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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2021 by Natalie D. Richards

  Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Kerri Resnick

  Cover images © Abigail Miles/Arcangel; Yurlick/Shutterstock

  Internal design by Danielle McNaughton/Sourcebooks

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Ian, Adrienne, and Lydia.

  How did I get so lucky to have

  the three of you in my world?

  SEVEN DIRTY SECRETS

  I know seven secrets.

  One caused the fall.

  One did nothing.

  One saw it all.

  One didn’t care.

  One used their head.

  One played the hero.

  One was left for dead.

  One

  I wake with a dead man’s screams echoing in my ears, but that’s nothing new. Declan has stalked my dreams for the last three hundred and sixty-three days. I know I earned those nightmares fair and square, but couldn’t I have a break on my birthday?

  I grab my phone and scan my unread texts—a smattering of happy birthdays and good wishes that make my stomach twist. I’m eighteen today, but this day is more than that now. I guess in some part, it belongs to Declan too.

  I grab a pair of yoga pants and a buttery-soft T-shirt from Connor’s high school physics club. Might not be much of a birthday, but I sure don’t plan to spend all of it in the house. Inside the bathroom, I turn the water up as hot as I can stand it.

  When I’m squeaky clean and smelling like a sugar cookie—thank you, Hope, for constantly passing along the pricey toiletries you don’t like—I pull the shower curtain open and freeze.

  There’s a present on my bathroom sink.

  A small white box with a green satin bow sits at the edge of the counter, near my toothbrush and clothes. My hair drips onto the tile floor, and goose bumps rise on my arms.

  This was not here before. I search my memory, trying to revisit every moment of my shower. Did I hear anything? A door? Footsteps? No. If I’d heard anything I would have called out or looked. But I definitely did not put my clothes two inches from a gift box without noticing. Someone put this in here…while I was showering.

  My parents gave me a card with forty bucks before they left yesterday, Bennett is already on the road, and Connor isn’t big on wrapping and ribbons. So there’s only one explanation for a mystery birthday gift appearing in my bathroom.

  Hope.

  I grin and quickly pull on my clothes and run a towel over my hair. No chance am I touching that box. My best friend Hope is the ultimate prankster. But while she’s good at setting the elaborate traps, I’m good at sabotaging her efforts.

  I grab a can of Connor’s cheap shaving cream from under the sink and open the door a crack. I hear a lawn mower outside. The tick-tick-tick of the cat clock over our kitchen table. I don’t buy the silence. Hope would wait until I open the box and scream at whatever creepy-ass thing she stuffed inside. Bugs maybe. I hate bugs.

  Hearing nothing, I push the bathroom door wide and slip into the hall. The box of horrors stays exactly where it sits, thank you very much.

  My toes stick to the laminate floor as I sneak into the empty living room and the kitchen table buried under piles of old mail and an assortment of bolts and parts from whatever car Dad worked on last. Hope must be waiting in my room with a shit-eating grin and a bag of Doritos. Or rice cakes—God forbid she eat anything a normal person would consider junk food. Either way, I’ve got her.

  The only thing better than a perfectly executed prank is nailing the prankster before they get to enjoy your suffering. I enter my parents’ bedroom in ninja mode, stepping over the pile of dirty jeans in front of the dresser and hopping onto their bed. The window beside it overlooks the driveway, so I can climb out, run to the street, and coat every single window of Hope’s car in shaving cream while she waits and wonders why my shower is taking so long.

  But when I push the curtain open and unlatch the window, I realize the car isn’t there. Not on the street or in the driveway or anywhere else. A couple of kids play on the sidewalk. The guy with the lawn mower I heard is pushing it through the tiny patch of overgrown yard between his front stoop and our street.

  I jump off the bed and check the other window to see farther down the block, but Hope’s car isn’t there either. She’s not here.

  “Weird,” I say.

  It’s not like Hope to miss out on my reaction, and I’d know because we pull a lot of pranks. We live to stump each other with puzzles, mystery parties, and escape rooms, so we’re always scheming a new gimmick or angle to our tricks. Her not being here has to be part of the prank.

  I think.

  Still, it’s unusual. My hair drips onto the carpet. I press my toes onto a droplet that landed next to an old stain. Brownish, so maybe whiskey. Mom’s wine stains always turn pink.

