Deadly Little Secret

Copyright © 2008 by Laurie Faria Stolarz All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion Books for Children, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion Books for Children, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.
First Edition
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Printed in the United States of America
Reinforced binding
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file
ISBN 978-1-4231-1144-3
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www.hyperionteens.com

Table of Contents

• Other Books By This Author
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Chapter 23
  
• Chapter 24
  
• Chapter 25
  
• Chapter 26
  
• Chapter 27
  
• Chapter 28
  
• Chapter 29
  
• Chapter 30
  
• Chapter 31
  
• Chapter 32
  
• Chapter 33
  
• Chapter 34
  
• Chapter 35
  
• Chapter 36
  
• Chapter 37
  
• Chapter 38
  
• Chapter 39
  
• Chapter 40
  
• Chapter 41
  
• Chapter 42
  
• Chapter 43
  
• Chapter 44
  
• Chapter 45
  
• Chapter 46
  
• Chapter 47
  
• Chapter 48
  
• Chapter 49
  
• Chapter 50
  
• Chapter 51
  
• Chapter 52
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• Deadly Little Lies
  
• About The Author
  

Also by Laurie Faria Stolarz

Project 17
Bleed
Blue Is for Nightmares
White Is for Magic
Silver Is for Secrets
Red Is for Remembrance

For my mother,
who gave me the creativity to write,
and for MaryKay,
who showed me I could

1

I could have died three months ago.

Ever since, things haven’t quite been the same for me.

It happened on the last day of school. I was walking across the parking lot by the gym when my earring slipped off—a hammered sterling-silver hoop with a clasp that never seemed to fit quite right. But the pair was my favorite, given to me by my mother just months before, on my sixteenth birthday.

I squatted down to search the pavement. Everything that happened next sped by in what felt like a three-second blur: Gloria Beckham’s car peeling across the parking lot in my direction. Me, sort of frozen there, on hands and knees, assuming the car would come to a sudden halt when she saw me.

It didn’t.

It kept racing toward me, toward the two hockey nets that Todd McCaffrey had left in the middle of the lot while he went in to fetch more equipment. At some point, I heard Todd’s voice yell out, “Stop!” Then the car plowed into the hockey nets at a speed high enough to crush them beneath the grill.

And it didn’t stop there. The car continued toward me without missing a beat.

I imagine that my heart sped up, that my adrenaline did that hormonal-pumping thing it does when it’s trying to brace you for what happens next. But what happened next I could never have prepared myself for.

Being shoved out of the way.

My shoulders slamming against the curb with enough force to cover my back in bruises and scabs for the next several weeks.

The burning of my skin as my shirt lifted up and the small of my back scraped against the pavement, tearing off two layers of skin.

And the peculiar way he touched me.

“Are you okay?” the mystery boy asked.

I opened my mouth to say something—to ask him what happened, to see about Gloria, to find out who he was.

But then: “Shhh . . . don’t try and talk,” he whispered.

The truth is I
couldn’t
talk. It felt like my chest had broken open, like someone had cracked me in two and stolen my breath.

“Blink once if you’re okay,” he continued, “twice if you need to go to the hospital.”

I blinked once, but I honestly didn’t want to. I didn’t want to stop looking at him for even one solitary moment—the sharp angles of his face; his dark gray eyes, flecked with gold; and those pale pink lips pressed together with concern—despite how inappropriate the moment was for gawking.

He glanced over his shoulder in search of Todd, who had gone to help Gloria.

“I called nine-one-one!” Todd shouted out.

The boy, probably a year or two older than I was, turned his focus back to me. His shoulders, broad and strong under his navy blue T-shirt, hovered right above my chest. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” His face was so close I could smell his skin—a mixture of sugar and sweat.

I nodded and let out a breath, relieved that my lungs were still working. “How’s Gloria?” I mouthed; no sound came out.

He looked toward her car again. It had finally come to a stop halfway up the grassy hill that ran along the side of the school.

The boy, noticing our closeness maybe, sat back on his heels then and ran his fingers through his perfectly rumpled dark hair.

And then he touched me.

His hand rested on my stomach, almost by accident I think, because the gesture seemed to startle him even more than it startled me. He stared at me with new intensity, his eyes wide and urgent, his lips slightly parted.

“What is it?” I asked, noticing the scar on his forearm—a narrow gash that branched off in two directions, like a broken tree limb.

Instead of answering, he pressed his palm harder against me and closed his eyes. His wrist grazed the bare skin right above my navel, where my sweater was still pulled up.

It nearly made me lose my breath all over again.

A moment later an ambulance came zooming into the lot, the siren blaring, the lights flashing bright red and white, and the boy backed away, just like that.

He crawled free of me, darted over to his motorcycle. Hopped on. Revved up the engine. And then sped away.

Before I could even ask him his name.

Before I could thank him for saving my life.

 2 

The first time I saw her I knew—long and twisty caramel-blond hair, curvy hips, and lips the color of fire.

She was talking that first time—in a group of faceless girls. I was there, too— standing a good distance back. Watching her.

I wondered what she was all about—if her cheeks were naturally seashell pink, or if she was embarrassed or maybe wearing makeup.

I watched her lips as they pouted, then stretched wide when she laughed. It made me laugh, too. I couldn’t stop watching her, imagining the way her mouth would move when she said my name, or told me she loved me, or came at me with a kiss.

And so, I made a silent vow to myself that day. I would find out about her cheeks, and the way her kisses would taste. I would find out everything, because I simply had to know. I had to have her. I still do. And one day, very soon, I will.

3