This Lie Will Kill You

1.

CLASS ACT

Juniper Torres woke with a smile. Today was the day. She knew it, though there was no particular reason to think today would be different. The sun wasn’t shining. The sun was barely even up, but it didn’t matter much. The universe was speaking to Juniper directly, lighting a fire in her veins and making her heartbeat thrum. It whispered to her in a soft, lilting voice:

Today is the day your life is going to change.

She sat up in bed. Kicking away her tangled sheets (and running a hand through her equally tangled hair), she crawled to the window, looking down. And there she was. The blond, bedraggled mailwoman was leaning over the mailbox, stuffing a host of envelopes inside. Juniper couldn’t tell for certain, but she had a sneaking suspicion the envelope was among them.

She raced from her room. Down the hallway she went, past her baby sister’s nursery, and the bedroom where her parents slept, their limbs entwined like the branches of neighboring trees. Soon the family would wake, and she wouldn’t be able to scour the mailbox in secret. But if she was very quiet (avoiding this floorboard, and that creaky step), she could slip outside without anyone noticing.

So she did. Out of the olive Victorian she went, into the white, winter world. Overnight, the yard had been transformed. Icicles dangled from the oaks, threatening to impale Juniper as she passed beneath them. And at the end of the yard, the snow-frosted mailbox stood out like a sore thumb.

Juniper yanked it open. Her fingers danced over advertisements, brushing the edges of a coupon packet, and then she was pulling the envelope out of the darkness. She knew it was the envelope she’d been waiting for, even before she saw it. It was big, and it was fat, and the writing was . . .

Blood red? The envelope leapt from her hand. It fluttered slowly, like the snowflakes falling around her, and by the time it hit the ground, she’d registered two things: This was not the letter she’d been waiting for. It was an invitation.

She scooped it out of the snow. Someone had written, You are cordially invited to a night of murder and mayhem! on the back of the ebony envelope, and Juniper turned it over, confirming that it was addressed to her. It was. Thanks but no thanks, she thought, ripping it in half. She had zero interest in getting wasted with her classmates, and even less interest in pretending death was hilarious. The only reason she was stalking her mailbox was because she was expecting an acceptance letter from Columbia University. Their online system was down, which meant she’d be getting her news the old-fashioned way.

And so it went. Juniper raced to the mailbox on Monday morning, then Tuesday. By Wednesday, her confidence had started to ebb. Why was she so convinced she’d be getting an acceptance letter? Yes, her grades were mostly stellar, but last winter, after that party up in the hills . . .

Juniper shook herself. She’d only fallen off track for a month, and most of her teachers had let her make up the work. Even if she didn’t get into the college of her choice, she had a couple of safety schools that would take her far away from this town. She’d still go to med school. Cure people. Save lives. Everything would go according to plan.

She was about to return to the house when a black envelope caught her eye, way back in the corner of the mailbox. A shiver skittered up her spine. She already knew what the envelope was. An invitation to a night of murder and mayhem!

They’d probably mailed two by mistake, she thought, rolling her eyes. But as she drew the envelope from the darkness, an undertow of guilt started tugging at her limbs. This was how it always happened. She’d be going about her day, not even thinking about Dahlia Kane’s Christmas party, and out of nowhere, her limbs would get heavy. She’d feel herself sinking, the way a body sinks to the bottom of a swimming pool, while people stand by, laughing—

Junebug! Mrs. Torres appeared in the doorway, her face flushed from standing over the stove. Breakfast, mi amor. What is that?

Crap. Juniper’s reflexes were dulled this early in the morning. Two hours (and three cups of coffee) from now, she’d never have let her mother see this envelope. But now she was trapped, and she couldn’t very well shred the thing in front of her mom. She’d have to play this just right.

Forcing a smile, she jogged up to the doorway. Just some dork’s idea of a good time, she said, holding up the invitation. She wasn’t offering it to her mother; she had a very good grip on the envelope. But Mrs. Torres must’ve seen a night of murder and mayhem! scrawled across the back, because she snatched it out of her daughter’s hand.

