“No,” Amelia said. “That’s not what I mean.” Whitney frowned, cocked her head to the side. “I need time away. Like not at our house.”

Whitney let out a startled sound, kind of a cross between a cough and laugh. “Well, where would you go?”

Amelia glanced over at Lauren, who took the bait.

“We can go on our sisters’ trip,” Lauren said. “The one we’d planned.”

Whitney knotted her hands, bit the inside of her lip. Lauren was positive a “no” was coming. Amelia’s expression betrayed that she did also.

“Please,” Amelia begged. “I need this.”

“Amelia, you’re not old enough to go on a trip on your own.”

“She won’t be on her own. She’ll be with her sister,” Lauren pointed out.

The look Whitney gave her could only be described as a glare.

“Or I guess she could just stay with me here for a bit,” Lauren added smugly. “In the motel. It’s pretty safe. It’s really near the police station.”

Lauren noted the swell of Whitney’s neck as she swallowed.

Lauren—1. Whitney—0.

Whitney hesitated, licked her lips.

“I bet the police would be interested in seeing this.” When Lauren tugged on her backpack zipper it sounded like paper being ripped cleanly in half.

“The police? What?” Amelia spoke softly beside her in a fear-laced tone. “You didn’t mention anything about the police.” Lifting her hand to her mouth, she gnawed on her index fingernail.

God, Amelia never would’ve survived Lauren’s childhood.

She was way too fragile. But Lauren couldn’t worry about that right now. On a mission, she ignored her. Inside, her fingers found what she’d been searching for. She yanked it out, displaying it in front of her chest.

Whitney’s eyes flashed. “Is that Millie’s diary?” she asked, her tone breathy, staring at the journal like it was a loaded gun.

“Yep,” Lauren told her smugly, enjoying the discomfort on her face. “And I’m sorry, but after reading through this, I just don’t think your story adds up.” She slid her thumb against the pages, fanning them. “You’re in it a lot. There’s all kinds of stuff about your friendship.”

“Really?” She stepped forward. “Can I see?”

Lauren drew it back, clutched it to her chest. “No.”

Whitney sighed. “Lauren, your mom was always a tad melodramatic. The darker the better. I don’t think you can read that much into her diary.”

“Oh, I think I can read a lot into it,” Lauren deadpanned, opening to a page and reading. “‘My skin prickles, the hair on end. Fear breathes down my neck. A shadow behind me. Always there. Watching. Waiting to strike.’”