Chapter Forty-Four Piper

Chapter Forty-Four

Piper

Now: Sunday, 8:30 p.m.

In the flickering firelight, everything has a touch of menace.

But Liam looks the picture of innocence. I know better now.

Boy Scout is the perfect cover. Delaney's nice-guy boyfriend, the odd man out in that friend group. The puzzle piece that never quite fit. Except it does in the end. Awful people keep awful company.

They're two peas in a pod now, Liam and Delaney, ensconced on the opposite end of the couch under a pile of down blankets. The resident cat, having decided Delaney's its best friend, is kneading biscuits into the comforter at her side.

Willa looks far less comfortable but seems to have resigned herself to coffee duty. She's been manning the French press for hours. All three of us have matching mugs, and Willa is by the kitchen island doctoring her own drink. It's sad. She made Delaney's coffee just the way she likes it and hand-delivered her mug, as if going overboard with consideration will make everything okay.

"They usually try to get the power restored first, as soon as possible," Delaney says, frowning up at the ceiling. "I'm surprised it's not back on yet. People freezing to death is a thing in these storms."

I believe it. Despite being in a tank, Henley, and hoodie, plus three layers of fluffy blankets, I can't stop my teeth from chattering. It's going to be a long, bitter night.

"If the power comes back, will the phones work too?" I muse out loud.

"You said the wireless cables were missing." There's a hint of suspicion in Delaney's tone, and I can't help but wonder if she's also dubious about this too-perfect ending, the convenience of Camille as the fall guy. But does she realize it's her boyfriend who's the true culprit?

"Yeah, but we still have the landline," I clarify. "Silva said there was one in her room."

Do I call the authorities at the first opportunity and warn them we're coming down the mountain with a killer? Or maybe I protect my neck and let Liam carry out his plan to walk away. I wasn't supposed to be here. This isn't my fight.

I watch Liam in the low, orange glow, piecing it all together in my mind.

Everything makes sense. Why Liam punched Wyatt in the face. It wasn't about Willa, but the teasing barbs about premed. Liam's been rescinded from Yale, so no more BS/MS in Global Health for him. Something happened at that party, something captured on video, and someone sent it to Yale admissions. Silva tried to suss out from her contacts who'd sent the incriminating digital evidence. It had to be bad to get an Ivy League school to turn around on someone as rich and connected as Liam.

It's like Delaney said earlier: Declan's party, Eden's plan, Wyatt's drugs. And Camille the perfect fall person. As a medical geek, Liam would know exactly how to set each trap with deadly precision. Each one easily explained away as an accident…until Camille. There's something gross about faking a suicide. But it's an easy line to cross for a killer, I guess.

What could have happened at that party to derail Liam's future, though? What would be terrible enough to kill over?

"Regular decision deadline for most colleges is next Monday," Willa says, staring straight ahead to the wide expanse of windows. "Guess anyone who didn't get their counselor rec is screwed."

"That's an awful thing to say," Delaney scolds. It's practically microscopic, but I peg her worried glance Liam's way. Does she know he was rescinded from Yale? "I'm sure our schools will make an exception for our guidance counselor's untimely death." Delaney rolls her eyes.

Not to mention that Warner Prep has other guidance counselors. Silva was just the best with college stuff. She didn't deserve to die because she got fed up with a bunch of entitled rich kids and wanted to teach them a lesson. There's no way she knew the plan was murder.

I wonder at what point he plotted his killing spree. Before or after we got to the mountain?

Speak of the devil, he yawns exaggeratedly, mouth wide, arms splayed over his head and all.

"The plow should be here early in the morning. We should all try to get some sleep," he says. I can barely make out the bear clock on the mantel. I think it's a little after nine p.m. But its mechanical insides resound in the silence. Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Liam and Delaney create a nest right before the fire, stealing the best warmth for themselves. Willa abandons me for the other end of the U-bend to spread out.

I lie down under the covers. But I don't dare close my eyes.

Tick, tock, tick.

Tock, tick.

