After we move the tables and chairs out of the foyer and back to where they belong, I call Jordan and tell her everything that happened. The medication I took that couldn't have been mine. The nightmare that really wasn't. The rearrangement of the living room furniture against the front door, as if I'm trying, once again, to keep the bad people out.

The irony doesn't escape me. If Mom and Dad only knew how terribly I've failed, they wouldn't be so quick to judge.

Dr. Wilder can't fit me in until tomorrow afternoon, which works out perfectly for my parents. They both want to be there with me, and this way they'll have time to make arrangements at work. I told them it's not necessary, but they insist, and no amount of saying I'll be fine on my own will appease them.

The best thing for me to do is just go along with their plan. I don't want to, especially now that I've figured out what Emma is up to, but accusing her will only make me look crazier. I'm sure that's exactly what she's hoping for, but I'm not about to give her the satisfaction. I know who the unstable one is, and for a change, it isn't me.

In the meantime, I'll play by Mom and Dad's rules. I'll stay home from school and take it easy. Not create unneeded stress. Fortunately, they both have full schedules, and neither one can drop everything at the last minute just to stay here with me.

Jordan agrees with the theory that Emma's trying to make me look insane. As soon as a reasonable amount of time has passed after my parents leave for work, I take the pills and Emma's driver's license to the hospital so Jordan can have a look.

While I scour the internet trying to figure out what they are, Jordan cups the tablets in her palm and stares them down with leery eyes. "Any luck?"

"Maybe. Let me see them again." I lean from the chair and gaze into her hand, comparing what's there with the images on my phone. "They could be ecstasy? Or maybe LSD?"

"Can I have a look?"

I turn the screen to face her. The bandage above her eye crinkles as she studies the different pictures. "It's hard to say. But they both cause hallucinations, don't they?"

I shrug and sit back, my knowledge of illegal substances too limited to form an intelligent opinion.

"Do they look like the pills you took last night?" she asks.

My brain circles back to when I took them. The bottles were almost empty, which struck me as odd. But I didn't notice anything else out of the ordinary. "I guess I was preoccupied. She must have access to a variety of drugs because whatever was in those bottles definitely wasn't mine."

"This is so messed up." When Jordan tucks her hair behind her ear, I can practically see the next question manifest behind her eyes. "What do you make of her license?"

I shake my head. "That's the part I can't figure out. Why would she lie about it? It makes no sense." Not that any of this makes sense. But what's the harm in telling the police she has it? "Do you think I should take it to the authorities?"

Jordan gnaws on the inside of her cheek, her gaze not meeting mine.

Something about her expression sends my heart into a tailspin. "What are you thinking?" I ask.

As soon as our eyes reconnect, she once again turns away. "You're not going to like it."

My shoulders immediately tense. "What?"

Jordan hesitates. "I think you should go back and try to find something more."

She can't be serious. "After what she did to me? No way!"

She readjusts herself in bed until she's facing me straight-on. "I'm not sure if this is enough evidence to get the police moving. They're obviously not putting as much effort into what happened now that she's back home. What if it's no longer a priority?"

She has a point. I press my back into the cushion, and stare at the tattoo branding the inside of my wrist. At one time, Emma and I were inseparable, and now the thought of seeing her makes my skin crawl. Yin and yang used to symbolize how even though we were opposites, we complemented each other in ways that made us both complete.

That concept is foreign to me now. "I'm not sure if I can do it."

Jordan lets out a soft breath. Tilts her head. "I'm sorry—I hate that I even suggested it. I can't imagine how you violated you must feel right now."

A silent but hangs in the space between us.

"What?" I ask.

Another breath. Only this one is deeper. "I'm afraid if you don't do it, she'll continue torturing you."

I close my eyes as dread shivers through me. Because every sense I have tells me that she's right.

As I'm pulling out of the hospital parking lot, my phone emits a long vibration, alerting me to a call.

Mom.

I inhale, exhale. Pull over and kill the engine before answering. "Hey, Mom," I say, trying my best to sound natural.

"Hi, honey. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, Mom. Please, don't worry. I feel much better now."

"You're sure?" Her voice is uncertain.

I crack open the window to let in some air. "I promise. I'm resting, just like you and Dad told me to."

"There's some chicken noodle soup in the freezer," she says. "Why don't you warm up a bowl for lunch?"

What is it about chicken noodle soup that makes people think it will cure everything? The common cold. Influenza. A complete mental breakdown.

"Good idea. I'll get it out now." I glance at the clock on the dashboard, trying to ignore the guilt churning in the pit of my stomach. "What time do you think you'll be home?"

"My goal is to get out of here by 3:00. Why? Do you need me back sooner? I can try to reschedule my 1:30 meeting," she says, each word coming out faster. Panicked.

"No, don't do that!" I say in a rush. "I told you, I'm fine. I was just going to surprise you with dinner. As an apology for making you worry."

"Oh, honey." There's an uncharacteristic sniffle on the opposite end of the line. "You never need to apologize. Do you hear me? The only thing that matters is that you're happy and healthy. That's all your father and I have ever wanted for you."

