Free Deadly by Sarah Harvey Page A

“Hello? Anybody here?” in case I’ve missed something—another door, a loft, a secret staircase. I am met with silence. I stagger over to the kitchen and open the fridge. It’s jammed with Tetra Paks of milk and juice. There’s a loaf of multigrain bread, a head of leafy lettuce, a few tomatoes, some carrots, a package of Kraft Singles, three apples and three oranges. My stomach lurches. Whoever has brought me here isn’t planning on feeding me for long. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. Under the sink is a blue recycling bin, the only hit of color in the whole place.
    One cupboard is full of paper plates, bowls and cups, all made from recycled material. Another cupboard reveals a selection of organic cereal. Buckwheat. Kamut. Ugh. There’s a jar of peanut butter too. The kind I hate, made with sugar. One drawer holds bamboo cutlery. Another holds small packets of sugar, salt, pepper, ketchup, mustard, mayo and soy sauce—the kind you get in fast-food restaurants. Weird. A third drawer is full of lined yellow notepads and Sharpies. Weirder.
    I head back to the bathroom and find miniature bottles of shampoo and conditioner in the glass shower stall (there’s no bathtub), some small bars of wrapped soap and a selection of sample-size body lotions and hand creams. The counter beside the sink holds Kleenex, a pink toothbrush (ooh—more color!) and a travel-size tube of toothpaste. Under the sink is a stack of toilet paper. Am I in a hotel? It feels impersonal, like no one lives here.
    I’m starting to feel dizzy again—and scared. I need to sit down. I make my way slowly to the table and collapse into the molded-plastic chair. On the table is something I hadn’t noticed before: a white envelope. With my name on it.

Chapter Two

Eric
    Amy isn’t answering her phone or responding to texts. That’s not like her at all. Even when we’re fighting, she always wants to talk. We joke about the four words no guy ever wants to hear: We need to talk. With Amy, it’s all about communication. She says it’s because she watched her parents’ marriage shrivel up and die. Like a plant getting no water, she says. And talking is the water on the plant of a relationship. She actually says shit like that. Her parents broke up after Beth’s accident. So we talk. A lot. When we can’t talk, we text. So this isn’t like her. Not like her at all.
    I call her house and Beth answers.
    â€œIs Amy there?” I ask.
    â€œDon’t think so,” Beth says. “Hang on. I’ll check.” I can hear her yelling Amy’s name. Then she comes back on the line. “Nope, not here. And she was gonna drive me to physio. When you talk to her, tell her to call me.”
    â€œOkay,” I say. After I hang up, I start calling Amy’s friends—our friends. People who were at the party last night. No one has seen her, and almost everyone asks me why the hell I’m calling so early.
    â€œIt’s eleven o’clock already,” I say, over and over.
    â€œDude,” Cole says, “she’s probably at that chick Shawna’s place. They were dancing last night. Girl on girl. It was hot. I thought you were gonna get some three-way action.”
    â€œShut up,” I say, even though I agree. It was hot, and I had thought about the possibilities. None of us really know Shawna. She doesn’t go to our school, and I don’t have her number. No idea where she lives. Or if she’d ever do a three-way.
    My phone rings. Amy’s home number.
    â€œWhere have you been?” I say when I pick up.
    â€œUh, Eric. It’s me, Beth. Mom just got up. She’s asking where Amy is. Any luck with your friends?”
    â€œEric? Eric?” Amy’s mom comes on the line. Another kind of three-way. Gross. How can I even be thinking about stuff like that when Amy is missing? Missing. She can’t be. She’s