Page 53 of They're Watching You

Human sacrifices.

There’s no way the Gamemaster’s Society could possibly be related to this archaic cult that participates in human sacrifice.

And yet it’s a society that claims to honor Pelops. It exists underground, complete with shrines and burial places.

This year, the sacrifice could be Polly or Jane.

I force myself to breathe slowly, typing inTorrey-Wells Catacombsnext, but nothing comes up.New Hampshire Catacombsis also a bust. It’s as if those miles and miles of stonework beneath me don’t even exist. When I try to get to my feet, they seem to have gone numb.

***

Remington meets me at the hidden entrance to the old cathedral at 10 p.m. He holds the door open, and I push my bag full of supplies through before crawling in after it, my heart racing. We’re pressed for time, but the words from my research reverberate in my ears. Before he can push ahead to the trapdoor, I take his arm and pull him with me, so we’re both leaning against the dusty stone wall. I proceed to fill him in on my findings.

“Human sacrifice?” In the moonlight pouring in through the broken tower window, Remington pales.

“This”—I toss a hand in the air, scrounging for a word to describe a cult within a cult—“Ultra-radical sect believed that the occasional human sacrifice would be looked upon more favorably. The more I think about it, the more it could fit. The underground chambers, the glorification of the Games. Maybe I’m wrong and they’re not planning to kill anyone. But after what she’s put the girls through, do you really think Annabelle’s going to let us all waltz out of the catacombs together?”

“So, that would mean Polly and Jane are being kept alive down there to become sacrifices. How could the society get away with that?”

“I don’t know. The article mentioned aligning the ritual with the Olympic Games, every four years.” My mind cartwheels to the Lawrence Administration Building—to the memorial photographs in the glass display. “It’s been exactly four years since Daniel King’s death was ruled an accident.”

Remington’s eyes grow. “Back in the seventies, a kid died when the old cathedral burned down.” He starts twisting the fabric on his cloak. “The guys in my dorm talk about this kid who overdosed in our hall about a decade back. His name is carved into the wall in his old room. Every few years, a student dies, and it always ends up looking like an accident.”

“Or like nothing happened at all,” I say. “Everyone believes that Polly ran away and Jane is studying abroad. And Gavin says the society has doctors. Doctors who do shady things. Maybe they’re faking medical reports, like the one that was obviously faked for Alicia Jones. Who knows how many other deaths have slipped through the cracks over the years?”

Remington stops twisting the fabric, letting it drop. “My father,” he says in a hollow voice. “When he was a student here, his friend, William McKinley, was this star athlete and stellar student. Only William never graduated. Tragic ski club accident.” His fingertips move to his temples, clawing at the skin. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

I reach out to console him. “Probably not,” I say, running my fingers down his arm.

Remington leans into my touch. I’m close enough to feel the rise and fall of his chest. “And we have no idea when this sacrifice is supposed to happen?”

I shake my head. “But Gavin did say something about a big tournament finale here at the school this week. Maybe that’s when they…” My throat tightens, the words dying down there.

“Then we’d better find them tonight.” He turns toward what’s possibly our biggest hurdle a few feet ahead: the trapdoor.

Neither of us has witnessed Annabelle secure the door. If the locking mechanism is too involved, our plan is DOA. I sprint ahead over the rubble-strewn stone to peel back the dusty red rug. Beneath it, a handle is fitted neatly inside a hollow notch in the wooden door.

Remington’s footsteps sound behind me as I lift the handle from its hollow and pull.

The door sticks. I yank again with all my might. But it’s locked. Remington shines a flashlight over the area, and I inspect the handle. There’s no padlock—too obvious beneath the rug. “I don’t get it,” I say, making room for Remington, who crouches beside me. “It’s not locked.”

His light flits over the edges and ricochets back to the spot beside the handle. “Just old,” he says, digging into his coat pocket to withdraw a Swiss Army knife. “The wood is so warped that it’s stuck.” With a click, the shiny metal blade flashes, and I startle. He goes to work jamming it into the groove, working his way around until, finally, he grasps the handle and tugs.

It works. The door lifts and Remington eases it all the way back to the ground. I reach for my pack, hefting it on over my shoulder, my jaw clenched in determination.

“Hey.” Remington touches my arm. “Let me do it. I can go down there and you can stay and play the game. You have a much better shot at winning whatever challenge Annabelle has planned anyway.”

I shake my head, even though my brain is screaming at me to accept his offer. This is stupid. Going down there. No cell signal—Remington can’t warn me if something goes drastically wrong. And that’s if I can trust him one hundred percent, which is still doubtful. He says he likes me, that he has since Form I. But he was with Jane for a very long time. Would he really help me at her expense?

And even though I came up with this plan, it technically ends withhimwinning the next clue. What if my gamble doesn’t pay off? What if Annabelle shows him the way to Jane, but Polly isn’t there?

If we switched places,Icould win the clue. I would get to ensure that Polly is found and not sacrificed for this sick society. Remington would have to make the gamble.

Despite my brain’s pleas, though, I decline his offer. Going down there means I get to search for Polly. “I want to do this. You stay and be charming and cunning and strong. I’m going to investigate, and if all else fails, I’ll roll into a tiny ball and hide until the coast is clear.”

He opens his mouth to object, but I press a finger to his lips. “Just promise me you’ll come. No matter how late things go.”

Without warning, he removes my hand from his and kisses it. “If all else fails, meet me beneath the trapdoor at 2 a.m.” Then he leans in, still holding my hand. “I promise. I’ll find you, and we’ll save Polly and Jane.”

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