The Amateurs, Book 3

  Text copyright © 2018 by Alloy Entertainment, LLC and Sara Shepard

  Designed by Marci Senders

  Cover design by Whitney Manger

  Beach photograph © 2018 Franck Boston/Shutterstock

  Flags photograph © 2018 Perfect Lazybones/Shutterstock

  All rights reserved. Published by Freeform Books, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Freeform Books, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-4847-4734-6

  Visit www.freeform.com/books

  To Clyde

  CONTENTS

  Title page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Before

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  After

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  IT WAS SO dark in the shed. His underwear was wet, and his skin itched. It smelled awful in here—a little like the mouse that had died under his family’s porch that one time. And he could hear the ocean going whoosh-whoosh-whoosh, but he didn’t know where the sound was coming from. He hadn’t actually seen the ocean since coming here. It wasn’t like he was on a fun vacation.

  He moved right and left, bumping into plastic beach buckets, rusty bikes, and a busted pool float. He’d never been allowed to play with any of it. He kept thinking about all the creatures that might be crawling over him. Centipedes. Spiders. Maybe even a mouse. His throat tightened. The smell of that dead mouse had gotten worse and worse every day—first it smelled like puke, then something even more awful. When his dad finally pulled it out with a shovel, there were only bones. He’d screamed, and his dad had run over to him to give him a hug. I know, buddy, he said. It isn’t pretty.

  Would he ever see his dad again? Was he going to turn into that mouse?

  His heart started to pound. He pressed his face into his knees. In times like this, times when he got really scared, the only thing that helped was to disappear into the Harry Potter books he loved. If he were at Hogwarts instead of trapped here, if he had magical powers like Harry and his friends, he’d strike down the woman who’d done this to him with a magic spell. She’d shrivel up and disappear. And then? Then he’d run. He’d run fast, away.

  The door creaked open. He stood up, suddenly not able to breathe. The light made his eyes hurt, and he brought his bound hands to his face.

  She stared at him. She wore that big flowered dress, the one that fit her once but didn’t anymore. Her hair was a tangle of orangey-blond around her face. When she was just his teacher, she’d reminded him of the friendly scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. Now she was more of a Halloween skeleton.

  “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I’ll never do it again, I promise.”

  She sniffed and gave him an ugly look. Once upon a time, he hadn’t felt stranger danger with her. He’d thought she was a normal, friendly, happy person he knew well, a person who told funny jokes and gave him Junior Mints after a lesson and talked to him about the Harry ­Potter books—she said she loved them, too.

  They never talked about Harry Potter books anymore.

  “C-can I go back there?” he said, gesturing to the house across the yard. He could see it through the crack in the door. “I’m thirsty.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’m thirsty,” she mocked. “Whose fault is that?”

  His cheeks burned. How long had he been trapped in here? When she first shut him inside, he’d wanted to scream, but then he worried she’d do something even worse. You better watch it, she was always saying. I could really make t

  hings bad. You should be happy about how kind I’m being. She also told him that his parents were glad he was gone, and they weren’t searching to bring him home. No one was. No one

  cared.

  She shook a finger at him. “You should have thought about what would happen before you did it. But you didn’t, and you broke my heart. All I’ve done for you, and this is what I get. You leave me. You make me look like a fool.”

  “I—I said I was sorry.”

  He knew he should have never tried to escape…but it had felt so good. Out there on the sidewalk, he’d turned from the helpless victim into a hero in one of his books—into Harry Potter himself. The air had smelled so fresh. The hot summer sun gave him strength. When he’d knocked on that door two houses down, he’d been sure the people staying there would save him.

  Now she moved closer, her face almost touching his. Her breath smelled like coffee, just as his mother’s always did when she leaned over his bed to wake him up for school. It made him so homesick to smell it, and yet he always kind of wanted to smell it, too, just so he could remember.

  When she reached for him, he flinched. But instead of hitting him, she petted the side of his cheek. “My sweet, sweet boy. I love you. You know that, right?”

  “Uh-huh,” he whispered. But he felt icky for saying it.

  “Except you’ve been so very bad. And bad boys need to be punished.”

  The door crashed shut so hard that the whole crappy plastic shed rattled. “Wait!” He lurched forward, tripping over his tied-up ankles. “Wait, no, please! Let me out! I’ll never do it again! I promise!”

  “I’m sorry, honey.” The metal padlock clicked into place. “But this is how it has to be.”

  SENECA FRAZIER STOOD in the way-too-chilly, upscale lobby of the Reeds Hotel in Avignon, New Jersey, staring in horror at a text message she’d just received.

  Don’t bother looking for us. We’re outta here.

  “Impossible,” Maddox Wright whispered. Maddox rubbed the bridge of his nose, which was peeling from sunburn, and pushed his grown-out brown hair out of his eyes. “You really think it’s from Brett?”

  Seneca was clenching her jaw so hard it felt like her teeth might grind to powder. “It has to be. But what the hell does it mean?”

