Page 133 of Wicked Games

I walk into the living room and spin in a slow circle.

Nothing.

“I’m guessing this isn’t what you expected,” Riley says. “This doesn’t feel like a time capsule. It evensmellsclean in here.”

What the fuck? “This place hasn’t been touched in seven years! Andnoweverything is cleared out?”

I yank open drawers in the kitchen. Swipe my finger along the counter. Check the fridge, then venture farther into the living room. No furniture. It’s allempty.

I run to my bedroom, shoving the door open.

Every piece of my childhood has been removed except the dresser—maybe it was too heavy? I go to it, yanking open drawers. Caleb did this. He had to. Who else would want to get rid of this stuff?

I find something in the bottom drawer. A note.

Cheers to the good times and the bad. May the hits keep on coming.

— a friend

“I’m going to be sick.”

I drop the note and rush to the bathroom, falling to my knees in front of the toilet. I realize with vague detachment that the bathroom has been scrubbed clean, too. I heave, but nothing comes up. After a solid minute of my stomach rolling, I fall back and lean against the wall.

“You okay?”

I glance up. “Did you see the note?”

She holds it up. “A friend. Who is that?”

“You’re my only friend. Was it you?”

“That’s not funny.”

“Humor is a good escape.” I pick myself up. “Did you check the other room?”

“No, figured I’d wait.”

I sigh and cross the hallway. My parents’ bedroom door is still closed, and I’m not sure I even want to look. The last time I saw it, it was a wreck. But Caleb didn’t give me a chance to really…explore. That, and I was on the verge of a panic attack last time.

Now, I’m much steadier.

“Ready?” I ask Riley.

She takes my hand. “Yep.”

I push open the door, immediately sucking in a breath.

It’s untouched.

Like a tornado went through their things, there’s clothes everywhere. Broken glass from picture frames and a shattered lamp. The dresser is cracked, one leg missing, and it leans to one side.

There’s a hole in the wall.

“What happened here?”

I pick my way through the room and squat next to the fallen frames. I carefully brush away the glass and slide the photo out.I was maybe four years old in it, running on the beach. Mom is behind me, blurred out, but I can tell her arms are outstretched.

—Hands reaching for me, shaking my shoulders?—

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