Page 32 of They're Watching You

Jordan looks up from her book, smiling. “Good,” she says, then frowns. “Where are your books?”

“I’m not here to study. I was looking for you.”

Jordan’s cheeks blush pink. “Oh. Why?”

“Because we’re friends,” I say, like it’s obvious. “I wanted to find out when you’re going to the dining hall tonight.”

Jordan glances at her phone. “It’s only five. Maybe in an hour or so. I can text you—”

“Yeah, thanks.” I force a smile, but my insides are at combat. I don’t know why the Gamemaster’s Society suddenly needs a new member. I thought they set up a series of challenges just to keep people out. Now, in order to save Polly—in order to save myself—I’m essentially sacrificing this poor girl to Annabelle. Gorgeous, graceful, sociopathic Annabelle. “Sorry I haven’t been around much,” I add.

Jordan shrugs. “Does it have something to do with Remington Cruz? I saw you talking this morning. Are you two—” Her lips twist.

“Oh, that.” I wave a hand like Remington and my speaking is not only no big deal but also yesterday’s news. “No way. I haven’t been around much,” I say, lowering my voice conspiratorially, “because I’ve infiltrated the society.”

“The secret one?” The book slides off her lap as she straightens. “Did they bury you?”

I laugh. “No. They play games. It’s…fun.” The lie sits heavy in the air, the sound of false laugher still ringing in my ears as Jordan gapes at me. “They even said I could invite a friend. Aworthyfriend. I thought of you.”

“Me? Oh, I don’t think so.”

“It is a lot,” I admit. “It’s been taking up most of my free time. That’s why I hoped you’d join. If you’re not part of it, we probably won’t get to hang out much.”

Jordan’s brown eyes flicker with something like hunger.

“I know having you there with me would make it even better. I’ll tell you more about it at dinner,” I say, getting up. I don’t even need to stick around to know I’ve got her. She’s starving for a friend, and some twisted part of my soul used it to betray her.

***

Having learned my lesson, I’m wearing jeans and sneakers Tuesday night. The creepy cloak I found on my bed earlier today is draped over the ensemble. By the time I get Jordan out of the dormitory after curfew, across campus to the condemned and forbidden cathedral, and through the hidden entrance, she has asked to go back approximately seventy-five times.

Clearly, Jordan Park is not Gamemaster’s Society material. But my task didn’t actually specify I had to lure aworthy friend; it just saidsomeone new.

And each time I assure Jordan everything will be fine, that distorted part of my soul grows a new, gnarled, and knotted branch.

I can only hope Jordan will bow out of her initiation ceremony and be sworn to secrecy the way Double Espresso was. Then she and I can continue our friendship like none of this ever happened.

Ahead, Annabelle is manning the trapdoor, lantern in hand, black hood back to reveal polished blond waves. Beside her, a cloaked figure stands tall, ensuring each member pays the entrance fee. I toss my pebbles inside the basket and recite the mantra, nudging Jordan to do the same. I glance at the hooded figure’s face and spot a russet-colored ringlet. Paul Lowell peers down at me, lips twisted in scorn. He recognizes me as the girl beneath the mask. In shame, I look away.

When I step onto the staircase, Annabelle stops me. “Let your friend go on ahead. I have something for you.”

Panic flashes in Jordan’s eyes. She’s three seconds away from sprinting out of here.

“I’ll take excellent care of her.” Annabelle turns to nudge Jordan down toward the vault before another word can be uttered on the subject. “Here,” she adds, handing me something small but heavy. Then she descends after Jordan, and I’m left alone with some sort of video recording device. “Your reward for a job well done.”

The camera looks ancient, and I’m not sure what she expects me to do with it. The footage from the ball must be on here. Maybe she’s giving me the evidence so I can destroy it. There seems to be a video queued up, so I press “play.”

The recording starts, the camera zoomed in on a gray, stone wall. The time stamp is 5:00 p.m., November 23.Today. Just a few hours ago. When the film zooms back out, a girl with copper-toned curls is sitting on a bed. The room is small and unadorned, like a cell. The girl looks up, her stark blue irises on the camera, and my mouth goes dry.

The girl is Polly.

Her eyes are swollen, the whites woven with red. She looks thinner than I remember her. The terror in her face and the bleakness of the room don’t fit the image imprinted on my mind: Polly snuggled in her rose-covered comforter, smiling down at the camera from her top bunk.

Suddenly, white block letters cut across the screen, covering Polly and the stone prison:

She’s closer than you think.

The film cuts off. I try to swallow, to think of what to do. Someone in this club has to be trustworthy enough to help me with this video. But everyone is downstairs, guarded by Annabelle.

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