by Sara Shepard
Emma sat up. If Thayer had kept Sutton’s notes, maybe she’d kept his, too. But where did she hide them?
Emma swung her legs over the side of Sutton’s bed and ducked beneath the folds of the comforter. Two shoeboxes were shoved up against the wall, but she’d already gone through them weeks ago. She pulled them out anyway, dumping the contents onto the bed, in case she’d missed something. Old tests and graded papers scattered across the sheets along with a neon green rubber band and concert ticket stubs for Lady Gaga. A Barbie doll with vacant blue eyes stared back at Emma, her tangled blonde hair cascading over an elaborate silk prom dress. This wasn’t E, the doll Sutton had perhaps named after Emma—she was in a hope chest in the Mercers’ bedroom. But Emma had seen all this stuff before.
Emma moved to Sutton’s dresser and yanked each drawer open one by one, tossing the contents onto the floor. There had to be something she was missing. She rifled through T-shirts and shorts and stuck her hands into tennis socks. She skimmed every page of three worn notebooks filled with history notes and algebra equations, and sorted through tubes of lip gloss, half a dozen chandelier earrings, and a small pot of moisturizer whose label promised to revitalize tired skin.
After she’d searched the drawers of Sutton’s desk as well, she slumped against the wall, scanning old photos to make sure there wasn’t something she had missed the first dozen times. But what would that be? A figure lurking in the background at a tennis match? Someone holding a sign saying I KILLED YOUR SISTER at her birthday party? Someone holding a knife to her back at prom?
Emma’s spine straightened and her head snapped up. Prom Queen Barbie. She didn’t fit with everything else Sutton had stashed under the bed and inside the drawers. Emma yanked the doll from where she’d dropped her in a tangle of light blue blankets and flipped her upside down. The folds of fabric fell away, exposing a tiny pouch sewn into the innermost layer of the ball gown. Bingo.
Nice work. Even I wouldn’t have thought to check the doll—and presumably I was the one who’d put that pouch there.
Emma plunged her index finger inside the pouch and touched cold metal. It was a tiny, tarnished silver key. She held it up to the light. It looked like the kind of key that could open a journal or a jewelry box.
A knock sounded and Sutton’s door swung open. Laurel stood in the doorway in a cloud of tuberose perfume, her hands on her hips. There was a sour look on her face. “Mom wants you downstairs for breakfast.” Then she glanced around at the clutter strewn across the floor. “What in the world are you doing in here?”
Emma looked around at the mess. “Um, nothing. Just looking for an earring.” She held up a silver star stud she’d just found under the bed. “Found it.”
“What’s that?” Laurel pointed accusingly at the key in Emma’s palm.
Emma stared at it, too, cursing herself. If only she’d thought to hide it before Laurel saw it. “Oh, just some old thing,” she said vaguely, dropping the key on Sutton’s bedside table like she didn’t have a care in the world. Only when Laurel turned away did she scoop it back up again and shove it into the pocket of Sutton’s jeans. If the key had been important enough to hide, maybe it led to some huge secret. And Emma wasn’t going to rest until she found out what it was.
Which meant, no doubt, that I wouldn’t rest either.
15
PROJECT: RUN AWAY
Thursday afternoon, Emma sat in Fashion Design, Sutton’s last class of the day. Headless mannequins covered in draped muslin bordered the room. A makeshift runway shot through the center. Students sat at worktables, fabric, scissors, buttons, zippers, and thread strewn around them. Hollier’s one and only fashion design teacher, Mr. Salinas, paced the room, wearing slim-cut trousers and a pale blue scarf tied around his neck. He looked like Tim Gunn’s younger brother.
“Today’s presentation will push the boundaries of form versus function,” he announced in a pinched voice. He tapped a long, skinny finger on the glossy cover of French Vogue, which he had more than once called his “Bible.” “It’s the question on the tip of every editor’s tongue,” he mused. “How does fashion translate from the runway to real life?”
