I

t’s getting dark by the time I pull into Eva’s driveway.

The driveway’s empty, as I knew it would be. Her family is at church like they are every night.

The front door is unlocked as usual.

I take out my phone and look at the time. 7:51 P.M. They usually go to the seven o’clock service on weekdays, but I’m not exactly sure how long it takes. An hour, maybe? So I’d better hurry.

“You first, girl,” I say.

I’m talking to Belle, who I brought with me. I was worried my parents would catch me when I stopped at home to get her, but they weren’t there. They’re probably out looking for me, I know, but I can’t worry about that now.

I have blackmail material to find.

I follow Belle into the house and let her go racing through the house to find her friend. They haven’t seen each other in months, and Belle is frantic with excitement. She’s got a great nose, so to her the whole house must reek of beagle.

I listen to her dash around the downstairs as I head up to Eva’s room.

Truthfully, I’m not exactly sure what I hope to find in here. Something incriminating, I guess. Something that will prove Eva’s the one who’s been harassing me and not the other way around. A diary, maybe. I don’t know for sure that Eva keeps a diary, but I think there’s a pretty good chance. After all the letters she’s written to me, maybe she writes to herself too.

Still, even if she does have a diary, it’s not like I can just show it to the world—not unless I want people to know I trespassed in her house. But maybe I can blackmail her with it. Unless you tell the truth, I could tell her, I’m going to make your FEELINGS public knowledge.

Yikes. Who knew I was capable of being this nasty?

A part of me thinks I’m not—that even if I find a diary, I’ll never use it to blackmail Eva, no matter what she’s done. But another part of me—the angry part—kind of likes this plan.

As I search the room, I can’t help noticing how messy it is. Clothes are everywhere, which is strange. Eva’s not a neat freak, but she’s no slob either. What’s even stranger is all the dresser drawers. The bottom drawers are open and look rummaged through. Pant legs and sweatshirt arms spill over the drawers’ edges. The top drawers have been pulled completely out and toppled over. Balled-up socks and bunched-up underwear clutter the floor.

I spot an empty jewelry case just as the dogs start barking loudly.

“Woof!” Belle barks.

“Arf!” Skittles howls.

“Ow!” another voice yells from downstairs. I freeze.

This voice belongs to a human. And it doesn’t stop: “Owwww!”

It doesn’t sound like Eva or her mom or dad. Whoever it is, he’s swearing now, something Eva’s parents would never do. Without thinking about it, I bend down and pick up a soccer cleat that’s lying on the floor.

I should stay up here. Even in my adrenaline-crazed state, I know I should. But I don’t. Maybe it’s because of the adrenaline or because the screaming voice sounds more pained than fierce—but rather than lock Eva’s door I open it. I sprint down the stairs.

I race through the kitchen with the soccer cleat raised above my head like a tomahawk.

As I round the corner and enter the living room, I see that the shoe won’t be necessary. The dogs have the situation under control. Each has her incisors deep into an ankle of the burglar, who is sitting on the floor and still yelping in pain. He’s swatting vainly at the pooches, who are too busy chewing on his jeans to notice.

As for the burglar, he’s nowhere near as scary as the ones on TV. In fact, he’s just a pimply faced kid with his pockets full of jewelry and a couple laptops stacked next to him. My guess is the kid is thirteen years old. Fourteen, tops.

“Who are you?” I demand.

“He says his name is Tony,” a voice says from behind me. I turn and see Eva standing in the entryway, looking straight at us.