I've been awake for hours. The house has long gone dormant aroundme.

Someone's snoring.

And then I hear it. There's a rumble that seems to come from deep within the bowels of the house, followed by a soft, warm breeze that grazes my face.

I think the heat is on.

Carefully I sit up, disturbing the cat asleep next to me, and wincing as I do. My entire right side throbs angrily. I squint over at the insistent clock by the fireplace. Tick, tock, tick. It's approaching four a.m.

And I'm not hallucinating. It is warmer.

If the power's back, I could sneak downstairs, test the landline. Call the police.

I fold the duvet deliberately and swing my feet to the floor, touching down gently. Liam is inches away in front of the fire, curled against Delaney's back. So I close my eyes, draw a deep breath, and go into gymnast autopilot. Light and quick, I tiptoe over and around the sleeping beauties, around the couch. What I see stops me in my tracks. I almost blow the whole thing with my high-pitched squeal.

There's light, yellow and faint, but unmistakable. A tall rectangular shape straight ahead, but rising to an angled point at the top like a crooked tooth. I take a few steps forward, my sleep-fogged brain grasping at the logical strands.

It's a door. Cut into the stairs, just like the hidden attic stairway that was masked by built-in shelving. The cat rubs against the spot, like earlier. Was it trying to tell me something all along?

I glance behind me, swallowing hard. I listen over the rush of adrenaline in my own ears for three sets of steady breathing. And that blasted clock.

When I'm certain, I inch forward until I'm right in front of the door. My fingers search the edges for a dip, the right place to pull. Then I find it, but damn my stupid elbow and shoulder. Managing it with only the good arm is a bitch and a half, especially attempting it noiselessly. I tug and tug, anchoring my feet to the floor to add leverage, until finally it pops open. Light spills forward, and before I can fully process, I drop to my knees, crawl inside, and pull the door mostly shut behind me. I don't know where I am, but I don't want to advertise it to everyone else—Liam least of all. Someone could wake up at any moment.

My eyes adjust to the glaring light, taking in the space. It's maybe eight feet long and five feet wide, with built-in shelves that rise with the stairs above my head. They're stuffed with books and board games. It's a rustic time capsule: wooden toys are scattered in front of a large toy chest to my left. Half hanging from a shelf is a Rapunzel doll that's seen better days. To my right is an old writing desk and a scuffed green chair with a straw back that's half unwoven. I pull at a loose tendril and run it between my fingers. Then I sit back on my heels to inspect the desk. It's small, with only one drawer. I draw it out and gasp.

EpiPen. Wireless cords. And a cell phone.

Liam's killer stash. I grab the phone first, find the power button, and push hard. Nothing happens. But I recognize the sparkly case. Why is Eden's phone in here?

Never mind, Piper. What am I thinking? I grab the wireless cords. I just need to get these downstairs, plug them in, and see if the internet works. With that we'll be able to pull up a connection on our phones. I could call my parents. The thought draws a sob up from my chest. I can go home.

As I turn for the door, I spot something I missed before. The outer walls are covered in marker scribble from the kids who used to play in here. The house must have been a family cabin long before its second life as an Airbnb. The cedar walls are a monument to words that titillate children:

BOOGERS

FART

HELL

Someone's added a disparate O to the end of the last one, as if to temper the blasphemy. And then there's a collection of names in varying messy scrawl and janky letters.

brODY

ALYSSA

CONNOR

DELANEY

…Delaney.

My insides seize up, heart frozen with shock. Pins and needles of panic spread throughout my body, and I have to clamp my hands over my mouth to stop from screaming.

There is no reason for a name like Delaney to be on the wall inside this super-secret room with Declan's EpiPen, Eden's phone, and the fucking wireless cables tucked away in a drawer. Except for the obvious one.

I bolt for the door. I was watching for the wrong person. I—

I run right into her. In the harsh glow of the storage-room light, Delaney's features are grotesque: black holes where her eyes should be and a grin that stretches wide until her teeth glint bone white.

"Piper," she says.

Then she lunges for me.