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  For Michael Penny and Matthew Penny

  CHAPTER 1

  Maggie Neely woke up to the sound of her mother screaming.

  She’d gone to bed as usual, with Jake the Great Dane sprawled heavily across her feet and the three cats jockeying for position around her head. Her cheek was resting on her open geometry book; there were homework papers scattered among the blankets, along with fragments of potato chips and an empty bag. She was wearing her jeans and a flowered pajama top plus the only two socks she’d been able to find last night: one red velveteen anklet and one blue cotton slouch sock.

  Those particular socks would eventually mean the difference between life and death for her, but at the moment Maggie had no idea of that.

  She was simply startled and disoriented from being wakened suddenly. She’d never heard this kind of screaming before, and she wondered how she could be so certain it was her mother doing it.

  Something . . . really bad is happening, Maggie realized slowly. The worst.

  The clock on her nightstand said 2:11 a.m.

  And then before she even realized she was moving, she was lurching across her bedroom floor, with piles of dirty clothes and sports equipment trying to trip her up. She banged her shin on a wastebasket in the middle of the room and plowed right on through. The hallway was dim, but the living room at the end was blazing with light and the screams were coming from there.

  Jake trotted along beside her. When they got to the foyer by the living room he gave a half growl, half bark.

  Maggie took in the whole scene in a glance. It was one of those moments when everything changes forever.

  The front door was open, letting in the cold air of a November night in Washington. Maggie’s father was wearing a short bathrobe and holding her mother, who was pulling and tearing at him as if she were trying to get away, screaming breathlessly all the while. And in the doorway four people were standing: two sheriffs, a National Park ranger, and Sylvia Weald.

  Sylvia. Her brother Miles’s girlfriend.

  And knowledge hit her quick and hard as a hammer blow.

  My brother is dead, Maggie thought.

  CHAPTER 2

  Beside her, Jake growled again, but Maggie only heard it distantly. No one else even looked toward them.

  I can’t believe how well I’m taking this, Maggie thought. Something’s wrong with me. I’m not hysterical at all.

  Her mind had gotten hold of the idea quite clearly, but there was no reaction in her body, no terrible feeling in her stomach. An instant later it swept over her, exactly what she’d been afraid of. A wash of adrenaline that made her skin tingle painfully and a horrible sensation of falling in her stomach. A numbness that started in her cheeks and spread to her lips and jaw.

  Oh, please, she thought stupidly. Please let it not be true. Maybe he’s just hurt. That would be all right. He had an accident and he’s hurt—but not dead.

  But if he were hurt her mother wouldn’t be standing there screaming. She would be on her way to the hospital, and nobody could stop her. So that didn’t work, and Maggie’s mind, darting and wheeling like a frightened little animal, had to go back to Please don’t let this be true.

  Strangely, at that moment, it seemed as if there might be some way to make it not true. If she turned around and sneaked back to her bedroom before anyone saw her; if she got into bed and pulled the blankets over her head and shut her eyes . . .

  But she couldn’t leave her mother screaming like this.

  Just then the screams died down a little. Her father was speaking in a voice that didn’t sound at all like his voice. It was a sort of choked whisper. “But why didn’t you tell us you were going climbing? If you left on Halloween then it’s been six days. We didn’t even know our son was missing. . . .”

  “I’m sorry.” Sylvia was whispering, too. “We didn’t expect to be gone long. Miles’s roommates knew we were going, but nobody else. It was just a spur-of-the-moment thing—we didn’t have classes on Halloween and the weather was so nice and Miles said, hey, let’s go out to Chimney Rock. And we just went. . . .”

  Hey, let’s go. He used to say that kind of thing to me, Maggie thought with a strange, dazed twinge. But not since he met Sylvia.

  The male sheriff was looking at Maggie’s father. “You weren’t surprised that you hadn’t heard from your son since last Friday?”

  “No. He’s gotten so independent since he moved out to go to college. One of his roommates called this afternoon to ask if Miles was here—but he didn’t say that Miles had been gone for almost a week. I just thought he’d missed a class or something. . . .” Maggie’s father’s voice trailed off.

  The sheriff nodded. “Apparently his roommates thought he’d taken a little unauthorized vacation,” he said. “They got worried enough to call us tonight—but by then a ranger had already picked up Sylvia.”

  Sylvia was crying. She was tall but willowy, fragile-looking. Delicate. She had shimmering hair so pale it was almost silvery and clear eyes the exact color of wood violets. Maggie, who was short and round-faced, with fox-colored hair and brown eyes, had always envied her.

  But not now. Nobody could look at Sylvia now without feeling pity.

  “It happened that first evening. We started up, but then the weather started turning bad and we turned around. We were moving pretty fast.” Sylvia stopped and pressed a fist against her mouth.

  “It’s kind of a risky time of year for climbing,” the female sheriff began gently, but Sylvia shook her head.

  And she was right, Maggie thought. It wasn’t that bad. Sure, it rained here most of the fall, but sometimes what the weather people called a high pressure cell settled in and the skies stayed blue for a month. All hikers knew that.

