by Sara Shepard
Emma scoffed. She wasn’t balking because of that—she’d gotten honorable mention in a hot dog–eating contest in Vegas the year before. A tiny Japanese girl with an apparently hollow leg had edged her out. It was more that she felt strange going out with Garrett . . . alone. I’d still love you, he’d just said. If he really loved Sutton, wouldn’t he have realized Emma wasn’t her?
“I’m kind of busy,” she murmured.
Garrett took Emma’s hands in his. “We really need to talk. I’ve done some thinking about . . .” He trailed off. “You know, what we talked about this summer? I think you’re right.”
“Uh-huh,” Emma said warily, suddenly feeling like the conversation was taking place in a language she didn’t speak. It was exhausting to pretend she understood what everyone was talking about all day.
Last night, after tennis with Ethan, she’d logged onto Facebook on Sutton’s computer, desperate to find out anything she could about Sutton—who she was, what she liked to do . . . who might have wanted to kill her. Thanks to autofill, the site had loaded Sutton’s profile, her screen name, and her password. Emma had read Sutton’s Facebook posts again, trying to glean as much intel as she could about her personality, her past, and her friends, but there hadn’t been much she hadn’t already seen before. The only new thing Emma had learned about Garrett, for instance, was that Sutton cheered him on at his varsity soccer games, hung out with him and his younger sister, Louisa, and made all his fashion decisions for him. Sutton had even written posts like “Love the new shirt I picked out for my BF? He’s like my little doll!”
At first, I felt like I needed to defend myself. Who was she to judge my life? But then I wondered—why did I care so much about what Garrett wore? Was it because I just wanted someone besides myself whom I could dress up . . . or was it because I was actually really controlling?
Emma had also started to use Sutton’s phone—it had rung a zillion times since she’d come into possession of it, and it would probably be weird not to answer it. She’d checked the past texts to see if they shed light on anything about Sutton, but all of them were either vague instructions on where to meet (MI NIDITO AT SEVEN) or timing issues (RUNNING LATE, C U IN 10) or insults shot back and forth—LOSER, she’d written to Charlotte, and Charlotte had shot back with BEE-YOTCH.
As for the night Sutton had written back to Emma’s Facebook note summoning her to Tucson, there was an answered call from Lilianna at 4:23, a missed call from Laurel at 8:39, and then three missed calls from Madeline at 10:32, 10:45, and 10:59. There were no voice mails, though.
And then there was the file cabinet underneath Sutton’s desk, the one that had the big pink padlock on it and the sign that said THE L GAME. Emma had searched everywhere for the key. She’d even taken a shoe to the handle, slamming it down hard on the lock, but all that had done was bring Laurel to her doorway to ask what in the world she was doing. She had to open it—but how?
“What are you two crazy kids up to?” Madeline appeared from around the corner and inserted herself between Emma and Garrett. Emma hadn’t seen her since the day before when they’d eaten lunch together. Today she wore a green dress that was so short it surely broke the school’s dress code, black fishnet stockings, and black boots. The corners of her ruby-red lips spread into a smile.
“I was trying to convince Sutton to grab nachos with me,” Garrett said.
Madeline made a face. “Nachos give you cellulite.” She clamped her hand around Emma’s wrist. “Anyway, she can’t. She’s coming shopping with me. It’s an emergency. I’m badly in need of a new everything.”
“But—” Garrett crossed his muscular arms over his chest.
“Sorry,” Emma said, gratefully taking Madeline’s arm.
“We’re still on for this Saturday though, right?” Garrett called after her. “Dinner?”
“Uh, sure!” Emma yelled back.
She and Madeline turned the corner into the science hall. All the doors stood open, revealing blocky lab tables, cabinets full of shiny glass flasks, and giant posters of the periodic table of elements. “You don’t mind me stealing you away, do you?” Madeline said. “Hos before bros, right?”
“Totally,” Emma agreed. “Garrett is kinda smothering me, anyway.”
“Well, that is his MO.” Madeline bumped her hip. “Race you!” She took off down the hall, and Emma ran after her. They darted out into the rain and through the parking lot until they reached Madeline’s car, an old Acura with a dancing ballerina sticker on the back that said SWAN LAKE MAFIA. “Get in!” Madeline cried, hurtling into the car and slamming the door. Emma followed, giggling.
