Mom’s against the charity event. Big surprise. She lays out her case as if she’s arguing in front of a judge: It’s too much. It’s too dangerous. I’d be missing my evening treatment. I shouldn’t be out late on a school night. Besides, don’t I have homework?

I listen to her patiently, chewing on my salted ribeye steak, and when there’s finally a break in the conversation, I argue as if I’m a criminal on death row: It’s not too much—I won’t dance, I’ll sit down if I feel too tired, and I’ll call her with updates every hour if she wants. Every half hour, even! The nurse can do my treatment before I go. I’m finished with all my homework, and the history midterm isn’t due for three weeks. Besides, it’s just one night. I deserve to have some fun every now and then.

And then I bring out the big guns: what is life if I just spend it cloistered inside the house?

It’s a cheap shot, but it worked to get me into school.

And it works now.

Mom sighs heavily and sets down her fork, and I abandon my dinner to run around the table and squeeze her neck so hard she makes exaggerated choking noises.

“What are you going to wear?” Jenny asks, now that the battle’s done.

“I’m borrowing something from a friend.”

“Who?” she asks, suspicious. She knows as well as I do how limited my pool of friends is.

“Farrah. Why?”

“Oh my God, Farrah Weir-Montgomery?” Jenny squeals.

“How do you know her?”

“Please. Everyone knows her. Can I come too?”

“No,” Mom and I say at the same time. Jenny pouts.

But Jenny’s enthusiasm is infectious. I can’t believe Mom actually said yes. I’m going on a date!

A few weeks ago I thought I’d die in my bedroom without ever experiencing any of the normal things teenagers get to do. And then that invitation turned up in my in-box. Next thing I knew I was sneaking out of the house at midnight, kissing a boy, and going on a date. Ever since the mysterious Society came along, my life has changed for the better.

Minus the car.

I suddenly feel guilty that I’m going to be sneaking out of the house in six hours to play a game that’s already cost Mom so much.

“Hey, Mom, do you want to watch a movie tonight?” I ask. “I miss just hanging out.”

“Oh,” she says, clearly surprised. “I was going to deal with rental car stuff, but…I can do that later.” Her whole face brightens. “And that reminds me. We got something in the mail today from your dad. He says hello. Sent us a bit of cash too. Isn’t that nice? Couldn’t have come at a better time.” She beams.

“Really? Can I see it?” Jenny asks excitedly.

I work to rearrange my face into a happy expression. It was the only way I could think of to give Mom the money from that first night at the warehouse without raising a bunch of alarms. Now I feel bad about how excited she seems at the contact from Dad. How excited Jenny seems.

“Sure,” Mom says, getting up from the table and returning a moment later. “I thought he was in New York, but it was a Louisiana stamp. Maybe he’s going to stop by soon?” She passes her the envelope I picked up from a convenience store a few days ago.

Jenny takes it, her eyes traveling over my sloppy attempt to forge Dad’s handwriting, and understanding slowly dawns on her face. She glances up at me, and I look away sharply, clearing my throat.

“So, Jenny, you wanna join our movie date?” I ask, changing subjects.

There’s a long pause.

“Nah, you guys do your thing. I’ve got stuff.” She tosses the envelope at me so that the sharp edge hits me in the chest, pops up from the table, and disappears to her room.

“Don’t mind her,” Mom says. “You know she just misses her father.”

I nod and try to force a smile.

“So, what movie?” Mom asks brightly.

Lyla is waiting for me promptly at quarter to twelve. She’s tense at the wheel, staring resolutely at the cracked parking lot while I climb into the passenger seat and drag my purse into my lap. Her blond hair is pulled into a high ponytail that looks moderately painful.

“Did something happen?” I ask.

She forces a smile and shifts into drive, pulling out of the parking lot. “No, nothing new. I’ve just been thinking about our conversation in the library today.”

“And?”

“And I really think it’s best if we just keep our heads down and do what they say.”

“But I think we can still figure out who’s behind this.” I swivel to face her with my whole body. The Quarter whirs by outside the window, a flash of color and light. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but that first night, at the warehouse, everyone got weird when I asked them what the Society had on them….”

Lyla looks away.

“If it can help us figure out who’s behind this, please tell me. I won’t say anything to the other girls if you don’t want me to. I just…feel like I need to know.”

Lyla works her jaw, fingers gripped so tightly on the wheel that her knuckles turn white. Just when I think she’s going to refuse, she speaks.

