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When 17-year-old Arbor Hayes' best friend turns up alive after a mysterious six-month disappearance, she must piece together the fragments of her story to make sense of what happened. But as clues e...
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You don't know your best friend as well as you think you do.
For the rest of the evening, that sentence cycles through my head until the frustration builds and I'm about to explode.
I'm tired of all these secrets. Secrets that Smith and I are keeping. That Emma's keeping, and apparently Jordan, too. I need answers, and I'm done waiting for them to manifest on their own.
Closing the botany notes on my laptop, I open my bedroom window and lean over the sill.
There's an unseasonable chill in the air, the kind that cloaks the ground in a fragile layer of frost by morning. But the night sky is clear, the stars twinkling like millions of diamonds against an endless black. Emma's bedroom light is on, like a beacon guiding my way through the dark.
Once I'm on the roof. I side-step down the slope until I reach the closest tree. If it weren't for the sprawling branches, sneaking out would be impossible. One slip and I'd tumble off the house and fall two stories to the patio below, the craggy border of river rocks catching my fall—and probably breaking my back.
My stomach flips as I let out a frosty breath and race across the yard, the fallen leaves cushioning the soles of my boots. I mount the wrought iron pergola and pull myself up the trellis and through the tangle of climbing vines. When I reach the balcony outside Emma's room, I haul myself over the rail and creep toward her window.
Emma's draped across her bed, all sharp angles and waxen skin. Disheveled heaps of clothing surround her, the price tags still attached. I scan her room, but everything's exactly as I remember it. Her vanity's still cluttered with hair accessories and half-empty tubes of makeup. Shelves of soccer trophies and academic awards consume one half of a wall. A framed picture of her and Smith from Homecoming last year decorates her desk, and old soccer cleats and flip flops are strewn across the floor. It's as messy as ever—her one obvious flaw—and it drives her mother insane.
Emma stretches her arms over her head, her shirt hiking up to reveal protruding ribs. A medication bottle is in her hand. She twists the lid and drops a few pills into her palm, tips her head back, and lets them spill into her mouth. Swallows them down without water, as if she's done it a million times. A tranquil expression soothes her face
An unsettled feeling washes over me. I shouldn't snoop like this, like some kind of creeper. I'm here to see her, to find out more about what happened. All I need to do now is go inside. I test the window to make sure it's not locked and push up the frame until there's enough room to slither through.
My sudden appearance doesn't catch Emma off guard. Instead, she raises her head, eyes heavy, like a dog roused from sleep. Gives me a lazy smirk. "Long time no see."
My stomach tightens, like I've interrupted something I shouldn't have. "Hey." I tunnel my hands to my mouth and blow into my palms. Shake off the cold. It's more out of unease than for warmth. A nervous tic. An I-don't-really-want-to-do-this-but-I-have-no-choice kind of gesture.
