Emma That is Dead (FREE!)

Chapter One

Dead girls don't send texts.

As I stare at the words on my phone, a sheen of sweat prickles across my skin.

What's up, Hayes? Long time no see.

The noise in the senior hallway fades into the background as I study the text again. The nickname, the catchphrase. The owner.

Emma Navarro.

I click on the photo above her name, the selfie she took last New Year's with my cell. It's the same shit-eating grin. The same dark hair framing the same pretty face.

My stomach drops out from underneath me. Emma hasn't messaged me in months, and I never expected her to again.

I close my locker, the cool metal door a relief against my sweaty palm, and glance both ways down the hall, wondering which jerk is behind the evil prank. Students scurry back and forth through a haze of voices and laughter, grabbing textbooks, trading playful insults with friends, groping significant others. No one's looking my way, or paying attention to my reaction.

I take a deep breath, hold it. Let it out nice and slow.

Who is this?

I stare, unblinking, and wait for the next message to appear.

It doesn't.

"Hey, slacker. You're gonna be late for pre-calc, and you know Mrs. Levy hates tardies," a deep voice teases from behind. Familiar hands snake around my waist and pull me close, the woodsy notes of aftershave creating a satisfying flutter in my chest.

Normally, I'd melt into Smith Anderson's embrace. Let his soft lips linger along my jawline until they creep toward the hollow of my neck. Wallow in the wonder that the boy I've had a crush on since second grade is mine.

But not today.

I press the phone screen to my thigh so he can't see. "This might be a weird question, but are you playing a trick on me?" I lean into him, shift my gaze toward his expression, taking note of the crease forming between his brows.

"What do you mean?" Smith spins me until I'm facing him. His hazel eyes fix on mine, and a mess of loose curls graze his dark complexion.

Even beneath the hum of unflattering fluorescent lights, he's the most attractive boy I've ever seen. The most good-natured, too. He's one of those people who can slide into any social group without breaking a sweat. He'd even enjoy it. Unlike me, who'd find a million reasons to worry.

No. Smith didn't send that message. There's no way he'd be that cruel.

"Arbor, what's wrong?" His brows draw closer as he waits for a response.

I shake my head and turn away. Swallow. There's no point in ripping open fresh wounds, especially ones that are still tender to the touch. "It's nothing. I'll figure it out."

"Can I help?"

I hesitate, but only for a second. "I got an email this morning from a soccer coach in Indiana. She's seen me play and thinks I'd make an excellent addition to their team. But I don't know if it's real or not."

It's not a lie exactly, just not the whole truth. The notification came during botany, and I remember speaking with the coach last year after winning the state championship. Apparently, I impressed her with my back heel pass. But that particular university didn't make the cut of schools I'm considering. Their soccer team isn't that good.

"That's great!" He crushes me in a warm hug. "I'm sure it's real. Colleges are reaching out. Kobe got a phone call from the assistant football coach at Penn State the other day. Trust your instincts—you're always second-guessing yourself."

"Yeah, maybe."

When he pulls away, he tucks a lock of blonde hair behind my ear. "Are you feeling alright? You're a little pale." Smith presses his lips to my forehead as if he's checking for a fever.

"I'm fine." Another lie. I've never been comfortable telling them. Not that I've had much practice.

"You're sure?"

I nod, avoiding his gaze.

His eyes, still uncertain, sweep down the hall towards the clock. "The bell's about to ring, and you don't want to ruin your perfect attendance, do you?" As he moves past, he slaps his notebook against my ass and winks. "I'll catch up with you before practice."

I smile and try to wave, but the gesture falls flat. How am I supposed to concentrate on polynomials at a time like this? When some psychopath has hacked my best friend's number and is pretending to be her.

Emma's dead. Or presumed dead—that's what the police say. She just disappeared, and not one person over the past six months has offered information on her whereabouts. Either no one knows, or they're not willing to tell. The only evidence we have is what they found in her truck. And that wasn't promising.

My phone vibrates again, and my stomach takes another dip, my heart a ticking bomb in my chest. I hesitate before reading the message.

It's me. Emma. I'm alive.

If you're looking for more creepy (and FREE) reads, I have a young adult gothic thriller on my profile called Of the Blood, and also a Watty-winning dark academia murder mystery called Sweat Deadly Lies. Stop by and check them out!