Dial Em for Murder (12 page)

Ben would have oh-so-helpfully pointed out that I'd been perched on the edge of sanity for years, and considering that he didn't even know about the starring role he'd played in more than a few of my daydreams, the boy definitely had a point. I pulled out my phone, sent both my friends a quick text to let them know I'd arrived safely, then sprawled out on my new bed and debated my next move.

Technically, I could have folded all my shirts instead of shoving a crumpled heap of clothes into the dresser drawers, except no amount of folding would stop me from fixating on the two questions which had been haunting me ever since Sebastian's grandfather grabbed my drink:

Why me?
which quickly dragged me straight into,
What the hell should I do now?

I didn't feel any closer to finding definitive answers. If anything, meeting Sebastian had only confused me more. Not only did the cops think there was a killer gunning for me, but apparently the dead man's next-of-kin didn't believe his grandfather had actually died in the first place.

Oh yeah, and for some reason everyone thought
I
had some kind of secret agenda.

I should have been able to form a theory just crazy enough to explain everything. Something that would clear the situation right up, like a case of mistaken identity courtesy of an identical twin sister. Maybe I resembled Gracie Something-or-other, and since dear little Gracie had accidentally angered the mob, she had set me up to take the fall for it.

It could have been something along those lines.

Except even by Hollywood standards that was one hell of a contrived plot line. I mean, the mob? Really? Wouldn't the dead old dude have warned me about that back in Starbucks? And you'd think that they would take the time to make sure they had the right girl before they started shooting tranquilizer guns or whatever. I tried to pretend I was reading the past few days as a big budget action/adventure screenplay.

Okay, clearly I'd gone way too Hollywood. That script sounded obnoxious. I shut my eyes and tried to picture a blank page.

Anything.

I lifted the Slate carefully. It wasn't fully charged, but that didn't mean I couldn't start scrolling through its contents. There was no telling what I might be able to unearth; documents detailing all of Sebastian's exploits, a separate contact list of everyone who might be carrying a grudge against the grandfather, a new book release from one of my favorite authors. All of it was theoretically possible.

A message flashed, startling me into dropping the Slate onto the neon orange bedspread. It was the kind of moment that made for great television, all dramatic and full of flair that some online troll would instantly discount as too good to be true. Intrepid heroine turns on her Slate only to find the next clue? Too easy. Too neatly packaged to be believable.

I stared at the words, but had trouble making sense of them. My head felt too thick and heavy to absorb anything properly. It was like I'd become a circus car stuffed past capacity with a dozen clowns, only now I was expected to haul around the fire-eaters and sword-swallowers, too.

I didn't know if the words came from the killer in the baseball cap or from somebody else entirely. If they wanted to square away an old debt or settle a new score. It could simply be a joke between friends. Maybe my personal psychopath was mentoring somebody in the delicate art of psychological warfare.

The nagging voice in my head, the one that clamored whenever I considered taking the subway late at night or made small talk with a stranger, told me that this wasn't good. This was about as far away from good as I could get.

Technically, it could have been worse. The message could have read,
I won't stop until you're dead
. Although the open-ended nature of the message had its own kind of terror. Once this person tracked me down, they intended to do what, exactly?

Interrogate me? Torture me?

Apologize profusely for scaring the hell out of me and pay for an extravagant brunch to make up for it?

I seriously doubted an omelet with Gruyère cheese and artichoke hearts was what this madman had in mind. My luck had never been that good. And that was before people started tackling me in coffee shops and randomly threatening me.

The message flashed one more time before it vanished. I pressed the power button to see if the Slate had died on me, but instead of being greeted with the display interface that I had seen on the television commercials, there was only a keycode with six empty spaces.

The desire to yell, scream, and curse every bit as loudly and creatively as Detective Dumbass had done back in the police station nearly overwhelmed me.

Of course there was a password on the phone.

And
of course
my Obi-wan “Coffee-thief” Kenobi had died before passing on
that
critical bit of information. It was hard to remind myself that a senile old man couldn't be expected to think of every possible outcome, let alone his own impending death. It wasn't his fault I couldn't unlock the Slate.

Except if you're going to hand someone a piece of technology that's worth
killing
over, you should at least have the decency to mention the password.

It's just common courtesy.

If Sebastian was to be believed—which ordinarily he wasn't, but whatever—his grandfather had a reputation for staying one step ahead of axes, machetes, knives, and guns. He wouldn't be lazy when it came to picking a password. He wouldn't choose his date of birth or his favorite sports team. That'd be way too easy for someone dangerous to decode.

Just for the hell of it, I typed out my name.

EMMY translated to 3669 on the keypad so I added on two pound symbols to the end of it. EMMY##

Morgan will know what to do.
I decided to put it to the test, keying in the letters, and holding my breath as I waited for a reaction.

I began mentally scrolling through my options. I could attempt a billion other permutations and hope that the Slate wasn't triggered to self-combust after a certain number of failed entries, I could ask Audrey to hack her way past the passcode, or I could say, “Screw it!” and try to catch up on sleep. Maybe then my brain wouldn't feel like a tightly packed goose down pillow.

The sound of Kayla's key unlocking our bedroom door settled it for me. Hastily shoving the Slate into my sweatshirt pocket, I jammed the charger into the tablet Sebastian had handed me.

“Oh good, you're still up!” Kayla's face was shiny with sweat, glowing from an endorphin rush that only people who exercise every day seem to experience. “I didn't want to wake you. I'm going to take a quick shower and then crash. Is there anything you need?” She didn't give me a chance to answer. “Oh look! You've already decorated your dresser! I love the personal touch.” Kayla flashed me an irrepressible grin as she spotted the framed birthday photo with Audrey and Ben. “Cute boy. That explains why you're not interested in Sebastian.”

