by Sara Shepard
As they turned a corner, headlights lit up behind them. Emma glanced around to see a midsized Audi, creeping slowly in their wake. She drew in her breath, instantly on edge. “Let’s go this way,” she said, lacing her arm through Mr. Mercer’s and tugging him down a side street. Drake’s tags jingled as he trotted along ahead of them. She wanted to see if the Audi would follow them. Sure enough, the headlights turned, too.
“Is that someone you know?” Mr. Mercer asked, glancing over his shoulder. She pulled him ahead, walking faster. She passed a mailbox with tinsel garlands wound up the pole and hung another right. Who did she know with an Audi? It was hard to see in the dark, but it looked white. Or maybe silver . . .
“Silver,” I whispered, suddenly knowing who the car belonged to. I’d been in that car almost every day last summer.
Garrett, Emma thought, only a moment behind me. Her heart pounded as the car crept closer. Garrett had picked her up in that car the night he’d taken her out for their picnic. She clutched Mr. Mercer’s arm. “We need to go home,” she muttered urgently.
“What’s wrong, Sutton?” he said, trying to look behind them at the car. “Who is that?”
“Just trust me. Keep walking.” She pulled him along behind her, cutting across a corner lawn now to keep as far from the car as she could. For a moment she thought about bolting, but then she realized it would do no good—Garrett would be able to catch them. He’d already run someone over in a car once; if he wanted to do it again, there’d be nothing to stop him.
With a sudden roar of the motor, the car lurched around the corner after them, angling its nose to block their path. Drake barked furiously. Next to her, Mr. Mercer tightened his arm through hers. She shuddered as the door flew open and braced for Garrett in all his rage, ready to push Mr. Mercer down and stand in front of him, if she had to.
But it wasn’t Garrett. It was a skinny, pointy-chinned man wearing a denim jacket and a shabby brown knit scarf. He wore wire-frame glasses, and he was fiddling with a digital audio recorder as he approached them.
“Ted and Sutton Mercer?” A shameless grin spread across his face. “Care to give me a statement for The Real Deal Magazine?”
Mr. Mercer looked outraged. He straightened himself to his full height and hugged Emma to his side with one arm. “You almost ran us over!”
The reporter’s grin didn’t falter. “Just trying to get your attention. Come on, pops, don’t you want your side of the story to be told?”
Emma’s temper flared. “Not by some hack from a second-rate gossip rag.”
The man laughed out loud. “I’ve already heard it all, sweetheart. Save your insults for the fat girls at school.”
Drake hadn’t stopped barking. Now he gave a low, threatening growl.
“We have no comment to make at this time,” Mr. Mercer said firmly. Emma noticed that he’d given some slack to the leash, and Drake had gotten closer to the reporter. The reporter seemed to have noticed it, too. He held his hands up in the air and backed slowly away.
“It’s your prerogative. But the story’s going to be big, and there’s gonna be a lot of dirt that comes out. I guarantee it.” He leaned slowly down to place a business card on the curb. “If you start to feel like you aren’t being properly represented in the media, give me a call. My number’s on the card.”
The reporter backed into the side of his car, eyeing Drake the whole way. He groped around for the door handle, and then he was off, leaving Emma, Mr. Mercer, and Drake in a cloud of exhaust.
Emma strode over to where the card lay and plucked it up. Then she ripped it into tiny pieces and threw them in the air. Mr. Mercer watched her with an unreadable expression on his face.
“Did you know that was a reporter?” he asked.
“I . . . I suspected,” she stammered.
He sighed, putting his hand on her shoulder. “I wish I could protect you from them, Sutton. They’re going to be all over the place.” He rubbed Drake behind the ears. The dog’s tail whipped wildly back and forth. Then he laughed. “‘Second-rate gossip rag’?”
Emma broke into a sheepish grin. “That’s right. Those reporters are the ones who are going to need protection.” She held up her fists and pretended to box.