“She died.” Her voice is hoarse and gritty. “My sister. She was depressed, I knew that, but I didn’t really know how bad it was. The week before, I asked her if I could borrow her sweater and she told me I could keep it. It was weird—I mean, she loved that sweater. But I didn’t realize…They say it’s a warning sign. When people start giving away their stuff. It was a warning, and I missed it.”

She swallows hard.

“That night she had her music on really loud. We got in a big fight about it, and I said some things I regret. You know, when you’re in the heat of the moment and you say the one thing you know will push the other person’s buttons just to see them react?” She shakes her head, the ends of her ponytail grazing her shoulder. “I had an awards banquet that night, and when I got home, there was an ambulance in the driveway. Mom went crazy after. I never told her what happened—that I’d said the thing that made her do it.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I say gently, horror and sorrow filling every bit of me. “You can’t think that way.”

Lyla shrugs. “Anyway, that’s what the Society threatened me with. Telling Mom I was behind my sister’s death.”

“But you aren’t!”

“Doesn’t matter. My mom’s so fragile. She had to be hospitalized when it happened. She spent over a month in the Pavilion, and she’s only just starting to get better. Even now she sometimes stares off into space, and I get so worried….Something like this could send her over the edge. I can’t lose her. She’s all I have left. My dad’s a total write-off now. After my sister died, he started putting in all these crazy hours at work. He’s just checked out.”

“I’m sorry,” I say after a long beat. There’s nothing else to say.

It all makes sense now. Why Lyla left school and a promising basketball career last year, why she’s back now.

“Who else knew?” I ask.

“See, that’s the thing,” Lyla says. “No one. I never told a soul.”

“Did your sister have any friends? Anyone she might have called?”

“No,” she says without hesitation, and I remember what she said before about her sister being bullied so badly she had to be homeschooled. “Well, she did have one good friend, but she ditched her when things got hard.”

I frown. Finally, finally, someone opens up, reveals her dark secret, and it doesn’t get us any closer to finding out who is behind the Society.

We reach the old warehouse with ten minutes to spare. Farrah’s BMW is parked out front, but when we go inside, she’s nowhere to be found.

“Farrah?” I call, moving deeper into the dusty room. My voice echoes on the high ceilings.

Lyla sits down on an upturned crate. “Maybe she had to pee.”

I sit too. The jar is here, sitting in the center of the floor like an offering. I’m tempted to take whatever dare is hidden inside and burn it. But who am I kidding? I’m not that brave.

Two more minutes pass, and no Farrah. It’s so unlike her to go off on her own in the dark, and I start to worry. “Don’t you think we should just make sure she’s okay?” I ask.

Lyla shrugs. “She wouldn’t do it for us, but I guess, if you want.”

“Just a quick sweep,” I say.

Lyla pushes up and heads toward the stairwell at the back of the room. I start to follow, but a noise from a darkened corridor catches my attention. Lyla’s footsteps clomp above my head. I pull out my cell and open the flashlight app, holding it out against the lurking shadows as I creep forward. Something clatters in a room to my left, and I leap away from the door, heart racing.

Someone is in there.

I hesitate, then reach for the handle and whip the door open.

It takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing. Which is Hartley. And Farrah. Making out.

Hartley presses Farrah into the wall of a small storage closet. Farrah’s skirt is bunched up her thighs, which are wrapped around Hartley’s waist, and she’s got her fingers tangled into Hartley’s spiky hair.

They break apart when they see me, and Farrah quickly readjusts her skirt and wipes her lips.

“What are you doing here?” she demands, when I should be the one asking her that. But I’m too stunned to do anything. Farrah and Hartley? I start to wonder if I hit my head really hard, if this is all just a dream and I’m asleep at home.

Footsteps echo down the hallway. Farrah leaps out of the closet, and Hartley follows, smiling smugly. There’s lipstick smeared around her mouth. Farrah sees it.

“Wipe your mouth!” she hisses.

“Now you’re shy?” Hartley teases. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so pleased.

The footsteps draw nearer.

“Hurry!”

“Yes, princess,” Hartley mutters, wiping a hand over the evidence.

Lyla jogs up, panting for breath. “Oh, good. You found her. Hey, Hartley. I didn’t know you were here too. What were you guys doing?”

“Looking for the Society,” Farrah pipes up brightly. “No sign.” She levels a warning look at me before pushing past us toward the meeting room. Everyone else follows. Hartley lags behind, grinding her lighter so hard it’s a wonder it doesn’t shatter in her grip.