My eyes mist as I toy with the sleeve of my jacket. I hate what this is doing to them. How it's forcing them to relive the hell I put them through before. "I am happy and healthy. I promise."

"Okay then." She takes a shaky breath in my ear. "I'll check in again later, but please don't hesitate to call if you need anything. And I mean anything. Got it?"

"I will." I wait a beat, and then, "I love you, Mom."

Another sniffle. "I love you, too. Very much."

After we hang up, I sit at the side of the road until the threat of tears pass. Just as soon as I have the evidence I need and take it to the police, I'll tell Mom and Dad everything. But not a moment sooner. If I confide in them now, it won't do me any good. It will only give them more reasons to think I'm not okay.

As I drive home, leaves tumble across the damp roads, and the trees alongside me swaying in the breeze. Autumn has always been my favorite season. Leaf piles lining neighborhood streets. Gathering with friends around a bonfire on cool weekend nights.

But this year, the falling foliage only reminds me of change. If spring means rebirth, then autumn must mean death. I've never looked at it like that before, but now I don't think I'll see it any other way.

Change doesn't have to be bad, does it? It can bring about new opportunities, endless possibilities. For many, change is a gift.

I'm not sure how that applies to this situation, but I need to keep my chin up. Not let what's happening drag me down. Yet a sinking sensation invades my stomach the moment I turn onto my street, the close proximity of Emma making me want to hurl what's left of last night's dinner.

My eyes remain fixed on her house as I pull into the driveway, watching for the gentle sweep of her bedroom curtains.

But they're still.

She probably thinks I'm at school. Or maybe she's been texting with Smith and knows I'm not. Either way, she doesn't seem to be waiting for me. Watching my every move.

A sharp wind pushes at my back as I make my way up the driveway, the gust that follows me inside stirring Cooper as he sprawls across the couch. I warm up Mom's soup and plop down beside him, his pink nose twitching at the air as swirls of steam rise above the bowl.

I fold my legs under me. "Look at you, napping in the middle of the day like you don't have a care in the world. Must be nice," I tell him before swallowing down a spoonful of broth. It pools in my stomach, the savory warmth spreading throughout my limbs.

A few summers ago, when Emma spent the night at my house, we snuck out and went swimming at the neighbor's down the street. They were in Greece at the time, but kept their pool illuminated with underwater lights, making their backyard simmer in an ethereal blue hue.

It was the kind of night I never wanted to end. A comforting breeze from the foothills, combing through my hair, my best friend at my side, nudging me out of my comfort zone with promises of fun and adventure. I remember Emma saying she never wanted to go home.

Is there any part of that Emma left, or is she completely gone, leaving behind the ghost of a girl I used to know?

A sudden light arcs across the living room, jolting me out of the memory. I set the soup on an end table and jump up from the couch, nearly tripping over my own feet as I stumble to the window.

A black Lexus pauses outside the Navarro residence while the driver switches gears. Then it lurches forward, sunken cheeks and dark hollow eyes staring out the passenger window.

Emma.

My heart sinks to my toes, my brain spiraling with a sudden thought. If Emma's not home, this would be the perfect opportunity to go through her room!

When I slink out the backdoor, not even bothering with my jacket, my eyes scan the perimeter of her house. Everything is still.

It's now or never.

I tear across the lawn, strands of hair whipping my face as I run against the wind. In record time, I climb the trellis and fling myself over the rail, not stopping to take a breath until I'm standing on the opposite side of her bedroom.

There isn't a moment to spare. I have no idea where she went, how long she'll be gone, and I need to get this over with before I lose my nerve. But when I push up on the window, it doesn't budge.

Shit!

In all these years, Emma's always made sure I can get in whenever I want to. Yet now, she's turned the latch to keep me out.

All the air leaks from my lungs. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

I can't break the window—that would be too obvious. The only option left is to see if one of the doors were left unlocked, and the likelihood of that isn't in my favor. Before Emma "disappeared", nothing bad ever happened in Menteuse, yet every house has a security system all the same. Assuming they bother to turn it on.

I scale down the trellis and leap to the ground, my soles sinking into the softened soil below. I slide along the grass, the blades cleaning some of the mud from the bottom of my boots. When I get to the patio, I give the handle on the slider an unsuccessful tug, then do the same with the door to the garage.

The front is the only entrance left, though I hate to even try it. What if one of the neighbors see? But then, they've watched me walk in and out of this house thousands of times before. Maybe they won't think anything of it?

I gather my nerve and head toward the porch steps, while tossing nonchalant glances down the street. Most of our neighbors have day jobs, with the exception of a few stay-at-home moms. With any luck, they're too busy with their kids to be paying attention.

When I reach the door, I cup my hands to the vertical window along the side and peer through the glass, my tongue darting over my chapped lips. The massive foyer sprawls in front of me on the other side, a hand-knotted area rug strategically placed along the floor.

This is it. My last chance. My toes clench as I reach for the handle, but a flash of color and an unexpected whoosh make me jump back.

Mr. Navarro stands in front of me, his forehead creased in surprise. The door creaks open and he sticks out his head. "Hey. Is Emma expecting you?"

