How do you unmask your own killer when everyone wants you dead? "A twisty thriller with a bloody ending you’ll never see coming."—Kelly Coon, author of Gravemaidens Ruby is a scholarship senior at elite Oleander High School with a chip on her shoulder and an attitude to match—which she puts to good use as the infamous local anonymous gossip blogger ReputationKiller. When she’s outed as the voice behind the account, the entire town turns against her. But after she’s scared witless by a vision of her own ghost dressed in a blood-splattered prom dress, she is faced with an awful truth. Someone out there doesn’t just hate her—they want her dead. With less than a week until the prom, Ruby starts investigating. Turns out Oleander Bay isn’t the picture-perfect resort town it appears to be. With so many secrets, scandals, and people hell-bent on covering them up at all costs, the murderer could be anyone. Can Ruby beat the clock counting down to prom—and her death—and survive the night? “Murderous ghosts, school scandal, hungry gators, and a mysterious killer on the loose… Count me in! Amy Christine Parker’s latest starts with a punch and never lets up. YOU’RE DEAD TO ME is a quick-paced, unrelenting read , and I loved every page!”—Kristen Simmons, author of the Article 5 series " A twisty swamp thriller with a bloody ending you’ll never see coming."—Kelly Coon, author of Gravemaidens " Twists and jump scares keep coming in this taut, fast-paced work that will keep readers up at night." —Kirkus Reviews " This book will appeal to readers seeking a fast-paced high school horror with serial killers, supernatural visions, and plenty of suspense." —School Library Journal AMY CHRISTINE PARKER is the author of Flight 171 , Gated, Astray, and Smash & Grab . She writes full-time from her home near Tampa, Florida, where she lives with her husband, their two daughters, and two very mischievious cats. Chapter One Choke Bennett Library is the perfect place to stalk my next kill: public and full of witnesses. A behemoth of Spanish architecture, Oleander Bay Academy’s crowning jewel looms over me and my best friend, Anton. The stucco walls are bleached bone white under the unrelenting Florida sun. Heat rises off the pavement, making the entire building look like it’s underwater. I’d rather be underwater right now. I swear, it’s one hundred degrees out here. A few straggler students inch their way toward the classroom buildings at a pace that would make a sloth look fast. It’s so quiet, I can hear Anton breathing beside me. “We have fifty minutes until this period ends,” I say. “Walk faster, please?” I’m anxious to get inside the air-conditioned library before I faint dead away. May through September in Florida is miserable, like living on the surface of the sun. Anton huffs out a breath and readjusts the handheld fan he’s always carrying, so it’s aimed at his underarms. “Uh, no way, Ruby. Speed equals sweat, and sweat equals stinky pits. I’m not about to smell more than I have to.” We trudge to the library’s main entrance. Anton fiddles with one of his backpack straps. It’s covered in a brightly patterned scarf, one of a dozen personal touches he’s added to his daily look to detract from his school uniform. The only personal touch I’ve added to my look is the woven bracelet with a bear charm around my wrist, but it doesn’t really count as style since it’s ratty and frayed. My grandmother gave it to me when I was in ninth grade--one month before she died. I haven’t taken it off since. Inside, we are surrounded by carved walnut bookshelves that spiral around the perimeter of the space like a nautilus shell. A cozy gathering spot called the Serenity Circle in the center of the room is filled with tufted leather sofas and antique side tables, and beyond it is the large staircase that leads to the second floor. Above us is a grand domed ceiling, purposefully aged so it appears to have been here for centuries, not decades. Like most of Oleander Bay, this building--and the people within it--consists of more lies than truths. I angle Anton toward the tables directly across from the Serenity Circle. Each one holds several computers and a line of bronze reading lamps that cast circles of light on the spread of Prada and Gucci backpacks. I slip into a chair and drop my backpack--a JanSport--beside me. Adrenaline buzzing, I grab my burner phone from the side pocket, unlock it, pull up the camera, and very casually aim it at my target. Click. Today’s kill will be my biggest yet, the crowning achievement of the past four years. Magnus Bennett is holding court at the center of the Serenity Circle, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, his arms draped casually across the back of a sofa. Oleander Bay Academy’s most rarified students--who the rest of us call the Bling Brigade--have gathered around him like worshippers in a church service for their biweekly Honor Cabinet meeting. In their navy-blue-and-gray u