing I want is to be left empty-handed.
"If I call the pharmacy, can you pick up my prescriptions on your way home tomorrow?" I call into the living room.
Mom's voice ricochets back. "If you send a text to remind me."
I swallow down the pills with a glass of water and hug Mom goodnight before heading upstairs. But while I'm changing into my pajamas, I can't stop thinking about what I found.
An uneasy sensation needles the back of my neck. If Jordan were awake, I'd be able to tell her about the drugs and driver's license in Emma's bedroom. Instead, the information gnaws at me, the pressure of it all building inside my head.
We finally have the proof we need to prove Emma's lying. When we take what we have to the authorities, they'll figure out the truth, and then maybe they'll force her parents to get her the help she needs.
Something is seriously wrong with her. Emma may not need counseling for her alleged kidnapping, but she certainly needs it for taking drugs and being a pathological liar—among other things.
She tried to kill Jordan. No matter what she's trying to hide, it doesn't justify ending someone's life. That's psychotic.
Now that I know what kind of person she is, it's hard to believe I considered her my best friend. How could I have misinterpreted her so terribly?
As I brush my hair in the bathroom, my arms grow heavy, my thoughts sluggish as if they're trudging through mud. When my reflection doubles in the mirror, I know it's time for bed. I'm more exhausted than I realized.
By the time I crawl under the blankets, I can feel the blood flowing through my veins, and there's an odd pulsing near my temple that won't go away. I massage it with my fingers until the steady rhythm of rain against the rooftop lulls me to sleep.
But I don't stay asleep. I'm not sure how long I'm lying there before a chill crawls over my skin and a frigid gust squeals around the window pane. I turn away from the draft and bring the covers to my chin, try to sink back into the dreamless haze, but something makes my muscles tense.
I open my eyes, rub them. Sit up in bed. Slivers of moonlight throw shadows across the walls, and the air is charged with a peculiar electricity. As I peer into the dark, the tiny hairs along my arms stand at attention. Nothing but blackness stares back at me.
This is ridiculous. I'm letting my imagination get the best of me. But when I try to lay back down, a sudden movement across the room hitches my breath.
"Is someone there?" The words are muddled in my ears, as if my tongue is swollen and they have to squeeze around it.
Silence.
Something's not right. The warning thrums through every fiber in my body and flits up to my brain, but my limbs are too slow to respond. Emma's face suddenly emerges from the shadows, her hollow eyes and cunning smirk consuming my field of vision.
The room takes a spin as I fight to stay focused. I sway in bed, catch myself before falling backward. Fixate on the unsteady monster in front of me. "What are you doing—?"
Emma stops me, holds a finger to my lips, her disembodied head surrounded by an inky black fog.
The mattress dips under an invisible weight. "Long time no see, Hayes. I'm sorry it has to be this way, but you did it to yourself. And I'm not letting you ruin things for me."
Her voice is as gentle as a mother lulling her baby to sleep and my eyes grow heavier. Emma's smile catches in a fragment of moonlight. Her finger trails from my lips, down my chin, and to my chest, before curling in a lock of my hair. When she gives it a tug, my head plunges forward then bucks back.
An amused chuckle fills the space between us. "This could have turned out so differently. But you haven't made things easy for me, have you?"
When I try to ask what she means, a strangled noise is all that escapes my lips.
Emma looms closer, and a force I can't fight guides me back to the silk-covered pillow. With long sweeping strokes, she brushes the hair from my face, the whisper of a melody dancing on her breath.
Again, my mouth struggles to form words, but they're too lazy to make it past my throat.
"There, there. It's best if you don't fight it. There are no worries here. No drama. All is right in the world."
It's a melodic whisper, like a poem or a ballad, and I can no longer keep my eyes open. Before the blackness swallows Emma's face, she slants closer, her lips feather-light as they brush across my forehead.
Her curtain of hair tickles my cheek, the scent of almond oil shampoo lingering in my nose. "It's almost too easy," she murmurs against my skin.
I awake with a jolt and spring up in bed, my hands immediately shielding my eyes. A blinding gray glare spills in from my window, the patter of rain plinking against the glass.
But no one's there. It must have been a dream.
As I reorient myself, gulps of air punch in and out of my lungs, my pajama top clinging to my body. It's been a long time since I've had a nightmare like that. The kind that is so vivid, when I wake up, I'm drenched in sweat and even more exhausted than before I went to sleep.
Damp strands of hair adhere to my face. I push them out of the way and reach for my phone. It's 6:57 AM.
Shit. I forgot to set my alarm. I'm about to roll out of bed when there's a gentle tap on my door. Before I can answer, the hinges squeal open, and Mom peeks inside.
"I overslept," I grumble, forcing my legs over the side of the mattress. They're heavy like sacks of potatoes.
Mom clears her throat. "Can you come downstairs?"
I try not to sigh. "Just give me a second. I'm running behind."
"I need to talk to you—now."
She doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, she disappears, closing the door behind her.
I swallow back a string of curse words and push myself from the mattress, teetering as soon as I'm on my feet. I'm already late. If I don't leave the house by 7:15, I'll never make it in time for first period.