  Seneca, Maddox, and Maddox’s stepsister, Madison, plus their friends Aerin Kelly and Thomas Grove had been embroiled in a game of cat and mouse with Brett Grady for the past week. Ironically, once upon a time, Brett had also been their friend, a member of their cobbled-together investigative team—they’d met on a crime-solving website, Case Not Closed, which acted as a gathering place for people who loved digging into cold cases. Their first case had been to figure out what had happened to Helena Kelly, Aerin’s sister, whose bones had turned up in a park years after her mysterious disappearance. During that investigation, they’d trusted and respected Brett. He had great insights. He’d been a good listener, and he’d stuck by them to the very end, when they believed they’d found Helena’s murdere
r—Marissa Ingram, the wife of the man Helena was having an affair with.

  Little did they know at the time that he’d steered that investigation exactly where he wanted it to go. He was the one who’d murdered Helena, not Marissa Ingram. But he’d disappeared before Seneca had made the connection. And that wasn’t all Brett had done….Through subtle hints he’d dropped, Seneca was almost positive he’d killed her mother, Collette, as well. That he’d been so close to her, right in front of her face, taunting her—it made her blood sizzle in her veins.

  She wanted to catch Brett. She needed to catch Brett. It felt like her life’s mission now. But Brett was like a phantom—he changed his looks as easily as he changed his name. Finding him was easier said then done. This past week, he’d resurfaced and put the group through their paces to find Chelsea Dawson, his latest victim…only to twist the scene to make it look like the Instagram-star Chelsea had kidnapped herself in order to gain more followers. Seneca and her friends had looked like fools when they tried to explain to the cops that Brett, who had been going by the name Gabriel Wilton around Avignon, was behind it all. It also didn’t help that Brett had staged a fiery car crash that killed “Gabriel.” Who knew who Gabriel actually was—not Brett, clearly, but an innocent person whose life didn’t deserve to be cut short by Brett’s vicious game. As far as the cops were concerned, Chelsea’s case was closed—and Seneca and her friends were liars.

  And now here was Brett, teasing her again with this text. I win, you lose! Seneca pressed her nails into her palm, wanting to scream. Every day that passed, her desire to capture Brett turned more desperate. She needed to get this guy—for her mom, for his other victims, for herself, if only to ask him why. Why her mom? Why Helena? Why anyone?

  She canvassed the lobby, wondering if Brett had been here, if they’d walked right past him at any point. This hotel had been their HQ, though now that Chelsea had been found, Seneca and the others planned to head back to their respective homes—Madison, Maddox, Thomas, and Aerin to Dexby, Connecticut, and Seneca to Annapolis, Maryland—and reconvene their search for Brett after a few days. The lobby had a cheerful tiki theme and was bustling with sunburned tourists. A group of raucous college-age boys drank tequila shots at the thatched-roof bar. Outside, a bunch of valets in Hawaiian-print shirts rushed to cars pulling up to the roundabout drive, and bellboys pushed carts of luggage through the automatic doors.

  Seneca stared at the text again, her hands fluttering to the bare spot at her throat. She was so used to fiddling with her mother’s P-initial pendant, but Brett had burned it beyond recognition a few days ago. She felt so naked without it, as though she’d parted with a limb.

  Why had Brett sent this message? Just to tease that he’d gotten away again…or for some other reason? His use of pronouns—us and we’re—felt like a clue. Did Brett have someone with him? His “sister,” Viola, maybe? She’d just found out that Brett called her “sis”—Amanda Iverson, Brett’s boss at the real estate company when Brett was posing as “Gabriel,” beach bum and Realtor-in-training, had clued her in. Seneca needed to find this Viola person. She’d already begun racking her brain, trying to figure out how they might be able to track her down. Only, why would Brett brag about Viola when, as far as Seneca knew, he wasn’t yet aware that she knew of Viola’s existence? It didn’t quite fit.

  “Ready to go? Madison’s here.” Maddox pointed out his sister’s shiny dark hair by the elevators. She was dragging two giant, overloaded pink suitcases behind her. She’d changed into a neon floral minidress and cork-wedge sandals.

  Seneca was about to tell Madison about Brett’s cryptic text, but Madison spoke first, holding up an iPad in a Louis Vuitton case. “Aerin forgot this. She still here?”

  “She left to meet Thomas.” Seneca glanced at the front entrance. Thomas Grove was Aerin’s brand-new boyfriend and an ex-cop; he’d helped them hunt down Chelsea and Brett. This morning, he’d received news that his grandmother was in the hospital and that he needed to return to Dexby. Aerin insisted on going with him; Thomas was picking her up in the hotel driveway.

  She dialed Aerin’s number, eager to talk to her for reasons beyond the left-behind iPad. She needed to clue everyone into this text, pronto—Brett’s words seemed more ominous with every passing second. Maybe Aerin or Thomas, with his police experience, would have some insight.

  But the call went to voice mail. Seneca dialed Thomas next; he answered on the first ring. “Thomas? Put me on speaker. Aerin needs to hear this, too.”

  “Oh.” Thomas sounded surprised. “Actually, I’m still about five minutes away.”

  “Wait, what?” Seneca cocked her head, not understanding.

  “I haven’t picked Aerin up yet. I got stuck in traffic. I shouldn’t be long, though.”