I trailed behind my father and sister as they walked back toward home. I wished Dad could protect Emma, too—I wished he could keep all the danger now threatening her at bay. But I knew as well as Emma did that it had to be the other way around. She was the only one who could protect him. It hadn’t been Garrett in the car this time. But sooner or later, he’d make good on his threats. He’d come for our family, and when he did, she had to be ready.
13
SISTER ACT
Since she’d taken Sutton’s place three months earlier, Emma had gotten used to the wide berth given her by most of the students at Hollier High. Sutton was notorious, after all, and no one wanted to get caught in the crossfire of a Lying Game prank. But the following day, when the crowds parted before her and Laurel as they made their way down the hall, it felt different. On either side she could hear barely stifled whispers.
“Did you hear the dead girl was her sister?”
“Her twin sister.”
“Yeah, right. I don’t care what you say, this is some kind of prank. Remember last year, when she told everyone she’d been carjacked?”
Emma kept her breath steady and even as she walked, trying not to let panic overtake her. She had never gotten used to everyone looking at her, and now they weren’t even bothering to hide it. If she ever needed to channel Sutton’s bitchiest attitude, it was now.
She rounded a corner to see Charlotte and Madeline standing by her locker. When they caught sight of her they hurried forward to meet her, both of them looking pale and worried. Charlotte carried two paper coffee cups and tried to hand her one and hug her at the same time.
“There you are,” she murmured, her voice low. “Are you okay?” Emma took the cup gratefully. The night before, she’d set up a three-way video-chat with Charlotte and Madeline to tell them everything that had happened. She hadn’t wanted to have to explain more than once. By then they’d seen the news—Madeline couldn’t stop saying that it was “so weird,” and Charlotte had seemed almost hurt that “Sutton” hadn’t told them about her twin. But to their credit, both girls had seemed more worried about her than anything else.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Madeline barked at a short boy in a flannel shirt who seemed to be lingering a few feet away, listening. He jumped and scuttled off, looking terrified. She sighed, running her hand over her sleek, jet-black hair.
Emma smiled her thanks. “I can’t believe these people.”
“I can’t believe how calm you are,” Charlotte said, eyeing Emma. “I’d be a mess.”
“Well, my sister’s a great actress,” Laurel said, looking steadily at Emma as she spoke.
Emma squirmed under her friends’ stares. She adjusted her purse on her shoulder. “Well, I’m not as calm as I look. In fact, I need some air. I’m going to step out, okay?” And before they could say anything in reply, she hurried out the glass door into the courtyard. She took a deep, grateful breath. Soon she would have to go back in there, enter another classroom, and deal with more questions and stares and snide whispers, but for this one moment she could just be.
The courtyard was deeply shadowed, the morning sun still too low to touch the corners of the little square. She was alone—everyone else was on their way to class. A handful of acacia trees in terra-cotta planters dotted the area. She took a step toward the shade-dappled benches.
Then a hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. She shrieked, instinctively stepping back, but the hand clenched tighter around her. And then she saw who it was.
Thayer.
Dark shadows hung under his eyes, which shone with a manic gleam. He stood looking down at her, still holding her arm in a tight grip, and Emma was suddenly and painfully aware how much taller and stronger he was.
&nb
sp; “You need to tell me the truth,” he hissed. “Now.”
Emma looked around frantically, but no one saw them. The bell for class rang inside.
“Let go of me, Thayer,” she said sternly.
Thayer’s eyes narrowed, but he dropped her arm suddenly, as though she’d been on fire. “I know you’re not Sutton,” he said. He took a deep, ragged breath, running his hands through his hair like a man possessed. “You’re the twin, aren’t you? You switched places with her. I don’t know why or how. But I knew you weren’t her. I’ve known it since the first time I saw you.”
Thayer. Part of me wanted Emma to reach out and touch him, so that I could feel him, if only for a second.
But she just flipped her hair and stared at him coolly, doing her best to mask her racing heart. “Thayer, you’re being crazy. I never even met Emma.”
