Their Vicious Games(26)

The man—a security officer—frowns, the doughy mess of features creasing. His eyes flit back and forth as he squints into the dark room. The walkie-talkie crackles again, too tinny for me to make out the words.

“No, no,” the man says. “Thought I saw… God, this house is creepy. No need to let Dr. Remington know that I saw a weird ghost in the morning report. Doc-tor Remington. She’s hot, right? MILF material.”

He chuckles and turns back around. My heart is so loud in my throat, I nearly choke on the sound of it.

“Are you crazy?” The whisper echoes like a firecracker in the stillness.

I stuff my fist in my mouth to keep from screaming.

Saint is crouched by the archway, just a few feet from the stairs, her teeth grinding together hard. She’s holding herself tight, like she regrets even being down here.

“Come back here,” she warns. “You’re going to get yourself hurt.”

I look back at the man standing outside, in front of the window, and my gaze trails down to the pistol sitting heavily against his thigh.

“He’s not the only one, I can promise you that,” Saint warns. “Crawl back over.”

My body is still screaming to run—Take your chances, trust no one—but I fight back the terror. Instincts aren’t always right, I tell myself. I kneel on the edge of the rug, knees pressing into the cold wooden floor, staring up at Saint, unable to keep my misery in.

“I’m not going to just wait for my own execution,” I whisper, my voice cracking.

“That’s not the only option,” Saint whispers. “If you stay, you can fight.”

She holds out her hand, strong and steady. I take it because I have nothing else to take, and I let Saint lead me upstairs, back to our room. I don’t speak again and neither does she as she sets me on the edge of my bed and then slips into her own. I untie my laces, kick my shoes off, and curl under the covers. This time when I put my head down, exhaustion overwhelms the horror and drags me under, my body turned inside out.



* * *



It feels like moments later that Saint’s shaking me awake, the nearly summer sun piercing through the room, making everything look more golden than it should. It feels wrong when there’s a dead girl’s body somewhere in this colossus of a house.

“Come on,” Saint insists. “Breakfast.”

I wait as she turns on her heel and pulls a robe over her silk pajamas. “Aren’t we gonna talk about last night?” I ask.

“Do you need to?” Saint asks.

“I don’t want to,” I confirm after a moment.

Saint shrugs. “Then we won’t.”

There’s a rabbity knock on the door, rapid and timid all at once. I stiffen, casting a panicked look over at it. Saint stands up and her eyes narrow.

“Give me a hanger,” Saint commands. I roll out of bed and cross to the wardrobe, tossing one of the heavy wooden hangers at her. She catches it easily, and with an overabundance of caution, she opens the door, revealing only Hawthorne in a sea-green sweat suit.

“Good morning,” Hawthorne says pleasantly.

Saint doesn’t lower the hanger.

“What do you want?” she asks, harsh enough that Hawthorne wilts just the tiniest bit.

“Would you like to walk down to breakfast together?” Hawthorne asks.

“Where’s Esme?” I demand.

Hawthorne takes a deep whistling breath through her front teeth. “Esme’s been… reprimanded by Aunt Leighton,” Hawthorne says delicately. “She won’t be allowed to join us for breakfast and training today. She’s having a bit of a meltdown over it, but it won’t reflect well on me if I stay with her.”

It’s strategic in an unexpected way for Hawthorne, who has always been so loyal to Esme.

“I can imagine.” I slide out of bed, shivering the moment my feet touch the icy floors. I didn’t think to bring slippers—I don’t even own slippers. I hop like the floor is lava over to my duffel bag, digging through it in search of my thickest socks. Even through the plush cotton, even though it’s June, I can feel the icy grip of the Remington Estate.

“I’m starving. Do you think they’ll have noodles?” Saint asks. She doesn’t seem to feel the cold in her yellow silk tank top.

“Like spaghetti?” Hawthorne asks, tilting her head.

“There’s your answer,” I mutter to Saint as we leave. “Hope you like eggs Benedict and avocado toast.”

Saint gives a long-suffering sigh. “Even Swiss cuisine is better than that.”

The halls don’t look as menacing as they did in the night hours, but I still check every corner, peer out every window, searching for remnants of the security detail that was outside, not keeping us safe but keeping us trapped. I don’t see any of them, though; they’re all gone as if they were ghosts.

“What were you saying about training?” I ask distractedly.

“Aunt Leighton didn’t say much, but the Ride is coming up first,” Hawthorne says.

I purse my lips together to hold the sarcasm back behind my teeth. Will it even really be a ride? Will there be obstacles? What happens if you win?

What happens if you lose?

Going downstairs, I pass the front door again, and the ache of failure mocks me. I had a chance last night and I blew it, allowing Saint to convince me to follow her back to our room. Maybe she saved me from death, but I still didn’t try. Not really.