Page 6 of Wicked Games

I slip past him and dart up the stairs, stepping into the room and closing the door behind me. I lean against it for good measure. My bag hits the floor next to me.

The room is huge. I mean, big surprise—the whole house is a freaking mansion. But it’spink. A girl’s room, clearly, by the white-and-pink bedspread and the light-pink walls. The curtains on the two windows are white. A rug covers half of the hardwood floor, a low dresser in the corner… a vase of flowers on one nightstand and a lamp on the other.

Weird.

I’d imagine they must have a housekeeper, someone who keeps everything clean and fresh. The water in the vase is high and clear. So even though the room must not be occupied,someonechanges out the flowers and water.

There’s no lock on the door, but I can’t be bothered to worry much about it. I inch toward the bed, and exhaustion crashes over me. It’s not even ten o’clock in the morning. Was it only five hours ago that Caleb was inside me? He wasn’t professing love—I’m notthatdaft—but our sex…

It felt real.

And I’m delusional. Clearly.

After a night of limited sleep, I could stay in bed for a week. Even a frilly, girly, foreign bed like this one, in an unsafe house, with a potential psychopath downstairs.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

I lie down and stare at the tiled ceiling. My eyes won’t close, even though they feel like sandpaper. I can’t cry either. I spent most of the walk to Ian’s house swinging between stoicism and sobbing. No in between.

How could he do this?

There are questions that need answering.

I hop up and pull a notebook out of my bag. The way to get organized is to make a list.

Who is Unknown?

Why is Caleb set on ruining my life?

Tobias—Dad’s attorney?

When I try to remember my past, nothing happens. It’s like there’s a wall in my mind. It isn’t active unless I try to access the few months before I entered into foster care. I remember being with my dad in the park, but that’s because Caleb practically forced the memory out of me.

Maybe…

No.

I look down at my list again.

There’s more.

Where are Caleb’s parents?

Why is his house seemingly abandoned?

What happened in our past? Why can’t I remember?

Who sent the video?

My head pounds. Ian told me he knew that. I’ll have to ask him again.

I lie back down and force my eyes shut.

Today’s been a clusterfuck. Being here… well, I can’t say that makes it any better. My phone is off, at the bottom of my bag. I can only imagine the texts and calls piling up. Or maybe worst of all: no calls at all. The Bryans might call to inform me that Angela will be picking me up. I might come back and find my stuff on the curb.

That happened once.

Angela was waiting for me. A bag with my belongings—a few shirts, underwear, pants, and a toothbrush—was already in the car. The foster family hadn’t even given metoothpaste. Not that it mattered.

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