Ooh, a party. You should go.

What? No. Juniper scrunched up her face. "It’s probably on Saturday. I’m watching Rudolph with Olive." Olive was her baby sister, and now that the kid could walk, Juniper was pretty much on permanent call. She chose to think of it as practice for when she was actually on call at the hospital of her choice. Better get used to functioning on two hours of sleep, right?

Junebug, she’s my kid. Her mother disappeared into the hallway, and Juniper followed close behind, plotting to retrieve the invitation. Believe it or not, I like spending time with my kids.

And yet, you’re forcing me out of the house.

I’m just making a suggestion. Her mother pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. Olive was in her high chair, giggling and dancing in that I-can-see-invisible-fairies way that babies had. Don’t you want to have fun with your friends?

They aren’t my friends. They probably sent one to every senior at school.

All the more reason to go, her mother said, swooping in with the old, chipped coffeepot. Just think about it, okay? It wouldn’t kill you to go to a party.

It might, Juniper thought, her hands starting to shake. She took a gulp of coffee, hoping her mother wouldn’t notice her jumpiness. Luckily, Mrs. Torres was busy fussing with the tostadas on the stove. But somebody did notice, and when coffee sloshed over Juniper’s fingers, her baby sister frowned, reaching for their mother’s purse. Two years old, and she’d already decided makeup was the cure for sadness. Juniper wasn’t sure where she’d learned it. This wasn’t exactly a beauty pageant house. But wherever the lesson had come from, Juniper didn’t mind being her sister’s living dolly. Olive’s eyes got so bright and her mouth got so smiley.

Tip-sick! the baby announced, pulling out a vibrant burgundy gloss that would make Juniper look like she’d been eating berries. Or drinking wine. It was kind of pretty, and Juniper was okay with looking kind of pretty, as long as it didn’t eclipse her other accomplishments. She felt a pang as Olive dabbed the gloss on her lips, wishing she could stay in town and teach her sister about making people better, rather than beautiful. But she couldn’t stay after everything that had happened—she couldn’t—and besides, nothing she could say to Olive would be as influential as becoming the doctor she’d always wanted to be. She’d do everything she’d set out to do, and one day, she’d whisk her family out of this creepy little town, away from all of its secrets.

Its ghosts.

After the lip gloss was on, Olive clapped her hands, squealing, Pretty! and Juniper felt the cracks in her heart close.

You are, baby girl, she said, as tiny fingers encircled one of her own. Meanwhile, their mother had gone completely silent by the stove. Juniper turned, goose bumps rising on her arms, to find Mrs. Torres leaning against the counter, staring at a single page.

What? Mama, what?

Her mother didn’t answer, so Juniper snatched up the invitation. She made no attempt to be sly about it. One second the paper was fluttering in her mother’s fingers, and then it wasn’t. One second the breath was filling Juniper’s lungs, and then it was gone.

Dear Miss Torres,

Due to your achievements in ACADEMIC EXCELLENCE, you are cordially invited to a murder mystery dinner! Prepare to be challenged as you, and five of your esteemed classmates, fight to unravel the mystery and apprehend a killer!

The world will become a stage!

A friend will become a foe!

Costumes will arrive later this week!

And, of course, the winner will take home the coveted $50,000 Burning Embers Scholarship, to be used at the school of his or her choice.

Your humble benefactor,

The Ringmaster

It’s a scam. The words were out of Juniper’s mouth before she could stop them, and even after she’d spoken them, she felt no desire to take them back. Even after her mother sank into a chair, studying the invitation in shock.

You were right, it is on Saturday, Mrs. Torres said. Her voice was breathy, and Juniper hated the thought of disappointing her. They must’ve had a last-minute opening—

Mom, it’s a scam. Real scholarship offers don’t sound like this. She’d never even heard of the Burning Embers Scholarship. She’d never heard of it, and she didn’t like the sound of it.

It isn’t an offer, her mother said calmly. It’s a contest.