  The air conditioner kicks off, and the silence is even heavier now. I walk back to the bathroom and brush out my hair, keeping an eye on
the gift. I try to convince myself I do not see a black spindly spider leg poking out of the lid.

  Or millipedes. I shudder. If Hope put millipedes in this box, I will kill her. I try to think of other possibilities, but I can’t push out the idea of those walking-eyelashes nightmares that creep into our house every spring and fall.

  I grab my phone from where I left it on the back of the sink and clear a missed call from an unknown number before I text her.

  Me: Is it a bug thing? Because if it’s a bug thing, I’m throwing it away.

  Her response is immediate. Um. What?

  Me: Look, you got me. Happy birthday to me. I’m as freaked as can be. But I’m not opening it.

  Hope: Opening what?

  I stare at my phone and then the box. My phone again. The shiny green bow. Can Hope even tie a bow? That girl is all thumbs. Another message buzzes in.

  Hope: Cleo?

  And then. Are you okay?

  An icy tentacle slithers up my spine. I turn to face the open bathroom door. Suddenly, my house feels different. I hear a warning in the silence. I see a threat in the shadow that stretches across the hallway.

  Someone was inside my house—inside my bathroom.

  And I have no idea who.

  Two

  I text Bennett fast. Did you leave me a birthday present?

  Bennett: No. Sorry. I suck.

  Another response buzzes in on my conversation with Hope.

  Hope: What’s going on?

  Bennett: Am I in trouble?

  I ignore Hope and text Bennett:

  Me: No, not trouble. Unless you’re pulling my leg and trying to keep my present a surprise.

  Bennett: No. I could lie and say I have it all wrapped on my dresser, but I should tell you now, since it’s our first birthday as a couple. I’m crap with presents.

  Me: No big deal. Don’t stress it. Seriously.

  My phone buzzes with another message.

  Hope: Did somebody leave you something?

  Bennett: I do know what I’m getting you. So, points for that, right?

  Me: Total points. This is weird though. Someone left me a box. Like a present.

  Bennett: Did you open it? What is it? Maybe there’s a card.

  Hope: Hello?

  Hope: Are you going to leave me hanging? What is it?

  I narrow my eyes at Hope’s text message. She’s got some serious rapid-fire texting going on. Unusual. Unless she’s desperate for my reaction to something. I frown at the message. It was her. It had to be her. If it wasn’t, she wouldn’t be going on with these quick, persistent texts. Also, if it wasn’t her, then I have to face the reality that a complete stranger was in my house, and that’s too scary to contemplate.

  I text Bennett: Never mind. It’s Hope. Wish me luck.

  Bennett: Thoughts and prayers. I’ll text you at the next stop.

  I square my shoulders and put my phone down. Time to open the box.

  It’s fine. Completely fine. If it’s millipedes, I will throw it into the bathtub…and light the house on fire on my way out.

  I untie the ribbon from the box and tap it experimentally, jerking my fingers back. I don’t hear anything moving. So not crickets or bees. I don’t think those damn millipedes make noise though. I shrink back as far as I can from my own fingers as I gingerly pry off the lid. I jump away the second it’s loose, but nothing moves.

  No bugs.

  I inch closer to the open box and spot a single slip of paper nestled on red velvet backing.

  Find your partner in crime

  And follow the clues.

  No one else can know.

  Happy hunting, birthday girl.

  I run the tip of my finger along the slip of paper. It’s cool. Smooth. There’s nothing on the back.

  My phone buzzes again, and when I check it, I see Hope’s name. My partner in crime. I pull up the message.

  Hope: Here with birthday goodies. You coming out? Or should I come in?

  Five seconds later, I fling the front door open and storm into the yard, holding out the white box. Hope catches sight of me and looks up from the driver’s seat of her car. Her pale ponytail is high and bone straight. Her thin lips purse as a furrow forms between her brows. She’s holding a large iridescent gift bag with absurd amounts of tissue paper poking out of the top.

  She pushes open the car door and steps out. “What’s going on? You look upset.”

  “I’m freaked. So, tell me right now, is this you?” I wave the box.

  Hope lifts her gift bag, and come to think of it, I can’t ever remember receiving a wrapped present from her. It’s always gift bags. She puts her other hand up in surrender. “This is your present from me.”

  “Look at my eyes,” I say. “If this is one of your stunts, boo-yah you’re the winner and now you need to tell me that it’s just a prank and I can calm down.”

  Hope shakes her head slowly. “I swear to you.”