What the hell is he doing here? I've never seen him home before 8:00 P.M. during the week.

My stomach folds in on itself. "Uh, no. I'm just ..." Think fast! "I just wanted to see if I could borrow last year's soccer album. She has a picture of us that I've always wanted a copy of. I thought I'd frame it and give it to her as a surprise. I saw her leave a few minutes ago and figured this might be a good time."

Please don't ask me any questions!

I hold my breath as an odd sensation hums through my veins. His expression is skeptical. He's going to say no, and shut the door in my face.

But instead, he lets me inside. "She went with her mother to visit her grandparents. They should be gone for a while." He pauses. Gives me a look. "What are you doing home? Shouldn't you be in school?"

My jaw twitches. "Doctor's appointment," is all I say.

Mr. Navarro nods knowingly, runs a hand down his face. "Same here. Damn blood pressure. Don't ever get old, Arbor. It's no fun."

I hate it when adults say that. As if they're suggesting the alternative is better? "I'll keep that in mind. Do you mind if I ..." I let the sentence trail off as I glance toward the stairs.

He gestures for me to pass through. "Knock yourself out. Assuming you can find anything in that mess of a room."

I'm already half-way up the stairs when I call down to him. "Thank you, Mr. Navarro! I'll make it quick." I peek over the banister and watch as he disappears out of sight.

Finally, luck is on my side. Still. I better make this quick before it decides to screw me over. I bounce up the remaining steps and pad down the hallway, closing the door behind me once I'm inside Emma's room.

The silence is almost eerie.

Where do I begin? There are two dressers I can go through, both larger than the nightstand I sifted through the other day. Plus, there's a desk, the space under her bed, and the closet.

The desk is closest. I start with that, rifling through stacks of paper crammed into the drawer beneath her computer. Old homework assignments, homecoming fliers, notes from student council. A college pamphlet to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

Nothing unusual grabs my attention. Same as what's waiting in the two remaining dressers. I'd go through her laptop if I could, but the only way to gain access is with Emma's fingerprint or password.

I drop to my knees and peer under her bed. All that's there are plastic tubs filled with toys we used to play with when we were little and old board games.

For good measure, I take another look beneath the mattress and inside her nightstand, but find nothing new.

Time for the closet. But when I open the door, my heart sinks to my toes. Discarded clothing lies crumpled on the floor, their empty hangers dangling from the rack.

Her dad wasn't kidding when he said this place is a mess.

I pull out every piece of fallen clothing and make a pile behind me, then poke around for deviations in the floor and wall. Any place Emma might be able to use as a hiding spot.

There's nothing.

The last thing I want is to leave here empty handed. But what if there's nothing more to find?

"Did you find what you're looking for?" Mr. Navarro's voice calls up the stairs.

Shit.

My heart stalls in my chest. I crawl to the door and crack it open. "Still looking! I'm almost done."

I jump to my feet and kick the heap of clothing back into the closet, not even bothering with how they're placed. No one, not even Emma, could make sense of this mess anyway.

When I'm finished, I step back and eye the shelf where Emma keeps her books and photo albums. Her dad expects me to leave with a picture and I don't want to raise any suspicions in case he asks to see it.

I yank out the foot stool propped against the closet wall and position it in front of me, holding onto the hand rails as I climb the steps.

One side of the shelf is packed with albums, while the other side is home to her collection of Harry Potters and Percy Jacksons.

I pick through the albums until I find the one I'm looking for and take it to Emma's bed, sinking down onto the mattress.

I wasn't lying when I said there was a picture of Emma and I that I wanted. It was taken after we won the state championship last fall. I flip through the pages until the photograph in question stares back at me.

I used to make fun of her for printing out all her pictures and arranging them in albums. It's such a mom thing to do. Now, I understand. There's something magical about having your most precious memories right in front of you. Because here we are, arms wrapped around each other, smiles plastered across our faces. Hair clinging to our ruddy cheeks from a combination of sweat and rain. We were so happy that day. We were happy every day. And now all that's changed.

My eyes sting until they're spilling over with unexpected tears.

Fuck Emma and whatever bullshit she got herself into! If she hadn't run off the way she did, we'd still be best friends, going away to college next fall to play soccer together. We'd be enjoying our senior year the way we always planned.

And maybe she'd still be with Smith and I'd still be alone.

A sob lodges in my throat. Whatever I had with Smith is probably over. Fuck Emma for that, too.

I rub my sleeve across my face and remove the photo from its sleeve. Part of me wants to rip it to shreds, but the other part wants to save it. Wants to cherish the memory. I just hope one day I'll be able to get past everything she's done so I can think of it fondly.

I let out a shaky breath and place the photo on the bed. Return the album to the closet. When I slide it back onto the shelf, another book at the bottom of the pile catches my eye. A notebook. So clearly out of place among the photo albums and fiction.

I lift the stack of albums and wiggle it free. In purple ink, Emma's bubbly handwriting sprawls across the cover.

Mr. Zhang - AP Psychology

I crack it open and thumb through the beginning, each page emitting the smell of  Emma's grape-scented pen. The sheets are blank—and then they're not. My heart quickens in my chest.

It's a journal.