  Besides, Miles wasn’t scared of weather. He was only eighteen but he’d done lots of hard climbs in Washington’s Olympic and Cascade ranges. He’d keep climbing all winter, getting alpine experience in snow and storms.

  Sylvia was going on, her voice getting more jerky and breathless. “Miles was . . . he’d had the flu a week before and he wasn’t completely over it. But he seemed okay, strong. It happened when we were rappelling down. He was laughing and joking and everything. . . . I never thought he might be tired enough to make a mistake. . . .” Her voice wavered and turned into a ragged sob and the ranger put his arm around her.

  Something inside Maggie froze. A mistake? Miles?

  She was prepared to hear about a sudden avalanche or a piece of equipment failing. Even Sylvia falling and knocking Miles off. But Miles making a mistake?

  Maggie stared at Sylvia, and suddenly something in the pitiful figure bothered her.

  There was something odd about that delicately flushed face and those tear-drenched violet eyes. It was all too perfect, too tragic, as if Sylvia were an Academy Award–winning actress doing a famous scene—and enjoying it.

  “I don’t know how it happened,” Sylvia was whispering. “The anchor was good. We should have had a backup anchor, but we were in a hurry. And he must have . . . oh, God, there must have been something wrong with his harness. Maybe the buckle wasn’t fastened right, or the carabiners might have been upside down. . . .”

  No.

  Suddenly Maggie’s feelings crystalized. It was as if everything came into focu
s at once.

  That’s impossible. That’s wrong.

  Miles was too good. Smart and strong and an amazing technical climber. Confident but careful. Maggie only hoped she’d be that good someday.

  No way he’d buckle his harness wrong, or clip his ’biners upside down. No matter how sick he was. In fact, no way he’d go without a backup anchor. I’m the one who tries to do things like that, and then he yells at me that if I’m not careful I’m going to have an adventure.

  Miles doesn’t.

  So it meant Sylvia was lying.

  The thought came to Maggie on a little wave of shock. It made her feel as if she were suddenly speeding backward, or as if the room were receding from her very fast.

  But why? Why would Sylvia make up such a terrible story? It didn’t make any sense.

  Sylvia had a hand half covering her eyes now.

  “I looked for him, but . . . there was icefall . . . a crevasse . . .”

  No body. She’s saying there’s no body.

  With that, a new wave of heat swept over Maggie. And, strangely, what made her certain of it was Sylvia’s eyes.

  Those violet eyes had been turned down for most of the time Sylvia had been talking, fixed on the Spanish tiles in the entry hall. But now, as Sylvia got to the last revelation, they had shifted toward Maggie. Toward Maggie’s feet. They fixed there, slid away, and then came back and stayed.

  It made Maggie glance down at her own feet.

  My socks. She’s staring at my socks.

  One red and one blue—and she’s noticing that. Like an actress who’s said the same lines often enough that she doesn’t even need to pay attention to them anymore.

  All at once, hot anger was burning through Maggie’s shock, filling her so there was no room for anything else. She stared hard at Sylvia, who seemed to be very far away but very bright. And in that same instant she knew for certain.

  This girl is lying.

  She must have done something—something terrible. And she can’t show us Miles’s body—or maybe there isn’t a body because he’s still alive.

  Yes! Maggie felt suddenly lifted by hope. It is all a mistake. There’s no reason for Miles to be dead. All we have to do is make Sylvia tell the truth.

  But nobody else in the room knew. They were all listening as Sylvia went on with her story. They all believed.

  “I didn’t get out before the weather hit. . . . I had to stay in the tent for three days. When I got out I was so weak, but I managed to signal to some climbers. They saved me, took care of me. . . . By then it was too late to look for him. I knew there was no chance he’d made it through that storm. . . .”

  She broke down completely.

  The ranger began talking about weather conditions and recovery efforts, and suddenly Maggie’s mother was making strange gasping noises and sinking toward the floor.

  “Mom!” Frightened, Maggie started toward her. Her father looked up and seemed to realize for the first time that she was there.

  “Oh, Maggie. We’ve had some bad news.”

  He’s trying to take care of me. But he doesn’t realize . . . I’ve got to tell him. . . .

  “Dad,” she said urgently. “Listen. There’s something—”

  “Maggie,” her mother interrupted, stretching out a hand. She sounded rational, but there was something wild in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, baby. Something awful has happened—”

  And then she fainted. Suddenly Maggie’s father was staggering under dead weight. And then the ranger and one of the sheriffs were brushing past Maggie. They were holding her mother up, and her mother’s head was lolling, moving around on a boneless neck, and her mother’s mouth and eyes were part open and part closed. A new kind of awful feeling came to Maggie, making her weak and giddy. She was afraid she would faint herself.

  “Where can we—” the male officer began.

  “There’s the couch,” Maggie’s father said hoarsely at the same time. There was no room for Maggie. She could only stand out of the way and dizzily watch them carry her mother.

  As they did, Sylvia began murmuring. It took Maggie a moment to focus on the words. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish there was something . . . I should go home now.”