At that, Thayer let out a cry—something between a snarl and a scream—and grabbed the front of Emma’s shirt, yanking her forward. The muscles in his neck were rigid. “Tell me the truth,” he growled, his breath hot on her face. Emma whimpered, trying to pull out of his grip, but he wouldn’t let go. “Don’t lie to me! What did you do to her?”
“Thayer, stop it!” I yelled uselessly. “She’s trying to help me.” But I was powerless—powerless to talk to him, powerless to soothe him. I could only stand and watch.
Tears welled up in Emma’s eyes. For a moment, Thayer’s face was a grotesque mask, twisted in rage, but when he saw that she was crying, something in his expression shifted. He let go of her shirt so abruptly she stumbled. Then he was pacing back and forth in a short, tight course, like a panther searching for its prey.
Emma hugged herself, trembling uncontrollably, and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Thayer’s hands were clenched into fists, and every movement he made seemed tense with barely controlled power. But when he stopped and turned back to her, the anger had melted away, leaving nothing but anguish.
“Please,” he whispered. He took a step forward, but stopped when he saw her flinch. “I just need to know. Is she—” He choked on the word. “Is she dead?”
Thayer’s hazel eyes searched her face with desperate longing, moving over her features, trying to find the girl he loved inside them. Emma’s heart twisted in her chest. She wished she could tell him how trapped she felt. How deep her own grief ran. How sorry she was to have hurt him. But a cruel, nagging voice recited the threat in her mind. Sutton didn’t do what I told her, and she paid for it . . . Keep up the game, or Nisha won’t be the only person you care about who dies for your sake.
Garrett had already tried to hit Thayer with her car. If he killed Thayer, she would never forgive herself.
Summoning every ounce of Sutton Mercer coolness she had left, Emma leveled a steely glare at the boy in front of her.
“How dare you?” she asked, her voice as sharp and cold as glass. Thayer opened his mouth to say something, but she talked over him. “My sister died in that canyon. Everyone at school is looking at me like I’m a freak. And now you accuse me of taking her place in some kind of sick Parent Trap plot?” She pulled herself up to her full height, poking a finger at his chest savagely. “Are you high? Or just jealous? You’d love it if I were Emma, because that would mean I hadn’t really dumped you for Ethan at all. Well, guess what? That’s exactly what happened. You were gone. I fell in love with Ethan. End of story. What you and I had is over . . . and maybe we shouldn’t bother trying to be friends if you’re going to be so cruel.”
Thayer’s hand fell limply away from her, and he stood there dazed, like she’d slapped him. She fought the urge to reach out to him, to take it all back, her throat burning with every word. Hurting him was the only way to keep him safe. She picked up her purse and turned to go back into the school.
“Hey, Emma?”
And before she could stop herself, she paused.
“I thought so,” he said in a low voice.
Emma turned, desperate to say something, anything, to fix her mistake—but Thayer was already gone.
I’d been waiting all these months for someone to realize Emma wasn’t me. But now that it had finally happened, all I felt was cold, sick dread.
Because what Thayer knew could kill him.
14
EAT YOUR HEART OUT, NANCY DREW
Emma found Ethan on his way to German class. “Thayer knows,” she whispered urgently. Ethan stopped short, his jaw working soundlessly for a moment.
“What? How?” he finally asked, his voice low. She pulled him toward an alcove behind a potted plant. A large picture window looked out over the soccer field.
She bit her lip. Thayer had suspected ever since he’d kissed her at Charlotte’s party. Ethan knew about the kiss—he’d caught them—but she didn’t want to bring it up again.
“He called me Emma, and I reacted,” she admitted, shame washing over her anew. “I’m such an idiot.”
“No, you’re not,” Ethan said fiercely. Emma gazed into his dark blue eyes, where anxiety vied with something else—a fierce vigilance, maybe. And even though she knew that Ethan couldn’t really protect her if the murderer was determined to kill again, his solid strength was comforting. She felt her muscles slowly unclench, calmed by his presence.
Emma sighed and leaned her head against Ethan’s shoulder. “I mean . . . he doesn’t have a way to prove it. But what if he catches me in a lie? What if he figures something out?”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “The only way he could know for sure is if he did it. I still say he’s suspicious.”