Real scholarships don’t make you compete, Juniper insisted. "Not like this. Not at a murder mystery dinner."

Misery dinner! Olive shouted, and Juniper cringed. She did not want her sister repeating that.

Calm down, baby girl. Eat your Cheerios.

But it was an exercise in futility. Juniper’s own breakfast sat, forgotten, on the stove. Even her coffee cup couldn’t entice her now. Look, I’ll do some research, she said, plucking her mother’s phone from the table, but I’m pretty sure scholarship foundations don’t sign their letters ‘The Ringmaster.’

They’re trying to make it fun.

They’re trying to make money off me. She typed Burning Embers Scholarship into the search engine, waiting for zero hits to come up. Just wait. The day before the contest, I’ll get a second letter, asking for an entry fee. If there isn’t a website . . .

Juniper trailed off, clicking the first of several links. Not only did the Burning Embers Foundation have a website, it looked legit. There was an About page that highlighted the project’s aims (finding unique and exciting ways to reward students who excel in academics, fine arts, and athletics) and a Contact page with a phone number, an email address, and a physical location. Juniper made a vow to contact them in every way possible before Saturday’s event, to prove that real people worked at the foundation.

Or rather, to prove that they didn’t.

She wasn’t certain why she was being contrary at this point. A fifty-thousand-dollar scholarship would change her life. Hadn’t she spent the past six months applying to every scholarship she could find, hoping for one-fifth of that amount?

I never applied for this, she mumbled, her last-ditch effort at logic. I would’ve remembered—

Sometimes teachers submit you. Guidance counselors. You’re such a good student, and you were going to be valedictorian.

Yes, I was going to be valedictorian. Then I went to a party, last December . . .

Wait, let me see that. She smoothed out the invitation on the table. It didn’t take long to locate the date of the event: December 21. One year exactly since Dahlia Kane’s Christmas party.

Mom—

This money would be a big deal for us, her mother broke in softly. Your father could use the good news.

I know. Juniper glanced at his empty chair. After fifteen years of teaching music at Fallen Oaks Elementary, a recent round of budget cuts had left Mr. Torres jobless. Now Juniper could hear him milling around upstairs, choosing the perfect tie for another set of dehumanizing interviews.

Are you going to tell him you’re passing up fifty thousand dollars? Her mother fixed her with a stare. After everything he’s been through?

Of course not. Juniper swallowed, her chest tightening. I just don’t understand who would submit me for this sort of thing. I’m the world’s worst actress.

Maybe Ruby did it.

Juniper blinked. She could see her mother staring at her, could see her baby sister bouncing in the periphery, but she felt completely displaced. Like she was floating outside of space and time.

I’m just saying, she has quite the flair for the dramatic. This sort of thing is right up her alley, Mrs. Torres explained. Why don’t you give her a call and ask about it? Then, almost too quietly for Juniper to hear, she added, I miss that girl.

I miss her too. Juniper’s vision blurred as she thought of Ruby’s smile, Ruby’s laugh, Ruby’s touch. She pushed off from the table, her chair screeching behind her. Too bad she doesn’t miss me.

+  +  +

Juniper slammed her bedroom door, leaning against it. She knew she was overreacting, but she didn’t know how to stop it. It was like being in one of those dreams where you are yourself, and see yourself from outside your body. Like being God and Jesus at the same time.

She shook her head, crossing the room. If she was any kind of religious, it was casually Catholic with atheistic leanings. She just wasn’t sure she believed in anything anymore. Still, she’d always been fascinated with the idea of being God and Jesus at the same time. Of being inside your body and watching from high above. Maybe that was what it meant to have a body and a soul, to be at one single point, and everywhere, all at once.

Juniper dug her phone out of her purse. She told herself these thoughts were random, the musings of a girl who still desperately needed her morning caffeine, but deep down, she knew the truth. After everything she’d done to Ruby, she wanted to believe in the possibility of redemption.

She wanted to believe she had a soul.

