Page 81 of The Game Is Afoot

“What is that smell?” She wrinkles her nose disapprovingly at the bag of Polly’s poop in my hand, which I’d kind of forgotten was there. But can she blame me with the whole my-neighbor-is-a-serial-killer phone call?

“Does that really matter right now?” I whisper back. She shakes her head at me and plows ahead right into the house. So much for strategy. I scamper after her and almost instantly drop the offending poop bag. Because itdoesn’tmatter. Because we can see straight through the living room and into the dining room, where Mackenzie is sitting at the big oak table, her entire body still. Because next to her Bethany is leaning in close with a long orange crystal in her hands, the sharp tip of the obelisk pointed right at Mackenzie’s throat.

Except…Bethany’s face is covered in blood. She’s been hurt. Just like Ms. Joyce said. No, that’s not right. Bethany is not the victim here. Maybe it was self-defense?

“Did you call them?” Bethany asks Mackenzie, the crystal moving dangerously closer. My stomach tightens in fear, like the crystal is at my neck.

“No—” Mackenzie starts, but Ms. Joyce cuts her off.

“Of course she didn’t, because she doesn’t want any witnesses. But we’re here to bust you out!” Ms. Joyce strides right up to them, oblivious to or unafraid of the crystal shiv. “She didn’t start cutting now, did she?”

Bethany’s bloodstained lips pull into a small smirk, but Mackenzie’s mouth drops open.

“Cutting? You think I did this to her? I didn’t do this!” She jerks her thumb at Bethany. “She did!”

And okay, I am firmly Team Mackenzie here. Not because she’s my little friend, but because I know Bethany is guilty. That argument isn’t looking so great, though, with the blood still dripping from Bethany’s nose, spilling onto her Balanced WithBethany–branded sweatshirt. Is she saying Bethany hurt herself?

Suddenly Mackenzie launches herself out of her chair at Bethany, and Bethany’s crystal-wielding hand falls back in surprise.

“Whoa! Whoa!” I yell.

“See! See!” Ms. Joyce hollers back, hopping with excitement and vindication.

But instead of disarming her or scratching out her eyeballs or getting another lick in, Mackenzie goes straight for Bethany’s nose, sticking her thumb and pointer finger up one of her nostrils. Is that some secret way to take someone out? Is Mackenzieactuallya smoothie-making serial killer?

Her fingers come out a second later and they’re holding something? Part of Bethany’s brain??

Oh my god. Oh my god.Forget Team Mackenzie! I am Team Mavis Makes It Out of Here Alive! I need to split or I’m going to be next. But, wait, I can’t just leave Ms. Joyce and Polly…Polly issleeping? Are you kidding me? This damn dog is curled up at my feet, snoozing away as a possible serial killer is claiming her next victim right in front of us.

Forget them both! They’re on their own!

“I knew it!” Mackenzie yells. And it makes me pause. Because she doesn’t sound bloodthirsty or murderous. She sounds…triumphant? I know I need to run, but the confusion and curiosity are sending my body mixed signals, blocking out my self-preservation instinct.

“What in the devil is that?” Ms. Joyce asks.

I follow her narrowed gaze, losing precious moments to save my own ass, and…it doesn’tlooklike brain matter. Not that I’ve ever seen brain matter. But I don’t think something ripped out of someone’s nose would come out looking so…structured.And plasticky? The things in Mackenzie’s palm seem to be clear capsules, sitting in a puddle of deep scarlet.

And Bethany…she looks more annoyed than in pain. That’s something Idoknow for sure—if someone just tried to pull out your brain you wouldn’t be wrinkling your nose and giving them the side eye.

“You really couldn’t just be honest with me. After all I’ve done for you.” Mackenzie’s cracked voice sounds pained, pleading.

Bethany crosses her arms, her orange crystal still tightly clutched in her hands, but no longer ready to slice an artery. She pointedly looks away from Mackenzie standing over her.

“Mackenzie,whatis happening here?” Polly, the worst guard dog ever, lets out a loud snore to punctuate my point.

Mackenzie shakes her head and then meets my eye. Her chin trembles, and then her whole face hardens with resolution. “I didn’t believe you, Mavis. I was furious with you for suggesting that she could be lying about something so—so terrible.” She shoots a glare at Bethany, who is still committed to avoiding eye contact. “With Cole, I could just brush it off. He complained about the exercise classes to me before. He said he was doing most of the work, so he deserved more of the pay—it didn’t matter that her name was on it. When he came to me saying she faked cancer, I thought maybe he was just trying to ruin her reputation, so he could make more money. I thought he was the evil one.” Another poisonous look is launched in Bethany’s direction. “But with you, Mavis…I couldn’t let it go. What reason did you have to lie? You didn’t even know her. So last week, after I talked to you, I started looking into some of the details she’d given us over the years—the hospitals, the experimental trials, the relapses. And it didn’t add up. I wanted it to. But it didn’t.”

“So you punched her,” Ms. Joyce says, and Mackenzie’s sadeyes squint in confusion. “I didn’t punch her! I showed you”—she holds up the capsules in her hands—“the blood is fake.”

“But Ms. Joyce saw you punch her on her cameras.”

I look to Ms. Joyce to explain, but she sucks her lips in and then pops them out. A guilty grin appears. “Now, I didn’t say that. IsaidI saw Mackenzie taking the woman with the bloody face back to her lair—house. I assumed—fairly, based on the evidence—that Mackenzie punched her.”

Lord. But it’s not worth arguing this now, when we’re so close to finding out the truth here. “Okay, so youdidn’tpunch her. What did you find out then, Mackenzie? What happened when you confronted her—”

“Why do you hate me so much, Ms. Joyce?” Mackenzie’s chin is trembling again, and the blood capsules drop from her hand.

“I have never said I hated you.”

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