  “You stay right here,” the female officer said, looking toward Maggie’s mother. “You’re in no condition to be walking anywhere. You’d be in the hospital now if you hadn’t insisted on coming here first.”

  “I don’t need a hospital. I’m just so tired. . . .”

  The officer turned. “Why don’t you go sit in the car?” she said gently.

  Sylvia nodded. She looked fragile and sad as she walked down the path toward the squad car. It was a beautiful exit, Maggie thought. You could practically hear the theme music swelling.

  But Maggie was the only one with the chance to appreciate it. She was the only one watching as Sylvia reached the car . . . and paused.

  And then turned away from it and continued on down the street.

  And the end credits run, Maggie thought.

  Then she thought, She’s going to her apartment.

  Maggie stood frozen, pulled in two directions.

  She wanted to stay and help her mother. But something inside her was utterly furious and focused and it was screaming at her to follow Sylvia.

  Instinct had always been Maggie’s strong point.

  She hung there for a moment, with her heart pounding so hard that it seemed to be coming out of her mouth. Then she ducked her head and clenched her fists.

  It was a gesture the girls on her soccer team would have recognized. It meant that Steely Neely had made up her mind and was going to rush in where smarter people feared to tread. Look out, world; it’s stomping time.

  Maggie whirled and dashed back down the hall into her bedroom.

  She slapped the light switch on and looked around as if she’d never seen the place before. What did she need—and why did she always keep it so messy? How could she find things?

  She kicked and pulled at a pile of bath towels until a pair of high-top tennis shoes emerged, then she jammed her feet in them. There was no time to change her pajama top. She snatched a dark blue jacket off the floor and found herself, just for a moment, nose to nose with a photograph stuck into the frame of her mirror.

  A picture of Miles, on the summit of Mount Rainier. He was grinning and giving the thumbs-up sign. His hat was off and his auburn hair was shining in the sun like red gold. He looked handsome and a little wicked.

  Scrawled in black marker across white snow was “For the bossiest, nosiest, stubbornest, BEST little sister in the world. Love, Miles.”

  With no idea why she was doing it, Maggie pulled the picture out of the mirror. She shoved it in her jacket pocket and ran back down the hall.

  Everyone was gathered around the couch now. Even Jake was nosing his way in. Maggie couldn’t see her mother, but the lack of frantic activity told her that there wasn’t any crisis going on. Everyone seemed quiet and restrained.

  It’ll just take a few minutes. It’s better for me not to tell them anything until I’m sure. I’ll probably be back before they even realize I’m gone.

  With that jumble of excuses in her mind, she slipped out the front door to follow Sylvia.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was raining, of course. Not a terrible storm, just a steady spitting patter that Maggie hardly noticed. It plastered her hair down but it also concealed the noise of her steps.

  And the low-lying clouds blocked out Mount Rainier. In clear weather the mountain loomed over the city like an avenging white angel.

  I’m actually following somebody, Maggie thought. She could hardly believe it, but she was really moving down her own home street like a spy, skirting cars and ducking behind rhododendron bushes.

  While all the time keeping her eyes on the slender figure in front of her.

  That was what kept her going. She might have felt silly and almost embarrassed to be doing this—but not tonight. What had happen
ed put her far beyond embarrassment, and if she started to relax inside and feel the faint pricklings of uncertainty, memory surged up again and swept everything else away.

  The memory of Sylvia’s voice. The buckle might not have been fastened right. And the memory of her mother’s hand going limp as her body sagged.

  I’ll follow you no matter where you go, Maggie thought. And then . . .

  She didn’t know what then. She was trusting to instinct, letting it guide her. It was stronger and smarter than she was at the moment.

  Sylvia’s apartment was in the U district, the college area around the University of Washington. It was a long walk, and by the time they reached it, the rain was coming down harder. Maggie was glad to get out of it and follow Sylvia into the underground garage.

  This is a dangerous place, she thought as she walked into the echoing darkness. But it was simply a note made by her mind, with no emotion attached. At the moment she felt as if she could punch a mugger hard enough to splatter him against the wall.

  She kept a safe distance as Sylvia waited for the elevator, then headed for the stairs. Third floor. Maggie trotted up faster than the elevator could make it and arrived not even breathing hard. The door of the stairwell was half open and she watched from behind it as Sylvia walked to an apartment door and raised a hand to knock.

  Before she could, the door opened. A boy who looked a little older than Maggie was holding it, letting a couple of laughing girls out. Music drifted to Maggie, and the smell of incense.

  They’re having a party in there.

  That shouldn’t be so shocking—it was Saturday night. Sylvia lived with three roommates; they were undoubtedly the ones having the party. But as the girls walked past Sylvia they smiled and nodded and Sylvia smiled and nodded back before walking calmly through the door.

  Hardly the sort of thing you do when your boyfriend’s just been killed, Maggie thought fiercely. And it doesn’t exactly fit the “tragic heroine” act, either.

  Then she noticed something. When the boy holding the door let go, it had swung almost shut—but not quite.