I replay every antagonistic conversation I’ve ever heard between Farrah and Hartley and realize the startling truth: Farrah doesn’t hate Hartley. She loves her, and she doesn’t want anyone to know.

It’s her big secret. What the Society is using against her.

When we reach the main room, Farrah unceremoniously pulls our next dare from the jar. We circle around as she reads aloud:

“Go to the Rheem Manufacturing plant. Further instructions await you.” She drops her hand.

“I guess I’m driving again?” Lyla says, breaking the tense silence.

Everyone nods. Everyone except Hartley, who has abandoned her lighter and is now tapping away at an ancient cell with a worn skull-and-crossbones case and a giant crack down the screen. Leave it to Hartley to make texting look badass.

“Hartley?” Farrah says tersely.

She slowly drags her eyes up, an eyebrow cocked high. “Yes, princess?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are we bothering you? We were just discussing getting to the plant. But by all means, finish texting.” Farrah crosses her arms. “Who are you even talking to, anyway?”

“Jealous?” Hartley asks.

Farrah’s cheeks flush. “No! God!”

I look at the floor. It’s weird watching them argue, now that I know they’re some sort of secret couple.

“That’s what I thought.” Hartley shoots out the door, and Lyla trails behind her. I start to follow, but Farrah grabs my arm.

“About what you saw—”

“It’s okay,” I interrupt.

“Not, it’s not,” she says through her teeth, then flicks her eyes at the door. “If anyone found out, I’d be ruined.”

I roll my eyes. “Farrah, it’s 2016. No one cares if you’re a lesbian.”

Farrah laughs humorlessly. “It might look like the world is all full of rainbows and gay pride parades, but it’s not like that for us in the real world, okay? My grandmother’s eighty-four years old and a staunch Republican. Last year when we were at the club having brunch, she asked the manager if we could be moved to another section because she didn’t want to be served by a gay guy. If she knew about me, she’d disown me.”

I don’t know what to say. To Farrah, this secret is as weighty— as potentially destructive—as Lyla’s. Revealing it would change her life dramatically.

Farrah misinterprets my silence and continues. “And it’s not just my grandmother. Hartley has a criminal record. My dad would freak if he knew I was with someone like her. It would ruin his campaign. Just promise me you won’t tell anyone.” Her fingernails dig into my arm, and she pleads with her eyes.

“Okay, okay, I promise.”

She lets go of my arm and starts toward the door. I hesitate, thinking of Ethan.

“But, Farrah?” She stops short. The moonlight fracturing in through the door makes her dark hair look gilded. “If you care about her, don’t let her slip away. She’s not going to wait around forever.”

“I don’t love her,” she says. A crease forms between her brows, and a corner of her lip turns down, then she turns for the door.

No one talks in the car, and not even the radio on full blast can dispel the thick tension in the air. Every passing minute I keep almost saying something, then chickening out, until it reaches a point where it would be more awkward to talk.

We finally reach our destination: a sun-faded brownstone that stretches three stories high and half a city block wide. The name RHEEM MANUFACTURING is stamped across the front in chipped block script. The huge parking lot is empty and tapers off into bulrushes and train tracks.

We climb out of the car and begin a cautious approach. Farrah pulls a tube of lip gloss out of her purse and slicks it over her lips with quick, practiced strokes as she eyes the shadowy windows. I realize now that it’s probably more a nervous habit than a vain one.

“Does anybody see anything?” Farrah asks.

But no one answers. Obviously we’ll have to get closer to find the instructions.

“Maybe we have to free-climb the building?” Hartley suggests. She hikes up her jeans as she strides across the blacktop, only to have them fall halfway down her ass again.

“Doubt it,” Farrah says. “We already did a dare involving heights.”

“I guess the rule book forbids doing that twice?” Hartley says.

Farrah rolls her eyes.

“Maybe it’s like a face-your-worst-fear type of thing,” I say, hoping I’m wrong.

Hartley’s in the spirit of the game now and adds, “Maybe we have to go through a meat grinder or something.”

“Oh my God, Hart!” Farrah says.

Lyla makes a disgusted face and puts up her hands. “Okay, enough guessing. Let’s just…go inside and see.”

Lyla crosses to the door and tests the handle. It swings open into darkness.

For a moment we hover there, four girls at the mouth of the unknown. We’ve changed so much since that first night, when we were scared but at least a little bit excited about the prospect of a prize at the end of this. Now there’s not an ounce of excitement to be found between us. All that’s left is cold, uncomfortable determination.

