twisted-9

Now, Grace began to cry. Emily gently lifted her out of her swing and cradled her in her arms. “It’s okay,” she said softly, her voice croaky with tears.
Grace’s cries turned to muffled whimpers.
“You’re so good with her,” Chloe said. “It’s amazing.”
Those few, kind words tore painfully through Emily. She looked up, suddenly unable to hold something inside any longer. “I have to tell you something,” she
whispered. “I had a baby this summer.”
Chloe’s hand froze half-extended to her mouth. “What?”
“I got pregnant from my last boyfriend, Isaac. And . . . I had a baby girl,” Emily repeated, glancing at Grace. The words felt so surreal coming out of her
mouth. She hadn’t planned on telling anyone, ever. “That’s why I didn’t swim this fall—I wasn’t up to it, afterward. It’s why I’m scrambling for a scholarship
now.”
Chloe ran a hand through her hair. “Wow,” she whispered. “Is the baby okay? Are you okay?”
“The baby’s fine. As for me . . .” Emily shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Chloe’s eyes darted back and forth. “What did your parents think?”
“My parents don’t know. I spent the summer in Philly, basically in hiding. My older sister knew, but she hated me for it.”
“Did you have anyone to rely on?” Chloe asked, grabbing Emily’s shoulder. “A counselor, a doctor, someone you could talk to?”
“Not really.” Emily shut her eyes, her chest tight. “I don’t really want to talk about it anymore, actually. I’m sorry to burden you with this.”
Chloe pulled Emily to her, careful not to squish Grace. “I’m so glad you told me. And I won’t say anything, I swear. You can say anything to me, okay? I
promise.”
“Thanks.” Emily’s eyes filled with tears again. She buried her head in Chloe’s soft hair, which smelled like Nexxus hair spray and a variety of styling gels.
Grace snuggled between them, silent and content. It felt so good to hug someone. To tell someone. Even more than a BFF necklace or a champagne
toast, this felt like the most meaningful friendship ritual of all.
Bang.
Emily opened her eyes with a start. Her mouth felt sticky and swollen.
She was on an unfamiliar couch. Out the windows, she saw the big, distinctive pine trees that lined the center island of the street Ali and Spencer lived on.
The room smelled strongly of vanilla soap. She sat up, disoriented.
Footsteps sounded in the kitchen. A cabinet opened and closed. The floorboards creaked, and a figure stepped into the living room and sat down next to
Emily. The vanilla odor seemed to multiply. It was Ali. Her Ali. Emily was sure of it.
Wordlessly, Ali leaned over Emily, almost like she was going to tickle her like she sometimes did in the middle of the night. A split second later, a pair of
lips touched hers. Emily kissed back, fireworks exploding in her stomach.
But Ali’s chin felt scratchy, not smooth. Emily opened her eyes, waking up for real.
It was a man’s face pressing up against hers, not Ali’s. He smelled like cigars, alcohol, and, most prominently, vanilla pudding. His weight was more than
double that of Ali’s, pressing down on her stomach and flattening her boobs.
Emily jerked away and squealed. The figure backed off, then snapped on a light. The golden bulb showed off Mr. Roland’s salt-and-pepper hair. Of
course Emily wasn’t at the DiLaurentises’—she was still at Chloe’s; they’d been babysitting.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Mr. Roland said. His smile was like a jack-o’-lantern’s, all scraggly and mischievous.
Emily cowered behind the couch. “What are you doing?”
“Just waking you up.” He lunged for her again.
Emily leapt back. “Stop!”
Mr. Roland lowered his eyebrows and looked toward the stairs. “Shhhh. My wife is up there.”
Emily stared across the room. Not only was Mrs. Roland upstairs, but Chloe was, too. She grabbed her coat from the back of the chair and backed out of
the house without even tying her shoes. “Emily, wait!” Mr. Roland whisper-called after her. “Your payment!” But she didn’t go back.
It was deathly still outside, the air crackling with coldness. Emily rushed to her car, fell into the driver’s seat, and hyperventilated. It’s just a dream, she
chanted to herself. She looked out on the street. If a car passes in the next ten seconds, it’s just a dream. But it was after midnight; no cars passed.
Beep.
Emily’s phone lit up inside her jacket pocket. The seat belt strap went limp in her hands. What if it was Chloe? What if she’d seen? She pulled out the
phone. It was something worse: a text from Anonymous. Shaking, she opened the message.
Naughty, naughty! Don’t you just love to be bad, Killer?
Xx,
—A