With trembling hands, she typed out the message, Did you submit me for the Burning Embers Scholarship? Ruby’s number was still in her phone. She couldn’t bring herself to erase it, which was definitely ironic, considering the thing she’d erased from Ruby’s life.

The person.

She hit send, then dropped the phone onto her bed. She absolutely would not wait by the phone like a sad little girl on prom night, hoping and hoping while her heart sank to her knees. But maybe Ruby had been waiting for her. The phone pinged almost instantly, and she found herself scrabbling to pluck it from the bed, her eyes scanning the message frantically: No.

Juniper started to laugh. It was the cold, brittle kind of laughter, like twigs snapping underfoot. Of course Ruby hadn’t submitted her for the scholarship. Of course Ruby wasn’t looking out for her from behind the scenes. Their friendship was over. It had been over for a long time.

She sank down to her bed. When her phone lit up again, she was surprised to feel her heart leap. How could she still have hope after everything that had happened? Her heart was a bruised and bludgeoned thing. A Pandora’s box filled with grief and regret. But somewhere, hidden in the darkness, hope was glittering. It caused her breath to falter as she read Ruby’s text.

I didn’t submit you, Ruby wrote, but I’m going to the party. Maybe we can solve the mystery together?

Juniper didn’t trust herself with words, so she sent back a smile.

2.

DRAMA QUEEN

Ruby Valentine was a lit firecracker ready to pop. Her skin crackled and her fingertips buzzed. Ever since she’d received the invitation from the Burning Embers Foundation, she’d been bouncing from foot to foot, brimming with excitement. What a fabulous opportunity! Strange, yes, but strange things were always happening in Fallen Oaks. People appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as quickly. Pretty girls fell head over heels for monsters. Boys were transformed into fire, into pure, glittering light.

A town of freaks wearing beautiful masks, Ruby thought, looking away from her reflection. She knew a thing or two about putting on a show. And now, before she could leave for the party of the century, she’d have to perform for her mother. Wrapping a robe around her red sequined party dress, she dusted some blush over her nose.

A ruddy complexion would help sell the story.

Out of her room she raced, like a princess fleeing a beast. Someone else would’ve tripped. But unlike Juniper Torres, who couldn’t balance on one foot for more than ten seconds, Ruby had been born with a ballerina’s grace, and when she was determined, her limbs filled with light. She floated. Slipping into the living room, she knelt at the back of the ratty old sofa and whispered in her mother’s ear. Mom? I can’t sleep.

Her mother turned. So did Scarlet, Charlotte, and May. Four pretty red heads turning. Four sets of eyes trained on her. What time is it? Mrs. Valentine asked with a yawn. Her ginger hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and her floral nightgown had seen better days.

After nine, Ruby said, glancing at her phone. The party started at ten. You girls should get to bed.

Her sisters started to fuss, and Ruby’s mother sighed, already sinking under the weight of responsibility. Once upon a time, Mrs. Valentine had had a husband, and that husband had helped put these little girls to bed. He’d helped get them up in the morning too, and helped make their lunches. Now he was gone, and Ruby’s mother had four girls to raise on her own. Most nights Ruby shouldered the burden, but she couldn’t tonight. She had to imitate going to bed so she could sneak out of her window. But first, she needed access to the safe in the basement.

Mrs. Valentine studied her daughter. They had the same pale blue eyes, the same freckles along the bridge of their noses. The same terrible taste in men. Five more minutes, girls, she said after a moment. Charlotte, you’re sleeping in my room tonight, so you don’t bother your sister.

She doesn’t bother me, Ruby said. "My brain bothers me. When I can’t sleep, I—"

Are you having the dream again?

Ruby froze. She honestly hadn’t thought her mother would bring up the nightmare. When they’d first discussed it, Mrs. Valentine had gone completely white. Considering all the girls in the family had milky-pale skin, it was a sight to behold. Ruby had watched her mother transform into a ghost, and it scared her more than she would ever admit. Ruby wasn’t scared of life, and she wasn’t scared of death, but she was scared of ghosts.

She had good reason to be scared.

