Free Deadly by Sarah Harvey

Chapter One

Amy
    I wake up in a white room. Not my room, which is the color of a robin’s egg. Not Eric’s room, which is navy blue (his mom said no to black) and smells like teenage boy. You know— sweat and junk food and unwashed sheets and other nasty stuff. I don’t go there a lot. Eric says he likes my house better anyway. My mom often works late, the sheets are clean, there’s always food in the fridge, and my older sister, Beth, is cool. My name is Amy. Our mother named us after the two youngest sisters in Little Women . To say my mother is a bookworm is an understatement. At least I wasn’t named after the sister who dies.
    I squint around the white room and wonder if I am in a hospital. But it’s too quiet. I’ve been in the ER enough times in my sixteen years to know that it sounds like pain and smells like fear. All I hear in the white room is a faint hum. And the room smells like... nothing. No leftover cooking smells, no stale perfume, no wilting flowers. Nothing. I duck my head under the white duvet and inhale deeply. Familiar smells—cucumber body wash, lavender shampoo, a whiff of Mom’s rose-scented lotion. She’s a hugger. I think I can detect a hint of Eric’s deodorant. He’s a hugger too. I smile under the covers. Mom and Eric, both rubbing off on me. In totally different ways.
    Why am I smiling? I don’t know where I am, and I have a massive headache. I can’t be hung over. I don’t drink that much. Not anymore. Not since Beth’s accident.
    The bed I am lying in is very comfortable. If I wasn’t starting to feel kind of freaked out, I’d roll over and go back to sleep in my white cocoon. I’m so tired. I stick my head out from under the covers and look around again, trying to focus, but everything is a bit blurry. When I try to sit up, a wave of nausea knocks me down. I stare at the ceiling for a while. Maybe for a minute. Maybe for an hour. It’s hard to tell. My mouth is so dry. I turn my head and notice a bottle of water on a small table beside the bed. Very slowly, I reach out for it and prop myself up enough to drink. It takes all my strength to open the bottle. The first sip is so delicious. I tip the bottle back and chug as much as I can, as fast as I can. A lot of it goes down my chin and neck and onto my chest. I don’t care. Nothing has ever tasted this good. For a minute anyway.
    The nausea roars back, and I know I’m going to puke. I stand up and am almost flattened by a tsunami of dizziness. I steady myself against the white wall and feel my way along it until I reach a doorway. A doorway to what turns out to be a small white bathroom. I stagger over to the toilet and retch violently. When I am done, I pull some white towels off a rack, make a nest on the floor and pass out again. When I wake up, the nausea has passed, but my whole body aches. Every muscle. Every joint. Every bone. Even my hair hurts. And my toenails. I groan and drag myself up to lean against the wall. So far, so good. I wonder whose apartment I’m in. And how I got here. And what day it is. And why I’m alone. I stand in the bathroom doorway and look around. The apartment is one big room—a studio. A small kitchen is tucked into one corner of the room. There’s a mini-fridge but no stove. The small round kitchen table has one chair. Three square white wicker baskets are lined up against the wall opposite the bed. Everything is white. And there are no windows. This freaks me out more than anything. Who builds an apartment with no windows? Who lives in one? And where is the light coming from? The room isn’t dark, and the pot lights aren’t on. I look up and realize that there is a double row of glass blocks where two of the walls meet the ceiling. Even if I could get up there, I wouldn’t be able to see through the blocks.
    From where I’m standing, I can see every inch of the place, but I call out,