Emma glanced at her mannequin. Her creation wasn’t exactly translating, per se. Plaid flannel crossed the midsection, pinned awkwardly at the waist where Emma had attempted to make the outfit A-line. A black chiffon top hung crookedly with ruffles that sagged at the collar. The worst part was the pin: Emma had tried to make a flower-shaped brooch out of the excess plaid fabric. Add that to the red pen marks that dotted the mannequin’s bare arms, and the whole thing looked like a drunken schoolgirl-gone-goth with a bad case of the chicken pox. Although Emma loved fashion—she scoured thrift stores and made a lot of on-the-cheap outfits look expensive—sewing clothes wasn’t really her thing. She suspected Sutton took this class for the same reason she took a lot of the electives in her schedule—because they were fairly easy As and didn’t require much reading.
“What does the artist within have to say?” Mr. Salinas blathered on. “This is what we must ask ourselves.”
Emma ducked down, hoping Mr. Salinas didn’t call on her—she hadn’t exactly been trying to say anything. She had bigger things to worry about than pushing the boundaries of form versus function, like figuring out if Thayer had killed her sister before he got out of jail and came after her again.
“Madeline?” Mr. Salinas called out, dramatically emphasizing the first syllable of her name. “Tell us what you’ve created here with your avant-garde ballerina.”
Madeline stood and smoothed down her black leather miniskirt. She was the best in the class and she knew it. “Well, Edgar,” she started. She was also the only student who called Mr. Salinas by his first name. “The look I’ve created is called the Dark Dance. It’s sort of ballet-meets-street. It’s the dancer after hours. Where does she go? What does she do?” She gestured toward her mannequin, which wore a blazer over a black dress and tights. “It’s the dark, deviant part of all of us that lies under the façade of perfection.”
Mr. Salinas clapped his hands together. “Brilliant! Absolutely divine. Everyone, this is the kind of work I expect you all to be doing.”
Madeline sat back down, looking satisfied with herself. Emma tapped her knee. “Your dress looks amazing. I’m super-impressed.”
Madeline nodded curtly, but Emma could tell by the way her features softened that Madeline was touched. Emma’s—or, rather, Sutton’s—opinion really mattered to her.
While Mr. Salinas called on a few more students—their responses clearly boring him compared to Madeline’s—Emma’s thoughts wandered. She’d practically memorized her sister’s notes to Thayer, and phrases like Someday we can be together when the time is right and We’ll sort out all our problems flitted through her mind. Even though Sutton had written almost thirty pages to Thayer, she hadn’t been particularly specific. Why couldn’t they be together? Why wasn’t the time right? What were the problems that needed sorting out?
I tried my hardest to think about what I might have meant. But nothing came.
Then Emma thought about the key tucked safely into her pocket. She’d tried it in every possible place today—a jewelry box in Sutton’s closet, a toolbox in the Mercers’ garage, and a little door to a room on the second floor of the house that she’d never been in before. She’d even run to the nearby post office at lunch in case the key was to a PO Box there, but the proprietor said Emma’s key was much too small for any mailbox. Maybe it, too, was a dead end.
Emma resisted the urge to rest her head on the desk and fall asleep. This was getting exhausting. Sure, she wanted to be an investigative journalist when she grew up, and uncover corporate scandal and horrific crimes, but it was different when her life was on the line.
“Earth to Sutton!” Polished fingernails snapped in front of Emma’s face. Charlotte’s green eyes bored into her.
“Are you okay?” Charlotte asked, looking concerned. “You went kind of comatose for a second
.”
“I’m fine,” Emma murmured. “Just sort of … bored.”
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “If you remember, you were the one who convinced both of us to take Fashion Design.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I keep saying this, but you’ve seemed so weird lately. You know you can talk to me, right?”
Emma ran her fingers along the fabric of her dress, considering. If only she could tell Charlotte about Thayer. But it would be a mistake—if she let on that Sutton and Thayer had been romantically linked, Charlotte would immediately accuse her of cheating on Garrett. Garrett was always a touchy subject with Charlotte—he’d broken up with Charlotte to be with Sutton, and Emma suspected she’d never gotten over it.
I was almost positive that was true.