Together we step inside. The door closes behind us, making the pale glow of four cell phones the only light in the dark. The air is musty and close, like a basement full of damp cardboard boxes, and there’s a faint metallic scent in the air.

“Is there a light switch somewhere?” Farrah asks, leaning closer to Hartley.

“Welcome.”

We shriek at the voice coming over the loudspeaker, and our bodies clash together. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. The Society is here. Somewhere in this building is the man with the ski mask. Maybe others too.

“Congratulations!” the voice continues, low and guttural and obviously distorted with a voice changer. “You have all made it through to the semifinals of this game of thrills and dares. Give yourselves a round of applause.”

Our harsh breathing fills the silence. We cling to one another with sweaty hands.

“Give yourselves a round of applause,” the voice commands again.

He can see us, I realize. A chill shudders through me. We break apart and clap lightly.

“Good,” the voice says. “Now let’s begin. When the alarm sounds, one of you will follow the path until you reach the door marked Enter. You can take as long as you like to complete the task, but you won’t want to take too long. Trust me. When the alarm sounds again, it’s time for the next player to follow the path. Good luck, players. Oh, and girls?” There’s a long pause. “Behave.”

We wait for further instructions, but they don’t come.

“What the hell does that mean, You won’t want to take too long?” Farrah asks. Her voice sounds strange, nervous.

“It means we’re going to have motivation,” Hartley says.

There’s a thunk thunk thunk, and a panel of floor lights comes to life on the ground, slithering out into the bowels of the factory. The silhouette of snaking pipes and a high ceiling juts out from the dark. A low beeping blares through the loudspeakers.

Lyla clears her throat. “So. Who’s going first?”

“Too late.” We follow Farrah’s line of vision to find Hartley already marching down the path, disappearing into the pools of shadow.

“What’s with her tonight?” Lyla asks.

Farrah pretends to be looking for something in her purse, making a concerted effort not to meet my eyes.

It’s…weird. I’d always thought Farrah was the definition of cool and confident. Now I see how much of that is an act, how deeply insecure and scared she really is.

I turn in a small circle, peering into the dark. “Well, what now?”

“Now we wait,” Lyla says.

There’s a pause; then Farrah says, “I think we should look around. Maybe we can find who’s behind this.”

“And then what?” Lyla asks. “Challenge them with our lip gloss? Who knows if these people have a weapon? Scratch that, they definitely have weapons after we went after that guy at the swamp. And I’m sure they’re not going to be too happy to know we’re out looking for them again. You heard what that guy said about behaving. He’s warning us. Besides, Hartley’s alone in there. What if they want to retaliate? What if they use her against us? Threaten to kill her or something if we step out of line?”

The number of possible consequences is staggering. The Society has us exactly where they want us.

“Okay, okay, you’re right,” Farrah says.

“Let’s just…sit down and wait.” Lyla finds a spot against a wall and folds her legs underneath her. Farrah sits across from her, and I follow.

Wind shudders against the windows. Metal clangs from somewhere deep inside the building. I wrap my arms around my knees, wondering what Hartley is facing. What’s waiting for us at the end of that path? Something better done fast. A maze in the dark? A fistfight until someone is KO’d? I shudder. Lyla’s probably right. There’s no use imagining what it’ll be. It could be anything.

Farrah toys with a silver bracelet on her wrist, looking out into the menacing dark. I wonder if she got it as a reward for finishing the swamp dare or if it was a gift from Hartley.

My tired brain grinds like cogs in a machine.

I hadn’t thought about it before, but the gifts, the grand prize—it’s strange, in a way. It isn’t enough for the Society to threaten us with exposing our secrets—they ply us with the promise of rewards too. Threaten us with punishments. It seems so…desperate. They don’t trust themselves, their power over us.

The thought isn’t as comforting as it should be. Desperation drives people to do crazy, unpredictable things. It turns people into monsters.

“It’s going to be weird going to the ball after tonight,” Farrah says absently, looking out into the factory.

“I know, right?” I agree.

“Ball?” Lyla asks, fighting a yawn.

“Just some charity thing we’re going to,” I explain.

“Together? Well…that sounds fun!”

I know she’s just trying to dispel the tension, but I can’t match her enthusiasm. Maybe tomorrow, but not right now.

I check the time on my phone. Fifteen minutes since Hartley disappeared. I remember the Society’s words: You won’t want to take too long. How long is too long? What happens when you don’t finish quickly?

I shake myself out. There’s no use worrying about it right now. My turn will come soon enough.