Rain pelted the windshield and the roof. “Whew!” Madeline threw her studded leather bag in the backseat and jammed her keys into the ignition. “La Encantada?”
“Sure,” Emma answered.
Madeline gunned the engine and whipped out of the parking lot without checking for oncoming cars. A Katy Perry song came on the radio, and she cranked up the volume and belted out the refrain in perfect pitch. Emma’s jaw dropped.
“What?” Madeline asked sharply.
“You have such a nice voice, that’s all,” Emma blurted. And then, in case that wasn’t a very Sutton-like thing to say, she added: “Sing, bitch!”
Madeline tucked her dyed-black locks behind her ear and sang another verse. Halfway down the winding stretch of Campbell Avenue, Madeline’s cell phone bleeped. She pulled it out of her pocket and checked the screen, one eye on the road. Her face settled into a scowl.
“Everything okay?” Emma asked.
Madeline stared straight ahead, as if the traffic light they’d stopped at was infinitely interesting. “Just more Thayer crap. Whatever.” She threw the phone into the backseat. It hit the cushion hard.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Emma asked.
Madeline let out a little exclamation point of a breath. “With you?”
“Why not?” That was what good friends did, wasn’t it?
I’m sure it was. But I had a feeling my friends and I weren’t exactly the touchy-feely kind.
The traffic light turned green, and Madeline hit the gas. Her eyes were glassy, as though she was about to cry. “It’s just, the cops told my parents they aren’t searching for him anymore,” she said in monotone. “He’s, like, officially a runaway. There’s nothing more they can do.”
“I’m really sorry,” Emma said. She’d hunted around Facebook for information about why Madeline’s brother had run away, too, but there were hardly any mentions of it. She’d found a page dedicated to the fact that he was missing, listing the details of what Thayer had last been wearing (an oversized polo shirt and camo cargo shorts), where he’d last been seen (the hiking trails near the Santa Rita mountains in June), and recounting that there had been a search that had yielded nothing, not a missing shoe, not an empty water bottle, absolutely no trace of Thayer. There was an 800 number for people to call if they had any information. Sutton wasn’t Facebook friends with Thayer, so Emma couldn’t get to his private page and find out anything more. She did notice that Laurel interacted a lot with Thayer—there were shared pictures of them horsing around, YouTube posts on their Walls, and comments back and forth about upcoming rock shows at the U of A. But Laurel’s page didn’t tell her much else. In fact, Laurel didn’t even comment on Thayer’s disappearance—her only entry the day he went missing was a post that said, “I’m going to see Lady Gaga in November! Super psyched!”
The windshield wipers squeaked and groaned. The rain had cleared, stopping almost as quickly as it had started, and the pavement glittered. A rainbow appeared on the horizon. Emma pointed it out. “Look. That’s good luck.”
Madeline sniffed. “Luck is for dumb bitches.”
Emma eyed the rabbit’s foot swinging on Madeline’s keychain, wondering if she really believed that. “You know, runaways usually do okay,” she said gently. “Wherever Thayer is, he’s probably found other kids like him. They’re probably taking care of
each other.”
Madeline’s eyes flashed. “Where did you hear that?”
Emma ran her fingers along the hem of the striped dress from Anthropologie she’d picked from Sutton’s closet that morning. She knew tons of foster kids who’d run away to escape their crappy situations. In fact, she’d even run away once, escaping from the violent Mr. Smythe. After a particularly volatile night, she’d packed a bag and took off, hoping to get to Los Angeles or San Fran or somewhere far away. She’d run into a couple of other kids hanging out in an abandoned trailer park on the way there. They had set up a little campsite with several tents, blankets, and pots and pans. Somehow they found food, and they’d even foraged a couple of bikes, a skateboard, and a PSP whose battery they regularly recharged at the local Dunkin Donuts. Because Emma was barely eleven, the older runaways took her under their wing, always letting her sleep in a tent, always making sure she had enough to eat. In some ways, they’d taken better care of her than most foster parents had. The police had come on the fourth day, just when Emma was getting comfortable. Everyone got sent back to various foster homes or juvie.
“I guess I saw it on TV,” Emma finally explained.