I was just lying there, trying to fall asleep, she began. But I kept thinking about the dream, and trying not to think about it, and that only made it worse. Ruby lowered her head. If she came on too strong, she’d have to go back to that psychiatrist. But if she didn’t come on strong enough, her mother wouldn’t let her into the safe.

I only need one pill, she promised. I can bring up the bottle, and you can count—

Don’t bring it, her mother said. I have to trust you with it. That’s the point.

Ruby nodded. Now give me the code, she thought, sniffling softly. Reminding her mother that she was a young, innocent girl. Not a survivor, oh no. Just a child who needed her mom.

Mrs. Valentine smiled, lifting a hand to Ruby’s cheek. Three-eleven-nineteen, she said, and Ruby exhaled, replying, Thank you. Last one. She rose to her feet. It took all the restraint in her body to keep her movements fluid and slow. She wanted to flee. To get the hell out of there before her mother changed her mind and ruined everything.

Twenty seconds later, she stood before the basement door. It opened with a twist of the knob, unleashing a torrent of dust onto her head. The basement was off-limits to the younger girls, who could trip and crack their heads open on the stairs. They could get lost in the labyrinth of boxes or get nibbled by mice. It really wasn’t worth it for them to come down here. But Ruby liked being in the one place in the entire house where nobody would follow her, tug on her sleeve, or fill up the silence. Even cold, even dark, it was pleasant.

It was her sanctuary.

Then, with the simple pulling of a string, the light came on and the room became what it really was: a basement. A wasteland of discarded clothes and decapitated toys and small puddles of water that no one could trace to a source. On the far wall, there was a bookshelf her father had built, which had once held the family photo albums, but now the shelves stood empty.

Ruby tore her eyes away from it, blinking back tears.

She would not cry for real. Tears were for the stage, and for her mother, in times of desperation. Tonight, she desperately needed to get into the safe. As she neared the small, black rectangle, chills raced through her body.

She knelt and turned the dial. Three. Eleven. Nineteen. The little safe clicked, and Ruby yanked open the door, pulling an object out of the darkness. It was heavier than she expected, and cold.

After Ruby’s father had disappeared, Mrs. Valentine had invested in two items: a bottle of sleeping pills and a revolver she’d found in the back room of an antique shop. But while the pills were a prescription for Ruby (and thus, had spent their first few months on her bedside table), the revolver had taken up residence in the basement safe. Several refills later, Mrs. Valentine had locked the pills away as well, insisting on monitoring her daughter’s drug intake.

Now, two years after their family had been fractured, Ruby had almost forgotten about the pills. She hadn’t forgotten about the revolver. She traced her finger along the curve of the weapon, keeping the barrel pointed away from her. She knew how dangerous it was. She’d taken a class on gun safety after her father disappeared and her mother got paranoid about men kidnapping her daughters. According to Mrs. Valentine, men could kidnap you at any moment. Walking to school in the sun. Sleeping in your bed at night. And while Ruby knew these things happened, she was much more frightened of her sisters stumbling onto the revolver and thinking it was a toy. She’d convinced her mother to purchase the safe that week, to keep the weapon locked away in a place they could reach if they needed to without risking the safety of her sisters. And so the gun had rested, hidden in the darkness and collecting dust, more a symbol than a weapon.

Until now.

The safety was on. Ruby made sure of it, before she slipped the gun beneath the folds of her robe. Closing the safe with a clang, she spun the dial. She knew her mother wouldn’t come down the stairs that night. She wouldn’t check the bottle of pills to make sure her daughter hadn’t taken too many. Over the past year, Ruby had earned back her trust. And now, with the revolver pressed against her hip, Ruby would cash in on that trust.

No one would suspect a thing.

She climbed the stairs on soft feet, stopping behind the couch to kiss her mother’s cheek. Then she kissed each of her sisters, one by one, before hurrying down the hall. Once she’d closed the door to her bedroom, she slid the weapon into her red sequined purse.

It was part of her costume. The purse had arrived in the mail