My mind jumps back to Hartley and Farrah. It’s so…unexpected. I remember the way Hartley teased Farrah about kissing her in the car on the way to Six Flags, the way she brazenly stood around in her bra at the swamp despite Farrah’s protests, and it hits me that Hartley doesn’t want to hide their relationship. So what’s her big secret? What’s keeping her in this game other than the promise of money?

I remember her bruised, scarred body and consider her daredevil attitude. Maybe she’s just glad to have the opportunity to not be at home.

It’s all so twisted that my head starts to hurt.

Something clatters inside the building, and we all sit up fast, looking around.

“What was that?” Farrah asks.

I cock my ear toward the dark, trying to hear past the rush of my heartbeat. But it doesn’t happen again, and after a tense minute we sag back into our former positions. Farrah rubs hard at her temples.

I check the time on my phone again. Thirty-eight minutes. If Hartley took this long, just how long will it take the rest of us? I think of Mom at home, waking up early and checking in on me, finding I’m not there. Something squeezes deep in my belly.

Lyla jerks suddenly.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, before I realize she’s just struggling to stay awake.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, then yawns and lets her head loll back again.

I don’t know how she can be nodding off right now, but I’m deeply envious. I haven’t slept properly in days. Anxiety has me coiled so tightly that I’m wide awake and on edge almost all the time.

Fifty-nine minutes.

When an alarm blares, I jerk as if I’ve been shocked.

“Finally!” Farrah says.

Lyla rubs hard at her eyes. “Was that the alarm?” She pushes to her feet. “I want to go next. I can’t sit here anymore.”

“Good luck,” I say.

She gives me a tense smile, and then she’s off, following the lighted path.

I settle against the wall, watching Farrah thumb through her phone. I could do the same thing, but I want to be completely alert in case something comes out of those shadows. Because someone is out there, somewhere.

I jump when the alarm sounds, not expecting to hear it so soon. I check my watch. It’s only been ten minutes, if that.

“Well, that’s a good sign.” Farrah rises to her feet. “I’ll go next.”

And then I’m alone. I wrap my arms tightly around my knees, my veins skipping and buzzing with adrenaline. There’s so much energy rushing through my body I can hardly stand it, but I don’t dare move, as if danger won’t be able to find me so long as I keep very still.

Time stretches out, every minute more painful than the last. I check my watch. Over half an hour. Soon it’ll be my turn. I’ll have to get up and walk into the building, face whatever is waiting for me. I blow out a slow breath.

This whole setup must take more than one person. I try to remember if there were any cars parked outside, a bike, anything. Were there tire tracks leading in? It’s useless thinking about it—it’s not like someone sophisticated enough to run this game would do something as stupid as parking a car out front—but I have nothing else to think about anyway, nothing to do but sit here and be scared.

I’m surprised when the alarm buzzes after forty-four minutes. What could the dare possibly be?

I stand up, wiping the dirt off my pants. It occurs to me that the dirt would have been a major fear before, but I didn’t think twice about sitting on the dusty floor. Somehow things like that don’t seem so important anymore.

You can do this, Hope. It’s just one more dare.

My footsteps echo softly as I follow the lights into the factory, passing blackened doorways, frozen conveyor belts, and stalled machinery. I don’t know if it’s the dark or the fact that it’s the first dare I’m doing without the other girls nearby, but my nerves are stretched tight and ready to snap and a cold sweat glues my shirt to my back. I start imagining things jumping out at me from the dark, and a whimper escapes me. I shake my head to get rid of the thought.

The other girls did this. I can do it too.

When the lights trip up a narrow, creaky staircase to a hallway full of dirt-encrusted windows full of moonlight, I almost collapse with relief. But before long the path dips back into utter darkness. Something drips slowly in the shadows, and I almost wish I’d never seen the light at all. Then I see it: a red Enter sign, like the ones they have at cheap diners, flashing and buzzing quietly above a steel door. I wipe my hands on my pants and step forward, gripping the handle in my damp palm. I push.

The door sucks open, and cold air mists around me. I blink against the sudden light, goose bumps flashing up my arms. When my vision clears, I see animal carcasses hanging from hooks along one of the frost-crusted walls, an empty stainless-steel cart pushed against another. My breath puffs in front of me. It’s some sort of walk-in freezer.

Snow crunches under my shoes as I step into the room. It has to be twenty degrees below in here. I wrap my arms around myself.

There’s a soft thump behind me, and I whirl around, my heart thudding behind my ears. It was just the door closing. I laugh to myself. Don’t be such a baby, Hope.

But when I turn around, there’s a body crawling toward me.