But then Emma got an idea. She reached into her pocket and unearthed the small silver key. “I found this in my room this morning and can’t for the life of me remember what it unlocks. Do you know?”
Charlotte plucked the key from Emma’s palm and turned it over in her hands. It glinted in the harsh overhead light. Emma noticed Madeline peering at her out of the corner of her eye, but then she quickly turned and faced front.
“It looks like it unlocks a padlock, maybe,” Charlotte said.
“A locker?” Emma guessed eagerly. Maybe Charlotte had seen Sutton open a secret locker Emma didn’t know about.
“Maybe a filing cabinet.” Charlotte handed it back to her. “What does a key have to do with your bizarre attitude lately? Does it unlock your sanity?”
“I don’t have a bizarre attitude,” Emma said defensively, slipping the key back in her pocket. “You’re imagining things.”
“Are you sure?” Charlotte tried.
Emma pursed her lips. “I’m positive.”
Charlotte stared at her for a beat, then picked up her drawing pencil. “Fine.” She furiously doodled swirls and stars across her fashion sketchbook. “Be secretive. I don’t care.”
The bell rang, and Charlotte jumped up. “Char!” Emma called after her, sensing that Charlotte was more irritated than she let on. But Charlotte didn’t turn. She sidled up to Madeline and disappeared into the hall. Emma remained at her desk, feeling drained. When she trudged into the hall, she endured yet more stares from random students whose names she didn’t yet know.
“Did you hear that a soccer scout from Stanford came here asking about Thayer?” a girl in a denim jacket whispered to her dark-haired friend, who was wearing an eighties-style off-the-shoulder striped shirt.
“Totally,” her friend murmured back. “But because Thayer’s in jail, there’s no shot of him getting in there.”
“Oh, please.” The girl in the denim jacket waved a hand. “His lawyer is getting him out. He’ll be free by next week.”
Please, no, Emma thought.
“But even so, what about that limp?” Eighties Stripes asked. “I heard it was really, really bad. How do you think he got it, anyway?”
The answer, to them, was obvious. The two girls whipped around and looked at Emma as she passed, their eyes blazing.
It felt like everyone was whispering about her, even the teachers. Frau Fenstermacher, her German professor, nudged Madame Ives, one of the French teachers. Two cafeteria workers stopped their conversation and stared. Freshman, seniors, everyone looked at her as if they knew all of her business. Would you just leave me alone? Emma wanted to scream. It was ironic: When she school-hopped as a foster kid, she’d been a nobody, a ghost in the hallways. She’d longed to be someone everyone knew. But notoriety came with a price.
Didn’t I know it.
As Emma rounded the corner into a windowed hallway and looked out onto a courtyard dotted with cacti and potted ferns, she caught a glimpse of Ethan’s dark hair a few inches above the other students. Her heart pounded against her chest as she maneuvered her way through the swarming crowd.
“Hey,” she said, taking his elbow.
A smile lit up Ethan’s face. “Hey, yourself.” Then he noticed Emma’s gloomy expression. “Are you okay? What happened?”
She shrugged. “It’s one of those days where it’s a little hard to be Sutton Mercer. I would give anything to get out of here. Get a break from being Sutton for a while.”
A wrinkle formed on Ethan’s brow, and then he held up one finger in an aha gesture. “Absolutely. And I know exactly where I can take you.”
Three hours later, Ethan angled his car off of Route 10 at an exit marked PHOENIX. Emma frowned. “Can’t you tell me something about where we’re going?”
“Nope,” Ethan said, a sly smile playing across his lips. “Just that it’s somewhere no one has ever heard of Sutton Mercer, Emma Paxton, or Thayer Vega.”
I wanted to laugh. When I was alive, I had the notion that everyone had heard of me—everywhere. And it was sweet that Ethan had driven my twin all the way to Phoenix to get her away from the madness.
Once off the highway, Ethan turned down a dilapidated downtown Phoenix street lined with big Dumpsters overflowing with drywall scraps, broken glass, and empty paint cans. An unfinished apartment building loomed over the street, boasting a sign that said units would be available for rent starting in November. Taking in the windowless façade, Emma seriously doubted that claim was true.
