Teens get drawn into deadly games by ghosts from their pasts in books three and four of the Dark Secrets series—now together in one paperback bind-up. Secrets taken to the grave don’t always stay buried. In No Time to Die , the drama is deadly. Jenny is going undercover for the summer at the theater camp where her sister, Liza, was murdered just a year earlier. Though Jenny is still grieving the loss of her sister and feels completely out of place on stage, she is determined to discover why Liza was murdered—and more importantly, who killed her. Soon she thinks she hears Liza speaking to her, and suspects someone may be following her. If she doesn’t find out the truth soon, she may become the next victim. In The Deep End of Fear , Kate has tried to bury the horrible memories associated with the Westbrook estate. After her best friend Ashley drowned on the estate, Kate vowed never to return. But now, twelve years later, she is drawn back towards the house and that fatal icy pond. There, Kate still feels Ashley’s presence and the past seems to be pulling her back towards Ashley’s life-threatening dares. Elizabeth Chandler is a pseudonym for Mary Claire Helldorfer. She is the author of the Kissed by an Angel and Dark Secrets series. She lives in Baltimore, Maryland. one Jenny? Jenny, are you there? Please pick up the phone, Jen. I have to talk to you. Did you get my e-mail? I don’t know what to do. I think I’d better leave Wisteria. Jenny, where are you? You promised you’d visit me. Why haven’t you come? I wish you’d pick up the phone. Okay, listen, I have to get back to rehearsal. Call me. Call me soon as you can. I RETRIEVED MY sister’s message about eleven o’clock that night when I arrived home at our family’s New York apartment. I called her immediately, if somewhat reluctantly. Liza was a year ahead of me, but in many ways I was the big sister, always getting her out of her messes—and she got in quite a few. Thanks to her talent for melodrama, my sister could turn a small misunderstanding in a school cafeteria into tragic opera. Though I figured this was one more overblown event, I stayed up till two a.m., calling her cell phone repeatedly. Early the next morning I tried again to reach her. Growing uneasy, I decided to tell Mom about the phone message. Before I could, however, the Wisteria police called. Liza had been found murdered. Eleven months later Sid drove me up and down the tiny streets of Wisteria, Maryland. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all,” he said. “I think it’s a pretty town,” I replied, pretending not to understand him. “They sure have enough flowers.” “You know what I’m saying, Jenny.” Sid was my father’s valet and driver. Years of shuttling Dad back and forth between our apartment and the theater, driving Liza to dance and voice lessons and me to gymnastics, had made him part of the family. “Your parents shouldn’t have let you come here, that’s what I’m saying.” “Chase College has a good summer program in high school drama,” I pointed out. “You hate drama.” “A person can change, Sid,” I replied—not that I had. “You change? You’re the steadiest, most normal person in your family.” I laughed. “Given my family, that’s not saying much.” My father, Lee Montgomery, the third generation of an English theater family, does everything with a flair for the dramatic. He reads grocery lists and newspaper ads like Shakespearean verse. When he lifts a glass from our dishwasher to see if it’s clean, he looks like Hamlet contemplating Yorick’s skull. My mother, the former Tory Summers, a child and teen star who spent six miserable years in California, happily left that career and married the next one, meaning my father. But she is still an effusive theater type—warm and expressive and not bound by things like facts or reason. In many ways Liza was like Mom, a butterfly person. I have my mother’s red hair and my father’s physical agility, but I must have inherited some kind of mutated theater gene: I get terrible stage fright. “I don’t think it’s safe here,” Sid went on with his argument. “The murder rate is probably one tenth of one percent of New York’s,” I observed. “Besides, Sid, Liza’s killer has moved north. New Jersey was his last hit. I bet he’s waiting for you right now at the Brooklyn Bridge.” Sid grunted. I was pretty sure I didn’t fool him with my easy way of talking about Liza’s murderer. For a while it had helped that her death was the work of a serial killer, for the whole idea was so unreal, the death so impersonal, I could keep the event at a distance—for a while. Sid pulled over at the corner of Shipwrights Street and Scarborough Road, as I had asked him to, a block from the college campus. Before embarking on this trip I had checked out a map of Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Wisteria sat on a piece of land close to the Chesapeake Bay, bordered on one side by the Sycamore River and on the other two by large creeks, the Oys