I was so screwed.
My life didn’t flash before my eyes as I scrambled toward the room Sebastian had mentioned, I didn’t have any profound thought about existence or my place in the world, and I definitely didn’t care if my underwear was clean. There were exactly two words running through my head, and they were Oh, shit.
Not “Run, Emmy!”
Not “Hide, Emmy!”
That would’ve been entirely too practical for someone who forgot to take the killer into account before stupidly storming off on her own.
I deserved to die.
Scratch that, I didn’t deserve to die. I wasn’t a mass murderer, or a child molester, or a corrupt accountant who’d just screwed a bunch of senior citizens out of their retirement funds. Unless I was paying for crimes from a past life, this wasn’t a case of karmic retribution.
I didn’t deserve to die.
And yet the only person I had to blame was myself. Ben had told me countless times to hand the Slate over to the authorities, but I’d been hell-bent on finding my own answers. I’d gambled on myself—on my nonexistent sleuthing abilities—and now I had to pay the price.
The Slate vibrated again.
Marco.
I ducked behind a bookshelf, peering frantically into the darkness. I thought the dark blob ahead of me might be a doorframe, but I had no idea how many I’d already passed, and the sharp waves of panic crashing through me didn’t make it any easier to recall.
The Slate jolted in my hand with a fresh set of vibrations.
Marco.
That wasn’t the only bit of information it had to share with me.
Potential Hostile within 50 ft.
My hand flew to my mouth to stifle the scream burning at my throat. It probably defied some primal instinct that believed screaming loud and long enough would send someone running to my rescue.
Except right now? The only person who would rush over was the one currently hunting me down.
Marco.
I darted forward. I wanted to cling to the books and hide amongst the hardcovers forever, but instead I plastered my back against the wooden door and tried to hide in the dark recess of the frame.
Potential Hostile within 45 ft.
My fingers fumbled in my pocket for the keys. I should have tucked the one that unlocked the lobby door into the back pocket of my jeans. Instead, I had let them clink softly against each other as I’d raced up the stairs. Now I had to test two keys on what might be the wrong door, all without giving my position away to the killer.
Because what my life really needed at this precise moment was another challenge.
My entire body shook as if I’d tripped into an ice bank. The palms of my hands would probably still have the key imprint when the medical examiner saw me at the morgue. I was clutching the sharp ridges tightly enough to draw blood, but the pain cut through some of the fear.
It sharpened everything. The warm familiar musk of books became oppressive, the silhouettes of shelving units loomed menacingly around me. The darkness began to recede as my eyes adjusted to the room, which might’ve been comforting if the shadows weren’t my best source of protection.
Marcooo.
Potential Hostile within 43 ft.
I shoved the key blindly at the lock, expecting it to immediately resist. Instead, it slid home so sweetly I wanted to weep in relief. Apparently, there was still enough Nemmy in me to keep it together because I didn’t make a sound. Maybe it was knowing, without a doubt, that these next few minutes were going to be my last. That every scare, every instinctive glance over my shoulder, every increase in my pulse, it had all been building to this moment.
Sebastian wasn’t around with any of his so-called lifelines. Audrey couldn’t hack me out of danger. Ben couldn’t save the day by calling the cops.
It was just me.
Marco.
Potential Hostile within 38 ft.
I shut the door as quietly as I could before engaging the lock and jamming a chair underneath it for extra reinforcement. At best, it might stall him for an extra minute or two. It wouldn’t stop him. Not this time. He was still coming. I began searching the area for a weapon, a distraction, a distress signal; I wasn’t picky. Nothing I saw inspired much confidence.
There was a long granite-tiled countertop with a whole set of utensils in a hard plastic container, but I didn’t think the killer would be impressed if I brandished the nearest piece of silverware and advised him not to fork with me. If I had even the slightest clue how to create a bomb, I totally would have used the butter knife to strip the wires on the coffeepot or something. Except realistically that seemed like a great way to electrocute myself and take care of the killer’s job for him.
The cupboards were mostly empty. A few boxes of cereal, some granola bars that had probably been sitting there for the last decade. Five very stale looking bagels sat on the counter near the coffee pot, which had me hoping that I’d find a bread knife with razor sharp teeth.
Instead, I came up with a handful of spatulas, a ladle, and inexplicably, a whisk.
I continued ransacking the drawers for anything that even vaguely resembled a weapon more than, oh, say an eggbeater. A container of bleach was the closest to a chemical weapon that I could find, and it was too sludgy and crusted over to fling into my attacker’s eyes. My Slate vibrated again as I grabbed a floral-etched casserole dish.