“Okay, now will you tell me?” Emma begged when Ethan pulled off the creepy back alley and into a parking lot, coming to a stop in front of an old Art Deco–style hotel.
“Patience, patience!” Ethan teased, undoing his seat belt. He slammed his car door shut and stretched languorously, making a show of taking his time.
Emma tapped her foot. “I’m waiting.”
He made his way around the car and put his arms around her. “Waiting for what?” he asked. “This?” He lowered his lips to hers, and she kissed him back, relaxing into his embrace.
She smiled when they broke apart, her entire body tingling. Then she burst out laughing. “Wait a minute. Did you drive me all the way to Phoenix just so we could make out in public?”
“No, that’s just an added bonus.” Ethan turned and gestured to the Art Deco hotel. “We’re here to see a show by my favorite band, the No Names.”
“The No Names?” Emma echoed. “Never heard of them.”
“They’re awesome—punk rock but with a bluesy edge. You’ll love them.”
He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, and led her inside the hotel, which was seemingly stuck in a fifties time warp. There were kitschy turquoise-and salmon-colored tribal designs on the walls, deco light fixtures, and even an old cash register behind the concierge desk instead of a sleek flat-screen computer. A metal sign pointed to the club at the back of the lobby, though it wasn’t particularly necessary—Emma could hear the thudding bass and amplifier feedback as soon as they swept through the revolving doors. The air had an odor of cigarettes, cheap beer, and sweaty dancing bodies. A bunch of too-cool-for-the-show kids hung out in the lobby, smoking and checking out the newcomers.
After they paid the ten-dollar cover, Emma and Ethan made their way into the club. The room was large, square, and dark except for the lights on the stage and a bunch of Christmas lights around the bar area, which was on a raised platform at the back. There were bodies everywhere—guys who refused to move, girls who swayed with their eyes closed, caught in their own musical dreams, lines of kids six deep, all with arms entwined. A few of them glanced at Emma with boredom. Any other time, she would have been intimidated by their aloofness, but today it was deliciously welcome. No one recognized her. She didn’t have baggage here. She was just a random No Names fan, like everyone else.
Emma edged toward the bar, tapping what felt like hundreds of shoulders and murmuring millions of ’scuse mes and sorrys. The noise on stage was so loud that Emma’s ears immediately began to feel muffled and full.
Ethan and Emma reached the bar, crumpling against the counters as if they’d just braved a hurricane. The bartender set coasters in front of them and they both ordered beers. Emm
a spied the last empty table, threw her bag over the back of the chair, and peered at the stage. A three-piece band was in the middle of a fast, growling song. The drummer writhed, octopuslike. The bass player rocked back and forth from one foot to the other, his long hair obscuring his face. The lead singer, who had shocking pink hair, stood in the middle of the stage, strumming violently on the guitar and singing seductively into the microphone.
Emma stared at her, transfixed. She had piled her hair on top of her head in a fifties-style beehive, and she was wearing a sleek black dress, black boots, fishnet stockings, and long, black silk gloves. If only she could be as uninhibited and cool.
“You’re right! This band is awesome,” Emma yelled to Ethan.
He smiled and clinked his beer with hers, bobbing his head to the beat. Emma peered into the crowd some more. The light created halos around the tops of people’s heads. A lot of kids were dancing. Others were taking photos with their phones. A bunch of fans were crammed against the stage—a lot of them were guys, probably hoping for a look up the lead singer’s dress.
“My friend Alex from Henderson would be all over this scene,” Emma said sadly. “She loved going to shows like this. She was the one who introduced me to every cool band I listen to.”
The disco ball flashed over Ethan’s face, illuminating his blue eyes. “Maybe I can meet her when all this is over with.”
“I’d like that,” Emma said. Alex and Ethan would love each other—they were both into poetry and didn’t care at all what other people thought of them.
Once they finished their drinks, Emma pulled Ethan from his stool and dragged him onto the dance floor. Ethan cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’m not exactly a great dancer.”