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter.” Madeline flicked a lock of long, shiny hair over her shoulder. Her face snapped back into its hard, beautiful expression. “It’s nothing a little credit card damage can’t fix. I want to wear something new to Charlotte’s sleepover tomorrow night. Maybe one of those short shirt-dresses from BCBG. And didn’t you want new J. Brands for your birthday party?”
They pulled into the big parking lot at the sprawling outdoor mall. Madeline found a space and shut off the engine. The two of them started toward the escalators to the upper level. The air felt fresh and clean after the rain. Muzak played softly over the mall speakers. As they emerged on the ground level, Emma spied a storefront in the very back of the mall: BELLISSIMO SECONDHAND. A butterfly flapped in her chest.
“Can we stop in there for a sec?” Emma pointed.
Madeline followed her finger and made a face. “Ew. Why?”
“Because you can find amazing things in secondhand stores.”
Madeline narrowed her eyes. “But we never go in there.”
Emma linked her arm in Madeline’s. “Chloë Sevigny’s really into vintage. So is Rachel Zoe.” She pulled Madeline down the corridor. “Come on. We need to break out of our comfort zones.” In truth, there was no way Emma was shopping for two-hundred-dollar skinny jeans. That was way out of her comfort zone—she’d feel terrible spending the Mercers’ money on something so frivolous. Besides, she couldn’t let all of her personality disappear just because she’d stepped into her sister’s life.
The bells jingled as Emma pushed through the front door. The store smelled like all vintage shops did, a little like moth balls and cardboard boxes and old ladies. A bald, smooth-skinned black guy wearing what looked like a snow leopard–skin jacket sat behind the counter thumbing through Cosmopolitan. Clothes jam-packed the racks, and there was a large wall of heels and boots on the back wall.
Emma sifted through a rack of dresses. Madeline stood motionless near the door with her arms close to her sides, as if she were afraid of germs. “Look.” Emma pulled a pair of gold-tone wraparound sunglasses of the rack on the wall. “Vintage Gucci.”
Madeline took dainty ballerina steps until she was next to Emma. “Those are probably fakes.”
“They aren’t.” She ran her hand over the interlocking Gs and pointed at the label that said MADE IN ITALY. “These are a total find. And a steal, too.” She flicked the price tag hanging from the nose bridge. Forty dollars. “I bet they’d look awesome on you. And think of it this way—no one else has them. You’d be special.”
She unfolded the arms of the glasses and placed them on Madeline’s face. Madeline let out a little note of protest, then adjusted the glasses and stared into the mirror. Emma smiled. She’d been right—they accentuated Madeline’s round chin and high cheekbones. As Mads pivoted to the right and left, she looked like a glamorous heiress on holiday.
Her expression softened. “They are kind of nice.”
“I told you.”
“Do you really think they’re real?”
“They’re real, okay?” the shopkeeper lisped exasperatedly, dropping his Cosmo to the counter. “Do I look like I carry fakes? Now either buy them or take them off your grimy little face.”
Madeline lowered the sunglasses down her nose and gave the shopkeeper a cool, indifferent stare. “I will buy them, thanks.”
The shopkeeper rang them up silently, his lips in a prissy pucker. As soon as Emma and Madeline got out of the shop, they both grabbed each other and exploded into giggles. “What was that coat he was wearing?” Madeline shook her head. “A dead cat?”
“‘Now either buy them or take them off your grimy little face!’” Emma imitated.
“So unreal.” As Madeline slung her arm around Emma’s shoulders, there was a lift in Emma’s chest. For a moment, she’d actually forgotten the situation she was in.
They cruised to the upper floor, arm in arm. At the top of the escalator, Emma spied the top of a familiar dark head on the level below and stopped cold. A girl stood outside Fetch, the high-end pet store, browsing a table of squeak toys and studded leashes. She craned her neck upward, as if she sensed someone staring at her. Nisha.
Madeline eyed Nisha, too. “I heard she’s next,” she whispered in Emma’s ear. “We’re going to get her tomorrow.”
“Get her?” Emma frowned.
“Charlotte thought of something brilliant. We’ll pick you up at seven-thirty tomorrow morning. Be ready.”