She shook her head impatiently. “Thayer was on his way to the hospital when Sutton died. There’s no way he could have gotten back to the canyon with a broken leg. He was probably high on painkillers by that point anyway.”
Ethan gave a noncommittal snort, which she took to mean “Okay-fine-he-has-an-alibi-but-I-don’t-have-to-like-it.” She opened her mouth to tell him how desperate Thayer had seemed to know the truth, how he really just wanted to know if it was the girl he loved at the bottom of that canyon, but before she could speak, Ethan’s gaze shifted. He was staring at something out the window.
“Look!” he hissed. She turned to look where he was pointing.
Garrett and Celeste had appeared on the soccer field. Emma couldn’t hear a word through the glass, but it was obvious they were shouting at each other. Celeste kept shaking her head no, her long blonde braids dancing around her head. Garrett’s face was an ugly red, screwed up in rage. He shook his hands violently in front of her, looking like he wanted to strangle her.
I knew that expression. I knew that face. It surprised me, how familiar it suddenly was. New memories floated hazily to the surface. I remembered his mood swings, his bad temper. I remembered him punching a locker and leaving a dent in the metal, walking away from me in a rage. I remembered how his fingers left spots of blood on the clean linoleum behind him.
“Wow,” Emma breathed. They both watched as Celeste threw one hand up dismissively, then turned to walk back toward the school. Garrett stood staring after her for a long moment, his chest heaving with anger. Then he turned away and stormed off across the field, toward the small cedar grove that separated campus from the busy street beyond.
“That was . . . intense,” Ethan said uncertainly.
“Now’s our chance,” Emma said, straightening up. Ethan frowned.
“Our chance for what?” he asked, but she glanced up and down the empty hall, not answering. She grabbed Ethan’s hand and hurried down the hall to where the senior lockers were.
Garrett’s locker was in a cul-de-sac around the corner from a Coke machine. It was obvious which was his—the good-luck sign the soccer boosters had made for the finals still hung there proudly in red and gold glitter letters. Emma walked quickly to it and examined the lock.
“What are you doing?” Ethan whispered.
“What we should have done a long time ago,” she said, setting her jaw. “You keep a lookout, okay?”
He nodded,
leaning back against the lockers and staring over her head.
She slowly twisted the combination to zero, and then, crossing her fingers on both hands, she delivered a sharp little kick to the base of the locker. The door sprang open, shuddering with a wobbly metallic sound in the empty corridor. She glanced up and down the hall to see if anyone had heard.
“Where the hell did you learn that?” Ethan asked, looking impressed.
She grinned. “My friend Alex taught me, back in Henderson.”
The locker smelled strongly of peanut butter and some kind of musky aftershave. A hooded sweatshirt hung on the hook. Books were neatly stacked on the top shelf, surrounded by assorted bits of clutter—a plastic comb, a handful of loose change, an athletic mouth guard in a plastic case. Hanging on the inside of the door was a magnetized mirror, a faded Sports Illustrated picture featuring Mia Hamm celebrating a win by ripping off her shirt, a photo of Garrett and Louisa standing in front of the Grand Canyon, and a snapshot of Celeste curled up in an overstuffed armchair in a book-lined study.
“What are you looking for?” Ethan whispered, peering into the locker.
Emma shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe this is pointless. I guess he’s not going to have a sign saying I DID IT on the inside of his locker.” She chewed her lip, her eyes running across Garrett’s things. “I read that some killers keep mementos of their crimes so they can relive them later.” She shivered, imagining the kinds of things she would find in his locker if Garrett had taken a keepsake. It would have been horrifying to find a lock of Sutton’s hair or a piece of her clothing—or worse.
She crouched down to unzip a Nike duffel bag slouched on the floor of the locker, but all it held was a pair of soccer cleats, white socks, mesh shorts, an enormous green plastic water bottle—and a flask of something that smelled like bourbon. She zipped it back up, still kneeling, and sighed.