Marco.
I held my breath and stared at the screen, bracing myself for the Potential Hostile update. It reminded me of being six years old and crawling scared into my mom’s bed during a lightning storm. She had held me protectively, whispering through every electric crack that the storm was God’s way of putting on a show. She said that the flash of lightning that blazed in the sky was a performer making a grand entrance and the answering thunder clap was a round of angel applause.
The killer was putting on quite a show, but I wasn’t going to cheer his grand finale.
Potential Hostile within 40 ft.
He was headed in the wrong direction. All I needed to do was buy enough time for the security guard to reach the library. As long as the killer didn’t bust through the door within the next ten minutes, I stood a fighting chance. My fingers trembled. Flashing the lights on and off, heaving the ceramic casserole dish out the window, it might be enough to make the killer retreat. Bide his time for another chance to strike.
Unless he decided a few more dead bodies wouldn’t make much of a difference.
I stared numbly at the Slate, my body locked in a terror so complete it paralyzed me. I had a freaking casserole dish, a set of keys, and a password-protected tablet. If I had paused to grab my bag before exiting the computer lab, I could have at least called Audrey for help. Hell, I could have called the police. But no, I’d headed straight for the door with the one piece of technology I couldn’t crack to save my life.
Literally, as it turned out.
Marco!
My heart lurched, the gleam of sweat on my palms threatening my grip on the casserole dish. I still couldn’t bring myself to move. To hide. To flee. To do something—anything—more than staring wide-eyed with horror at the door. My pulse pounded away like a jackhammer on a construction site, loud enough to be heard a mile away.
Potential Hostile within 32 ft.
He was getting closer.
The message was replaced only by the achingly familiar password screen. Sebastian’s voice rang out in my head, complete with the annoyed gruffness that always seemed to simmer beneath his words.
There has to be something that you know, Emmy. Something that I don’t.
My grip on the casserole dish tightened. I knew that I didn’t want to die. Not here. Not now. Not ever, truthfully, but definitely not like this. The fear and panic began to slow as a sense of unreality settled over me. This couldn’t be happening, but since it was, well, then I might as well go down fighting. It was kind of amazing how quickly true desperation eliminated the fear of looking stupid. So what if my last-minute password attempts sounded ridiculous? If it didn’t work, I’d be dead. There was no downside to going straight for the jugular. Just like Frederick St. James had advised back in the coffee shop.
I typed in J-U-G-L-A-R to make it fit and hit Enter.
Invalid password.
I tried to recall those first moments in Starbucks, the shock of having my drink snatched away from me. The way I’d met the icy blue eyes that Sebastian had inherited, right before I insisted that the Frappuccino was mine.
There had to be something I was missing. Some clue. Some signal.
Something.
The Slate buzzed again.
Come out, come out, wherever you are.
Ignoring the words on the screen, I focused on my one memory of Frederick St. James. The kindness that had washed over his features when he had called me “Gracie.”
G-R-A-C-I-E
Invalid password.
My stomach twisted and roiled as I fought back the tears pricking my eyes. There was so much more I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to see my name in print, to stand right next to Audrey when we tossed our graduation caps into the air, to have the kiss I’d always fantasized about with Ben. I wanted to tell him how I felt, even if it cost us our friendship. I wanted to hug my mom and trade “I love yous” with her one last time. To apologize for being defeated by a six-character riddle.
I wanted one last chance to be completely honest.
Maybe if Frederick St. James had been a little more upfront, nobody would be on the verge of gunning me down. The guy had obviously suspected somebody or else he wouldn’t have created his Potential Hostile alert. A sane person would have shared that fear with friends. Family members. Colleagues. Maybe if he’d trusted somebody they could have come up with a loophole out of this mess.
Wasn’t that supposed to be the first rule of Emptor Academy? There’s always a caveat.
Potential Hostile within 20 ft.
My fingers shaking, I typed C-A-V-E-A-T onto the screen.
Nothing happened.
My legs nearly buckled in defeat, but I couldn’t give up. Couldn’t let this be the end. Couldn’t—
A searing light burst from the Slate, blinding me as completely as a military-grade weapon designed to stun insurgents.
There was no way the killer hadn’t noticed a flash, bright enough to have pink splotches dancing in front of my eyes, shining through the cracks of the door.
My last-ditch, long shot of a backup plan had given me away for good.