Truth or Dare (8 page)

She’d been thirteen then, and recently sent off to the Sunrise Center, a treatment center for adolescents not far from Echo Bay. All she’d wanted was to burrow away in her new white-walled room for the whole summer and never come out again. But her counselor had insisted she take a class in the art-therapy program. She’d chosen photography
at random; it sounded more fun than knitting and less messy than papier-mâché.

But in one session she was hooked. It wasn’t just the ritual of taking a photo she loved—how the viewfinder let her hide from the world even as she was studying it, how in the instant between the shutter opening and closing everything became silent—but also the boy who was assigned as her mentor. Guinness.

He was a little older than her, and had been in treatment for long enough that he’d earned mentoring responsibilities. She was instantly awed by him. And because his dad had a summerhouse in Echo Bay, they’d had something in common right away. He’d been the one to explain perspective and composition and lighting to her. She loved his passion for photography and the way he furrowed his brow when he studied a shot. She loved how serious his eyes were and the unusual tattoo that wound around his wrist: three thin black lines. When she finally worked up the courage to compliment him on the tattoo, the smile he’d given her had almost broken her heart. “Things aren’t always what they seem, Sydney,” he’d said. At the time, she’d had no idea what he meant. All she knew was she wanted desperately to find out.

When Sydney had arrived at Sunrise, she’d been filled with a cavernous anger that had terrified people, chased them away. But Guinness had met her head-on. She remembered her worst night at Sunrise, when the anger had gotten so big, so strong, it threatened to swallow her right up. She’d snuck into Guinness’s room and even though it was the middle of the night, even though she was breaking every single rule by being there, he didn’t hesitate, didn’t even blink.

“Come with me,” he’d whispered. He’d taken her to the darkroom and given her a lesson in developing. As they moved steadily through
the dark stillness of the room, methodically dipping the paper in bin after bin, Sydney actually felt calm.

It had felt so nice, having someone know about her issues with anger—and
not care
. She’d even come close to telling him the secret she carried everywhere with her. But at the last minute, she’d stopped herself.

Sydney let out a frustrated sigh. None of this was helping. She needed something to take her mind
off
Guinness. Shoving the photo back into the glove compartment, she gunned the engine and pulled her car out of the apartment building’s lot. Tonight was the perfect night to try to shoot the ghost lights again. She patted the side of her car as she turned onto Ocean Drive. “Don’t die on me now, baby,” she murmured.

She’d been trying for years to catch the ghost lights on camera. But this summer, with Guinness M.I.A., she’d become almost obsessed. She wasn’t sure what it was that drew her to the lights. Their elusiveness, maybe. How ephemeral they were. Anyone could photograph the Phantom Rock; to catch the lights on film would be the ultimate coup.

But it was more than that. It was their weight of possibility, what they might mean: that in those few flickering seconds, they were back. The Lost Girls.

When she’d told her mom what she was trying to do, her mom had balked. “The lights are nothing but small-town lore, Syd,” she’d insisted. “Just like all that talk of a curse.” Sydney had been quick to agree; of course there was no such thing as curses and ghosts. But deep down, she couldn’t deny that it
was
eerie, how linked the deaths of the Lost Girls all were.

When Meryl Bauer died, ten years ago over the weekend of Echo Bay’s annual Fall Festival, people called it a tragic accident. But then
Nicole Mayor died four years later, on the exact same weekend, in almost exactly the same way. Sydney had only been in sixth grade then, but still she remembered hearing the comparisons. Nicole and Meryl had both been young, rich, beautiful. They earned themselves the nickname the Lost Girls, and soon claims arose of two ghostly lights, flickering over the Phantom Rock in the dead of night. People began to talk. Were their deaths connected somehow? Was it possible that the Fall Festival was cursed?

Then the next Fall Festival, it happened again. The girl was Kyla Kern, a senior at Winslow Academy. Like the others, she was young and rich and beautiful, but it was different this time, because Sydney
knew
her.

At the end of sixth grade, all Winslow students were paired up with a junior “buddy”—someone to advise them and act as their mentor. Even though Winslow’s middle and high schools were in two separate buildings, they neighbored each other and were attached by a covered pathway, so it was easy for the seniors to meet their seventh-grade buddies for lunch or study dates or here’s-how-to-talk-to-a-boy demonstrations. Kyla had been assigned as Sydney’s buddy. She was everything Sydney wasn’t—beautiful, popular—and Sydney had been almost starstruck by her. But then just a few months later, before she ever got to “mentor” Sydney, she was dead.