Nisha gave the girls a final look, then tossed her hair over her shoulder and walked in the other direction. Be ready? Emma wondered. For . . . what? She gazed questioningly at Madeline, but Madeline’s eyes were obscured behind her new Gucci sunglasses. All Emma could see was her own reflection staring back at her, looking more confused than ever.
She wasn’t the only one. Something about Madeline’s voice put me on edge. I had a feeling that whatever they were going to do to Nisha was going to be . . . trouble. But both Emma and I would have to wait until tomorrow to find out exactly what it was.
Chapter 15
THE SCENE OF THE CRIME
The following morning, Charlotte’s SUV roared to the curb in front of the Mercers’ house, nearly taking out a trash can. Laurel scuttled into the backseat fast. Madeline handed her a giant Starbucks cup. “Thanks again for letting me in on this,” Laurel gushed.
“You had some good ideas with this one,” Charlotte murmured while typing on her BlackBerry. “You deserve some credit.”
Emma climbed in behind Laurel. Madeline handed her a hot coffee, too, though Emma didn’t remember giving her an order. She took a sip and winced. It was black with Splenda, yechh. Twins must not share the same taste buds. “What’s this all about, anyway?” she asked.
Charlotte waved the little stirring straw that had come with her latte at Emma. “Don’t you worry about a thing. It’s our turn, Sutton. This is for you.”
Charlotte turned out of Sutton’s neighborhood, passing the park where Emma and Ethan had played tennis. “It’s all timed perfectly,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve been watching Nisha since Monday.”
“And you set up everything last night?” Madeline was wearing her new Gucci sunglasses. The sunlight caught the gold frames and sent reflections around the inside of the car.
Charlotte nodded. “You girls are going to love it.” She wheeled around and peered at Laurel. “And you talked to . . . you know?”
“Yep.” Laurel giggled.
“Perfect.”
Within minutes, they were pulling into a space in the school parking lot. School didn’t start for another half hour, so the bus lanes were empty and the boys’ soccer team, who practiced both before and after school, were still galloping on the field. The girls grabbed Emma’s arms and pulled her through the courtyard and a sid
e door. The hallways were deserted. Posters for student council elections flapped in the air-conditioned breeze. Big swirls from the janitor’s mop gleamed on the floor.
The locker room was deserted, too, smelling like a mix of powdery deodorant and bleach. Each sports team got its own wide aisle. Girls kept the same sports locker from year to year—Emma had opened Sutton’s designated tennis locker on the first day of practice and found a few things still inside, including a shiny nylon jacket that said HOLLIER TENNIS on the back.
As they rounded the corner to the tennis team’s bank of lockers, Madeline stopped short. “Whoa.” Laurel covered her mouth with her hand.
Emma peered around them and nearly cried out. Papers lay scattered over the floor and on the benches. Red liquid covered a couple of doors and lockers. There was a tape outline of a body on the floor, with a big splattering of red stuff—blood?—near the head. Yellow police tape strung around the outline said CRIME SCENE: DO NOT CROSS.
Emma’s vision began to narrow. She took a big step back. Could it be? She thought of the note again. Sutton’s dead. Maybe someone had found Sutton’s body . . . here. Maybe the snuff film had taken place in a field nearby. The killer had dragged Sutton into the locker room and deposited her here for someone to find. And if they’d found Sutton, what would that mean for Emma?
I tried to imagine my body lying on the cold locker room floor, blood seeping out of my head, my eyes fluttering closed. Had this been it? Had someone dumped me here? But the locker room setting didn’t match the flickers I’d already had about my death—the screams, the darkness, the knife at my throat. Something seemed off about the whole thing. Then I noticed Laurel’s small, nervous smile behind her hand.
“Psst.” Charlotte yanked them into the shower room. The floor was shiny and wet, and someone had left a big bottle of Aveda shampoo on a built-in shelf in one of the stalls. Charlotte peeked around the doorway and gestured for the girls to do the same. A few girls on various teams passed the tennis lockers, doing a triple take at the crime scene. An angular cross-country runner took a picture of it with her phone. An Asian girl saw it and immediately turned around and went the other direction. When Nisha appeared at the far end of the hall, Charlotte squeezed Emma’s hand. “Let the games begin.”
