The Wrong Girl (Return to Fear Street Book 2)

Part 2

“What do we do now?”

“We can’t just drive home and pretend we’re okay.”

“But where can we go?”

“How many people watched the whole thing online? They must all be calling the police.”

We were speeding away in Manny’s car. Ivy and Jeremy in the back seat. I was hunched in the front beside Manny, hugging myself, trying to stop the racking shudders that ran down my whole body.

I felt sick. I struggled to keep from throwing up as Manny sped along River Road.

I killed a man. I killed him. I saw his blood pooling on the linoleum floor.

“Where are we going?” Ivy cried.

“Away,” Manny said.

“Why did Jack stay?” Jeremy cried, his voice revealing his fear. “Why didn’t he run like we did?”

“Who knows?” Manny replied. He slowed at a stoplight. He raised his phone. I couldn’t believe he still had it gripped in his hand.

“Ohmigod,” he murmured. “I messed up. I never turned off the live stream. The whole thing went online.”

A wave of nausea rolled over me. I felt my dinner rise up to my throat. I choked it back down. “But . . . when Jack said Harlow was dead, he used my name. My real name.” My head was spinning. I tightened my throat and battled my nausea.

“You all heard him,” I continued. “You all heard him say, ‘You really shot him, Poppy.’ And everyone else heard it, too.”

Ivy leaned forward from the back seat and patted my shoulder. “That doesn’t mean—” she started.

I pushed her hand away. “How many Poppys do you know?” I screamed. I was losing it, but I couldn’t help myself. “How many Poppys are there in Shadyside? How many have this stupid name?”

“Poppy, you’re screaming,” Jeremy said. “Take a breath. Try—”

“My life is over!” I wailed. “Don’t you understand? My life is done. Finished. ‘Poppy, you killed him.’ How many people heard that? And there it is. It’s still online, right? Everyone will know I’m a murderer. I killed that nice man. Everyone will know. Everyone. I—I—”

I started to gag. I couldn’t keep it down any longer. “Manny,” I groaned. “Pull over.”

He slowed the car and edged onto the grassy shoulder. I shoved open the passenger door, leaned out, and vomited. I couldn’t stop it. It just came spewing up, and I made horrible groaning, grunting sounds as wave after wave poured from my mouth.

When I was finished, I leaned back into the car, pressed my back against the seat, swallowing hard and waiting for the shudders to stop. Manny pulled some paper towels from the glove compartment, and I wiped off my mouth. He edged the car back onto the road.

“Poppy, we can explain this whole thing,” Ivy said.

“Huh?” I gasped. “Explain? How?”

“It’s not your fault. It’s Jack’s,” Ivy said. “He gave you the gun. He said it wasn’t loaded. He told you to shoot.”

“But I did it!” I screamed, making my raw throat ache. “I did it, Ivy. I killed Harlow. It was supposed to be a joke. He was a good sport, and now he’s dead. I killed him, and the police will never believe it was an accident.”

“We can talk to my brother,” Manny said, honking at a driver who turned without signaling. “Benny will believe us. He’ll—”

“Just take me home,” I snapped. “I need to think. I have to get myself together. I . . . I’m not ready to talk to anyone. I . . . have to figure it out—”

“We should stick together,” Jeremy said. “Not split up. If we all go to the police . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Maybe Jeremy is right,” Ivy said. “We can tell the story better—”

“No!” I screamed. “No! No! No!” I grabbed Manny’s arm. “My house is right over there. Let me off. I . . . can’t deal with this right now.”

“Okay, okay.” Manny shoved my hand away. “No problem.”

A few seconds later, he slowed the car and rolled up my driveway. The lights were off. Mom and Heather weren’t home. I felt a wave of relief. I won’t have to tell them right away. I’ll have some time to get my head together.

I pushed open the door and turned to slide out of the car. “I’ll call you,” I said.

“Yes, we’ll keep in touch,” Ivy said. She was gripping Jeremy’s hand tightly. “I’m sure Jack will hurry to your house as soon as he can. Let us know what he says.”

“Yeah, let us know what you decide to do,” Jeremy said. “We’ll be waiting.”

“You should brush your teeth,” Manny said. “Get that sour taste out of your mouth.”

I sighed. “Good old Manny. Always so helpful. I killed someone and he’s worried about my breath.”

Manny flinched. I could see I’d hurt him. He was trying to be helpful, I guess. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. My life was over.

I stopped at the front door, fumbling for my key in my bag. I expected to hear sirens approaching. I knew it would be easy for the police to figure out where to find their murderer.

Everyone had seen it online. And everyone had heard it.

“Poppy, you killed him.”

I shoved open the front door and stumbled into the dark living room. I tossed my bag against the wall. I didn’t turn on any lights. I made my way in the dark to the back hall and into the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, thinking about Manny, and drank two glasses of water from the sink tap, and my mouth still felt dry and sour, my throat tight, aching.

I flashed on the ceiling light in my room and dropped heavily onto the edge of the bed. I raised my phone and glanced at the screen. No messages.

Jack, where are you?

Why have you disappeared? I need you here. I need to talk with you. I need . . .

Where was he? And actually, what could he do for me? He couldn’t help me or save me.

But I had to talk to him. I wanted him to hold me tight and tell me everything will be all right, even though it wouldn’t be. It wouldn’t ever be right again.

I needed to talk to him. “Where are you, Jack?” I said out loud, my voice ringing off the walls of the empty house.

I raised the phone to call him. I punched his number with a trembling finger. The phone went right to voicemail.

“Jack—where are you?” I screamed. “Are you on your way here? Pick up! Pick up!”

I stood up and began pacing the length of my room, arms crossed tightly over my chest. I needed to think. I wanted to concentrate on what I would say to the police, how I could describe it so they would know it was an accident, so they would believe me.

But who would believe it?

A robbery that wasn’t really a robbery? Just an internet prank?

Who would believe that?

A silly prank with a loaded gun?

How could I ever make anyone believe me?

The whole thing was on video. And it sure looked real. Especially when I shot Mr. Harlow and he went down and didn’t come up.

It sure looked real.

I stopped with a sharp cry when I heard the front doorbell chime. And then a hard, pounding knock on the door.

The police. Of course. It hadn’t taken them long. Another doorbell chime. So impatient.

They must have seen the lights on in my room. They must know I’m here.

I took a deep breath and strode into the hall. Still holding my breath, I grabbed the front door handle, pushed open the door—and gasped.