Sydney thought Kyla’s death was the eeriest of them all. It had happened the Saturday of Fall Festival. The next day all Winslow seniors were supposed to participate in the festival’s boat float parade, so that night, the seniors took their boats out on the water to party as they put the finishing touches on their floats. Kyla and her friends’ float was said to be the best; it had pyrotechnics and everything. But something went
wrong with the wiring that night, and out of nowhere, the boat went up in flames.

Everyone was able to swim to safety. But when they got to shore, they realized Kyla wasn’t with them. By the time the search-and-rescue crew went looking for her, her body was gone. It wasn’t until a week later that it washed up on shore, covered in burn marks. The local news preyed on that story like vultures. Pictures of Kyla were plastered everywhere, and immediately there were claims of seeing a third light flickering over the Phantom Rock.

Two summers later, Sydney was sent away to the Sunrise Center. When she came back, obsessed with photography, she couldn’t shake the idea of photographing the ghost lights from her mind. But years later, she still hadn’t succeeded. Sometimes she swore she saw them—three lightning-quick flashes dancing across the Phantom Rock. But then she’d blink and they’d be gone, and she never could be sure what, exactly, she’d just seen.

The sound of rain pulled Sydney abruptly out of her thoughts. It exploded above her car with a breathless, pounding rhythm, the kind of rain that drummed down from the sky out of nowhere. The kind of rain that made people stop and listen.

Except there were no raindrops landing on her car.

Sydney’s eyes shot upward, widening at the sight above her. It was seagulls, dozens of them, the air pulsing with the beating of their wings. They were swooping down frantically, a solid mass in the darkness. Lower they nose-dived, lower, lower, until suddenly they were
there
: in the sweep of her headlights and in front of her windshield and blocking her view, a blinding wall of white.

“Holy shit!” Sydney screamed, swerving out of the way. She must have jerked the wheel too hard, though, because suddenly her car was
skidding across the road, tires spinning wildly, the sidewalk rising up out of nowhere, like an obstacle course in a video game.

And there was someone on it.

“Shit!” Sydney screamed again. She slammed down on her brakes with all her might. The car screeched to a stop only inches from the person. He stood frozen in the headlights: a pale, curly-haired boy in a pair of boxers and nothing else. Her jaw came unhinged as she realized who it was: Calum.

Shaking, she pulled her car over to the side of the road. “Calum,” she said, leaning out the window. “Oh my god. Are you okay?”

Calum held up a hand, shielding his eyes from the headlights. His lopsided smile spread across his face. “Sydney!” he said happily, as if her car hadn’t just come careening straight toward him. He swayed a bit on his feet. Of course, she realized. He was drunk. He swayed a little more. Very drunk.

She took a deep breath, trying to erase the image of those seagulls from her head. Everything was fine. No one was hurt. Pushing her bangs off her forehead, she forced a smile. “What did you do, Calum? Break into an aquarium?”

“No, Sydney,” Calum said gravely. “I had a battle with the ocean.”

Sydney eyed his bedraggled, half-naked form. “I’m guessing the ocean won?”

“I’d call it more of a tie,” Calum said, hopping from foot to foot to keep warm. “The ocean got my clothes, but I got—”

“Pneumonia?” Sydney supplied.

Calum narrowed his eyes at her. “I was
going
to say my pride.”

“Ah. Of course.” Sydney swallowed back a laugh. The whole night suddenly seemed ridiculously funny: Guinness suggesting meeting at the sleazy Landing Spot and a flock of seagulls attacking her car and
Calum revealing pretty much all in the street. “You’re just lucky I’m not capturing this Kodak moment on camera.” She leaned over and popped open the passenger door. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.” She’d just have to hunt the ghost lights another night.

Calum didn’t argue. He climbed into the car, leaning back against the headrest. “You’re my hero,” he said, slurring his words slightly.

Sydney shook her head as she steered her car toward the bridge that led to Neddles, the Bauers’ private island at the end of Echo Bay. “You know,” she said with a laugh, “if you’re looking for revenge, I’d be happy to kick some ocean ass for you.”