  “Huh.” Seneca stuck her head out and peered around the hotel’s driveway, searching for Aerin’s silky white-blond hair, her long tanned legs, the black designer handbag looped over her elbow. She wasn’t there.

  Seneca’s skin started to prickle. She looked at Maddox and Madison worriedly. “Thomas isn’t with Aerin,” she whispered. “And she’s not in the driveway, either.”

  Maddox frowned. Madison’s eyes darted. “Maybe she’s in the bathroom?”

  Seneca eyed the bathroom door across the lobby. She would have seen Aerin coming or going from there. She pressed the phone to her ear again. “Thomas, can you meet us inside? We’ll find Aerin. There’s something I need to show you.”

  After she hung up, she dialed Aerin once more. Voice mail. A hot feeling was spreading across her stomach, but she tried to breathe steadily. This didn’t mean anything. There had to be an explanation.

  She looked at the driveway again. Still no Aerin. She noticed a lanky young bellman standing by the valet stand. The guy seemed bored, leaning his head against the wall with his eyes closed. A shiny name tag read Hunter. He snapped to attention when she approached.

  “Did a girl just pass by here?” Seneca asked. “Seventeen. Pretty. Blond hair. You wouldn’t have missed her.”

  Madison showed Hunter a picture of Aerin from her phone. The kid’s lips curved into a suggestive smile. “Oh yeah. I saw her. She got into a car a couple minutes ago.”

  Seneca felt a jolt. “What car?”

  The kid tried to think. “I think it was white? A sedan?”

  Seneca frowned. Thomas’s car was a white Ford sedan…but Aerin wasn’t with Thomas. Could it have been a cab? But the cabs around here all seemed to be standard taxicab yellow. “Where did she go? Did you see?”

  “Toward the bridge, I think.” He nodded confidently. “Yep, definitely toward the bridge, because they cut off someone making the left. Really peeled out of here.”

  Then Hunter became distracted with an SUV full of people that had just pulled into the drive. Seneca turned to Maddox and Madison. Alarm bells were going off in her head. By the look on Maddox’s face, she could tell that scared, paranoid thoughts were churning through his mind, too. That didn’t surprise her—she and Maddox had bonded long ago over private messages on the Case Not Closed site, confessing all kinds of things, weirdly in tune with one another’s thoughts.

  Seneca called Thomas back. He picked up right away. “Who called you to tell you that your grandmother was in the hospital and that you needed to come home to Dexby?”

  There was a pause. “My nana’s doctor,” Thomas said. “Why?”

  “Have you ever spoken to him before? Like, do you know what his voice sounds like?”

  “No…”

  “Seneca, what are you getting at?” Madison narrowed her eyes.

  Seneca held up her finger in a wait-a-second gesture. “Thomas, call her doctor back. Ask if your nana’s really sick.”

  Madison looked confused. “You think the doctor is lying?”

  Maddox swore under his breath. Seneca looked at him; by his ashen expression, she could tell he was toying with the same theory she was. Brett’s text danced in her mind. Don’t bother looking for us
. Could the us be…?

  A dangerous scenario unfolded in her mind: Brett had posed as Thomas’s grandmother’s doctor and lied about her condition. Then he’d pulled up to the driveway in a car that looked exactly like Thomas’s and taken Aerin…while the rest of them were inside, mere feet away, unaware.

  She pressed her phone to her ear. “Call him, Thomas. Please.”

  “Okay,” Thomas said. “I’ll call you back. Or actually, I’ll see you in a couple minutes—I’ll be turning onto Sea Breeze soon.”

  The call ended. Seneca shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Ten bucks says that doctor never called him,” she murmured. “Ten bucks it was Brett, disguising his voice.”

  “What?” Madison asked, gaping. “Why?”

  Wordlessly, Seneca showed her the text on her phone. Madison crowded in to look, and the color drained from her cheeks. “This is from…?” She trailed off in horror.

  Seneca nodded.

  “And you think he’s outta here…with Aerin?”

  The pieces were starting to slide into place. Throughout the search for Chelsea, Seneca had questioned Brett’s every move. Why had he taken her specifically? Could he really have a vendetta against every woman who rejected him, or was there something else at play here? And why had he given them clues on how to find Chelsea…and, finally, why had he let Chelsea go? Brett was the kind of criminal who left no witnesses—he didn’t want his victims to tell anyone about him. And he had no interest in clemency.

  “Guys, maybe Chelsea wasn’t Brett’s endgame,” she said in a choked voice. “Maybe Aerin is.”

  Madison was trembling. “We have to call the police. Now.”

  Seneca peered into the hotel lobby. Maybe they should tell the management, too—they probably had a surveillance camera in the driveway and had caught Aerin getting into Brett’s car. But she didn’t see a single staff member anywhere. She stared at her cell phone, eagerly awaiting Thomas’s call back. Then, as she looked up, she caught sight of Thomas’s white Ford rounding the corner onto Sea Breeze Drive. Even from a distance, she could see the frightened, confused look on his face. He’d made that call, she knew. His nana wasn’t in the hospital. The doctor hadn’t told him to come home.