I wanted to inform Kayla that even my barren wasteland of a love life was still preferable to Sebastian St. James, but I didn't see the point. She'd never believe me. It also didn't help that she'd accurately guessed about my unplatonic feelings for Ben by simply glancing at my half of the dresser. I really didn't want her broadcasting any snippets of personal info across Emptor Academy, so I tried to play it cool.

I shrugged noncommittally. “He's okay.”

If anything, my caginess only made her grin widen. “I guess you won't be needing my services as a wingwoman after all.”

That was one statement I was never
ever
going to contradict.

I opened my eyes to find a concerned face hovering over me.

“Emmy?” Kayla poked my shoulder as if I were a dead fish that she was supposed to gut but could barely bring herself to touch. “I let you sleep as long as I could, but you really need to wake up.”

I groaned and flopped one of my arms over my sleep-hazed eyes to block her out. I'd tossed and turned for hours, haunted by the memory of the flashing words,
I won't stop until I find you
. My ears had been pricked at attention all night, and when I'd finally managed a rocky descent into sleep, I'd been haunted by dreams of faceless blobs in baseball caps. One of them had wielded shiny pliers as he said, “Oh look, you have a cavity from all that coffee you've been drinking. Why don't I remove that tooth first?”

I barely stopped myself from running a finger over my teeth to make sure none were missing. My mouth felt painfully dry, as if I'd been chewing on cotton, but all my teeth remained where they belonged. No dental surgery occurred while I was fast asleep.

Everything was fine, just as long as I overlooked the fact that I was at Emptor Academy with an overly chipper gymnast prodding at me and a creepy message locked away on a dead man's tablet.

“Emmy?”

My arm wasn't very good at blocking the light filtering in through the large window, so I pressed a pillow over my face. A morbid part of me couldn't help thinking that smothering to death might not be a bad way to go. It would be clean. Soft. Cushioned. I could slip into an eternal slumber beyond the reach of any and all assassins.

Except I'd also be
dead
.

“You've already missed breakfast. You've got half an hour before you're supposed to meet President Gilcrest. Up and at 'em!” Kayla bounced on my mattress and I suddenly didn't care if a killer showed up, as long as he silenced her first.

“My phone alarm,” I said, blearily. “It hasn't gone off.”

“You probably forgot to charge it. What with all your unpacking and—”

I tuned Kayla out as she continued rattling on.

The memory of those words had me jolting upright in bed. “What time is it?”

“Eight o'clock.”

“And I need to meet with President Gilweed—”

“Gilcrest,” Kayla corrected.

“Right. Gilcrest. Why do I need to meet him again?”

Kayla shrugged. “It's a small campus, so he makes a point of getting to know everyone. It's nothing to worry about, though. He'll ask you a few basic questions: academic strengths and weaknesses, personal ambitions, what you're hoping to get out of your time at Emptor Academy. Basic stuff like that.”

Hi! I need a safe place to hide from a killer.
Yeah, somehow I didn't think that answer would go over too well.

Still caught in a sleep-deprived haze, I stumbled out of my bed and headed toward my dresser. All I had to do was keep moving. Pajamas off, clothes on. I placed my trust in the ingrained muscle memory, knowing that if I slowed—or worse, stopped—I'd slide back into unconsciousness. I fumbled with the zipper of my jeans, my hands as shaky as a heroin addict jonesing for a fix. After pulling my hair into a hasty ponytail, I discreetly shoved both Slates into my backpack and headed for the door.

“Are you really going to meet him like
that
?” Kayla sounded so scandalized, I glanced down to make sure I hadn't forgotten something. It all looked normal to me: jeans and a red T-shirt peeking out from beneath my gray sweatshirt that said, Will Write for Food.

“Uh . . . yes?”

Kayla shook her head. “What about makeup? Don't you want to look good for your first day?” She realized how that sounded a second too late, and she instantly backpedaled. “Not that you look bad or anything. Just, you know . . .”

Ordinary?

Boring?

About as exciting as congealed oatmeal?

“Nobody here to impress.” It was easier to say that than to admit that my attempts at makeup tended to fail disastrously. My mom hadn't passed on the makeup genes to me. I had a bizarre skill for smearing red lipstick across my teeth before I walked more than two blocks from home. It was safer for me to go without.

“You're joking, right?” Kayla's quick burst of laughter was edged with disbelief. “Have you looked around this place? Everyone here is either obscenely rich, well-connected, or outrageously talented. Oh,
or all of the above
. Your goal should be to impress
everyone
.”

It was unnerving to think about passing the children of senators, oil tycoons, and Wall Street bankers on my way to meet President Gilcrest. They could probably sue me into oblivion if I bumped into them on the narrow cobblestone pathway. But I didn't want Kayla to see how easily she'd rattled me so I kept my gaze fixed on hers.

“What about you, Kayla?”

She looked confused. “What about me?”

“Do I need to impress you?”

Her rich brown eyes danced with humor. “Absolutely. I'm
obviously
the most important person here.” She reached over to her dresser and picked up a tube of something sparkly. “Want me to do your eyeliner?”

“I'll pass.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

I considered leaving it at that, but Kayla had already gone so far above and beyond the call of roommate duty that I paused at the door. “Hey, Kayla?”

She swiveled away from the mirror to look at me. “Yeah?”

“You've impressed me.”

Her widening smile was the last thing I saw before closing the door. Then I full out sprinted down a flight of stairs, my backpack thudding against me with every step, in order to make it to my stupid “Welcome to Emptor Academy” meeting. If Kayla was right, showing up red-faced and out of breath probably wasn't any better than being five minutes late, but some obstinate part of me refused to slow down. Running was one of the few things I knew I could do.