Calum closed his eyes. “No revenge necessary, my little Aussie. I had a great night. Inspiring, even.”

Sydney raised her eyebrows. “Did you just call me your little
Aussie
?”

“Sydney is the most populous city in Australia,” Calum announced, his words running messily together. “Did you know that, Syd?”

“I did…” she began, but she trailed off as something caught her eye on the side of the road. It was the deck at Cabin Crab. One of its lights was still on and, under its glow, Sydney saw the outline of a person moving around. Her eyes went instantly to the deck’s railing, where the seagulls always slept at night, perched there by the flock. When she was little, she and her dad used to try to count the seagulls as they drove by—an impossible task.

But tonight it was easy. Because there wasn’t a single one.

A tiny flame burst to life in the person’s hand, a cigarette maybe, or a match. Sydney quickly looked away, locking her eyes on the road.

Whoever was down there must have spooked the seagulls… sending them straight into the street. Sydney knew it was probably just one
of the Hamiltons. Martin and Shelby Hamilton and their son Blake owned Cabin Crab.

Even so, she couldn’t stop a chill from prickling its way down her arms.

Next to her, Calum let out a soft snore. He had passed out, his head dangling on his shoulder, his mouth wide open, drool gathering in the corner. Sydney laughed. Well, at least
somebody
had a good night.

Sunday, 8:32
AM

CAITLIN FELT A SOFT TINGLING UNDER HER SKIN:
the caffeine was finally kicking in. She leaned against the kitchen counter, letting the coffee work its way through her bloodstream, until every part of her—her arms, her legs, even her toes—felt alive again.

She hadn’t meant to stay out so late last night. She’d had a plan: Make an appearance, catch up with Tenley, then slip out unnoticed. But she’d forgotten how quickly plans went awry when Tenley was around. When Tenley had suggested they play truth or dare last night, it was as though Caitlin had zoomed back to middle school, when just the mention of the game could make her bristle with excitement—and a tiny bit of dread, too. Her long to-do list for the next day had suddenly seemed a lifetime away.

But of course it wasn’t. And when Caitlin had gotten up at five this morning for her shift at the animal shelter, her eyelids had felt heavier than a hundred-pound Rottweiler. Caitlin downed the rest of her coffee, then refilled her mug before heading toward the porch. She had
one hour before she had to meet Emerson for their weekly brunch at the Club, and she needed every second of it to work on her campaign strategy. She was almost at the front door when she caught sight of her mom waving at her from behind the glass walls of her studio.

Come in
, her mom mouthed, her hands white with the caulk she used to make the sea-glass window hangings she was famous for. Caitlin took another sip of her coffee before crossing into the studio; she needed major liquid fuel to face her mom right now.

As usual, her mom wasted no time. “Did you decide on a campaign slogan yet?” she asked, fixing her intense gaze on Caitlin.

Caitlin looked down, dipping her hand into one of the wooden bins lining the bookshelf and scooping up a handful of smooth, worn glass. When the sea glass caught the light, it reminded her of the marbles she used to roll down the porch, the way they seemed to glow from somewhere deep inside. “Not yet,” she said. “But I’m working on it.”

Her mom inhaled sharply. “You’ve had all summer, Caitlin. It’s a slogan, not world peace.” She paused to fit a square of pale yellow glass into the window hanging she was working on: a translucent collage of yellows and greens and whites. People raved about her mom’s artwork. And even Caitlin had to admit: When a ray of sunlight hit one of her mom’s window hangings and fractured into a million brilliant pieces, it was like a rainbow shattering apart. It took your breath away.

But here, on the worktable, without the sun to brighten them, Caitlin found the hangings to be… cold. Hard. Then again, her mom wasn’t much different.
Cold
was Jaynie Thomas’s middle name. Except, of course, when she needed something.

“You do want to be student-body president, don’t you?” her mother resumed. “I was listening to a piece on NPR about Harvard’s emphasis on students who take an active role in—”

“I’m on it, Mom,” Caitlin insisted, before her mother could launch into yet another Harvard speech. Lately, Harvard—and what Caitlin was doing to get in—dominated almost every conversation they had. Caitlin wanted to get in just as badly as her mom wanted her to. But sometimes it felt as if the pressure of it was eating away at her—hollowing her out.