Why the hell didn't Mom wake me up? She knows I like to get to school early.
As I scan my bedroom, an odd sort of blur trails behind the furniture and door frames every time I turn my head. The motion clenches my stomach. How am I supposed to make it through the day when I so obviously slept like shit?
I blink rapidly as I descend the staircase when the murmur of voices reach my ears.
Great. Now what? Has Emma stopped by for an early morning confessional with my mother? I'm about to call her name, tell her the jig is up, but when I reach the bottom step, my mouth snaps shut.
"Good morning, kiddo."
My eyes dart to Mom before straying back. "Hey, Dad. Why are you here so early?" He rarely stops by during the week, especially at this hour. Not unless something's wrong.
A sudden rush of panic blooms in my chest. "Is Rowan okay?"
He gives me a reassuring smile and wraps me a hug. "She's fine. The question is, how are you?"
My entire body relaxes as I press my cheek against the fibers of his jacket, the familiar musk of leather washing over me. "I'm good, but I need to get ready for school."
"Arbor, honey," Mom says, rubbing delicate circles into my back. "We need to talk."
I untangle myself from Dad's embrace and bite back my irritation. "But I don't want to be late."
Dad scrubs a hand over his mouth, his complexion unusually pale. "I'm afraid this can't wait, kiddo. You're not going to school today. Your mother called you in absent."
My gaze bounces back and forth between them, my heart drumming out a rhythm in my chest. "Why? I have things to do—a botany quiz, and soccer. I can't miss school for no reason!" The room teeters back and forth and I try not to sway.
Mom's hand is still on my back. "Honey, are you feeling alright? You're all sweaty."
A flash of heat prickles along my flesh. "I'm just a little lightheaded, is all. I'll be fine."
"Here, why don't you have a seat?" Dad guides me back to the steps. I plop down and plant my elbows on my knees, bury my face in my hands. Even with my eyes closed, I can feel the room spinning around us.
"Honey," Mom says. Hesitates. And then, "Is there something you'd like to tell us?"
"Yeah," I snap back. "I need to go to school."
"Anything else?" Dad asks patiently.
I scoot over as he squeezes into the spot next me and force myself to look at him. Shake my head. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Dad's arm slips around my shoulders while his other hand gestures toward the door. "Why didn't you tell us you were feeling anxious again?"
"Anxious?" I follow his gaze, blinking several times to clear my vision.
Damn Emma for planting lies in my mother's head! Of course she had to tell my father that my so-called best friend is worried about me. Because who wouldn't believe a girl that recently came back from the dead? But when my eyes adjust, I let out a startled gasp.
They're not talking about Emma.
Half of the living room is stacked in front of the front door. The accent table from the foyer. Two end tables. Our oversized chairs. The only things missing are the sofa and grandfather clock.
I rub my eyes, try to make sense of what I'm looking at. "What happened?"
"We were hoping you could tell us." Mom's voice is gentle. Too gentle.
Something sharp twists in my gut. "Wait a minute. You think I did this?"
Mom doesn't answer. Instead, she tucks her hair behind her ears, flattens her mouth into a straight line.
I turn back to Dad, my voice borderline desperate. "You do, don't you?"
He releases a quiet breath and shakes his head. "You've been so stressed these past several months. First with Emma's disappearance, and your relationship now that she's returned. We should have talked more about how you were feeling. I'm sorry we failed you."
There's a shine in his eyes like he's about to cry. When I glance at Mom, her hand is hovering over her mouth, her forehead wrinkled with concern.
This can't be happening. I may be stressed and exhausted, but there's no way I did this. I would know if I had. Wouldn't I?
Bile stings the back of my throat. I try to swallow it down, but what little saliva I can muster is excessively thick. When I finally push the words out, they're almost unrecognizable. "I swear to you both, I didn't do this. You have to believe me." Tears roll down my cheeks before I can stop them.
Mom kneels on the steps, her hands gripping my face like a vise. "Whatever you're going through, we can fix it. Same as before. You just have to be honest with us."
"I am being honest with you!" I choke out between sobs. My shoulders shake, my face trembling between Mom's clammy palms.
Dad's arms are around me too, keeping my insides from spilling out. Rocking me back and forth like I'm a newborn baby. "Everything will be fine. We'll call Dr. Wilder and get you in as soon as he's available. Okay?"
But I can't answer. My gaze drifts to the pine-framed mirror hanging on the wall across from us, the knots in the wood exposing its beautiful imperfections.
Sort of like us. There's nothing but love here, yet in this position, we look like a three-person pretzel. Under different circumstances, it would be funny.
It is funny. This entire mess is fucking hilarious.
I am not crazy.
This is Emma's doing. Last night wasn't a dream. Emma was in my room. If she's snuck in before—who knows how many times she's helped herself through my window. Maybe she even switched my medications? She obviously has the means. Maybe that's why I'm unsteady on my feet? Why my brain is filled with sludge?
But as foggy as my thoughts are, her plan is suddenly crystal clear.
I'm getting closer to the truth, and she'll do whatever it takes to stop me. Even if that means making everyone think I'm insane.