  And that’s enough. Because Hope wouldn’t look me in the eye and lie to me. She’s the one person in my life I truly believe. Which means this box…

  I shiver. “When I got out of the shower, this was sitting on the sink.”

  “On your bathroom sink?” She’s already gathering the facts.

  I nod, and stare at my house like I’ve never seen it. The cracked stoop. The faded plastic awnings providing a sliver of shade over the two front windows. It’s small and white and a little ugly, but it’s never been frightening to me. Now I can’t stop staring at the dark windows. I can’t stop wondering if someone is in there right now.

  Watching us.

  “Are you sure this wasn’t here when you got in the shower? Your parents didn’t leave it for you? Or Connor? It is your birthday, Cleo.”

  She waggles the bag again and I open it, pulling out a perfectly folded gray hoodie. The logo on the front is a human fingerprint with an Edmond Locard quote. “Every contact leaves a trace.”

  I hug her. “I love it. It’s perfect. Thank you.”

  “I’m glad. Searching for gifts for a future forensic scientist leaves you open for some seriously creepy targeted ads. Now, let’s get back to this mystery gift.”

  I show her the note, and a crease puckers the flesh between her brows.

  “It was just sitting there,” I say. “I pulled back the shower curtain and bam.”

  “It was left on the bathroom sink, correct?” Sometimes talking to Hope is like being interviewed.

  “Yes. While I was showering.” I shiver again, imagining it. Someone standing there. Listening to me. Watching me through the curtain. I shake my head to push the thought away. “I didn’t hear a thing, no one was home, and the front door was still locked.”

  “What about Bennett?” she asks. “Would he know about the spare key?”

  “I don’t think so. Besides, he’s driving his grandma on an antiquing excursion. He didn’t do it.”

  “Connor?”

  “No chance.” Once upon a time, my birthday would have been a big deal to my brother. Last year he planned an entire whitewater rafting trip for me and my friends.

  But with the way that turned out, I’m not expecting any grand birthday surprises this year.

  “Are you sure? You two are close.”

  “We were close. Past tense.” My throat feels suddenly thick. “After what happened in West Virginia…”

  Hope nods and finishes for me. “I know it was awful, and I’m sure today is hard, but it still could be Connor. He knows you like a good mystery. Heck, everyone knows.”

  “I guess. Maybe I should check with him.”

  I text him to ask:

  Me: Did you leave me a birthday present?

  His response is what I expected.

  Connor: Not me, but happy birthday. Have fun!

>   Is this the same brother who made me chocolate chip pancakes on my birthday when he was eight? The same guy who helped me when I couldn’t write my sevens? He was my hero. And now…

  I sigh and show the message to Hope, who looks at my house, worry falling over her features. “Any chance it’s your parents?”

  “Definitely not. They’re on Dad’s job site in Virginia. They left yesterday.”

  Dad works giant cranes, so he follows the work. He’s out of town for months at a time. When we were little, that meant Mom was alone a lot with me and Connor. Now, she goes with him more often than not. For Connor’s junior and senior years, it was kind of fun. Me and him against the world. But then Connor went to college. Other than the stint with Declan and the times my dad is in between contracts, I’m alone a lot.

  Hope doesn’t take her eyes from my house. “First things first. Tell me who you think would leave this in your bathroom while you’re showering, because honestly, that feels…”

  “Terrifying,” I say. Hope doesn’t argue.

  My mind conjures images of fingers curling around my bathroom door frame. Then placing the gift—just so—on the edge of my sink. Who the hell would want to scare me like this, on my birthday of all days?

  My mind supplies an easy answer—Declan. But Declan is long gone. I know that better than anyone.

  “Do you have any neighbors who are overly friendly?” she asks. “Does anyone make you uncomfortable?”

  I shrug, because that applies to lots of folks around here. This isn’t the land of PTAs and picket fences. Break-ins and street fights are common, so most of us are a little on edge.

  I follow Hope’s gaze back to my house and try to imagine myself striding up the sidewalk and pulling the front door open. In the end, I can’t shake the idea that someone is in there right now. Watching me through my own windows. Just waiting for me to come back inside.

  Yeah, there’s no way I’m going back in that house.

  I pull out my phone and unlock the screen.

  “Are you calling your parents?” Hope asks.

  I laugh. My parents hardly ever answer their phones and are never helpful when they do.

  “The police,” I say. “I’m calling the police.”