them carefully, über-alert for any whispers, nudges, or random disappearances. She felt like a clock was counting down on her. Now that the Twitter Twins knew she was onto them, would they want to keep her around to play Sutton? Or was she a liability?
“Okay, people, let’s move,” Madeline said, ushering everyone off the carpet and into the ballroom. Thanks to Charlotte’s decorator extraordinaire, the gym, which typically smelled like old sneakers and floor wax, had been transformed into a mix between a ghoulish haunted house and a tricked-out nightclub.
Emma and the others had helped pile up the gym’s bleachers and replace them with multitiered platforms containing round, black-velvet banquettes; crooked gravestones that served as high tables; burbling witches’ cauldrons full of spiced apple cider and steaming hot chocolate; and wax figures of zombies, mummies, aliens, and werewolves. They’d set flickering, intricately carved pumpkins on each table, fixed gnarled-tree decals to the walls, and hung spiderwebs from the chairs. Waitresses floated past with trays of vials filled with eerie red liquid—which was actually POM Wonderful—marked with labels like DANCING ELIXIR and KISSING CURE-ALL. And at the end of the room was a craggy haunted mansion. Greenish lights flashed through the windows, and a group of girls let out shrill squeals from inside.
Suddenly Madeline clamped down on Emma’s arm. “Oh my God.”
She tried to steer Emma in the other direction, but it was too late. Emma had already seen what was bothering her. Garrett sat in a banquette just a few feet away. He wore a velveteen tunic, a frilly shirt underneath, and a horned Viking helmet. A blunt-tipped sword rested on the table.
And he wasn’t alone.
“Hi, girls!” Nisha trilled, leaping up from the seat next to Garrett and waving happily. Her black hair had been arranged in two braids, she wore a snugly fitted corset dress, and there was a similar horned helmet sitting atop her head. She and Garrett matched.
“What the—” Charlotte said in a low voice. “Tell me he didn’t bring her.”
I wanted to puke. Nisha? That was a pretty big step down after dating me. Or Charlotte, for that matter.
Garrett looked up and saw Emma, too. His face clouded. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Nisha babbled for the both of them, inviting them to sit and complimenting their costumes when they didn’t move. Then she eyed Emma. “Sutton, did you come here all alone?” she asked in a simpering voice, sounding absolutely delighted.
“Come on,” Madeline urged, tugging on Emma’s arm. They snaked across the dance floor, which was already sticky with spilled soda, past the DJ booth, where a few groupies leaned against the table, and into the girls’ locker room. Harsh fluorescent lights shone overhead. The faint odor of sweaty socks and spilled shampoo lingered in the air.
Madeline sat down on one of the benches and took Emma’s hands. “Are you okay? Do you want to leave?”
Music thumped outside. Emma searched Madeline’s face, realizing Madeline thought she was upset. She wasn’t, not exactly—more like confused. Did Nisha like Garrett? Was that why she hated Sutton?
Emma brushed her hair off her face. “I’m fine,” she said. “It’s just . . . weird.”
Madeline linked her fingers through Emma’s. “You’re better off without him. Honestly? I didn’t want to tell you this when you guys were going out, but I think Garrett dragged you down. He’s sort of understated, like white bread. And you’re Sutton Mercer—the opposite of ordinary.”
Emma looked into Madeline’s bright blue eyes, touched. Sutton’s friends might not be perfect, but they were loyal.
“And Charlotte told me that when she dated Garrett, he was weirdly obsessed with the Summer Olympics,” Madeline went on, snickering. “Especially women’s gymnastics. Can you imagine? They’re linebacker-ish gnomes!”
Thanks for telling me this when I was alive, guys.
But Emma giggled. “Yeah, maybe he wasn’t worth it.”
“Definitely.” Madeline reached up to adjust the crown on her head. Her sleeve slipped down her arm, revealing bare skin. Emma saw four purplish bruises on the inside of her forearm in the shape of fingers.
Emma gasped. “Mads, what happened?”
Madeline followed Emma’s gaze and paled. “Oh. Nothing.” She tugged the sleeve back down, her hands trembling. It got caught on her bracelet, and she struggled with it until it fell past her wrist. Then, Emma saw the pinkish burn on her hand. And the bruise on her calf. And another one on the side of her neck.
Alarms clanged in Emma’s head. She’d met plenty of kids in foster care who didn’t want to talk