True Lies

by Sara Shepard

Page 10

 

  Her face falls. “Oh,” she manages.

  “Yeah, oh,” I shoot back. “All sorts of stuff can happen when your back is turned, huh?”

  Charlotte clears her throat. “Good job, Laurel,” she starts. “Love the wig. But Sutton killed it this round. Sorry. ”

  Laurel mumbles something indecipherable under her breath, and Mads pats her shoulder reassuringly. “Laurel, she’s wearing meat,” she points out, stifling a giggle. “We have to give it to her. ”

  “That’s right, bitch!” I crow. “And I don’t look . . . meaty in it, either,” I say, looking critically at Laurel’s arms. Our almost heart-to-heart—and Laurel’s deceit—rankles me and I want to stamp out any memory of it.

  “Well, at least half of Vegas doesn’t think I got stood up at the altar,” Laurel shoots back defensively.

  I snicker meanly. “At least they think I was in an actual relationship. Laurel, when was the last time you had a boyfriend? All I’ve ever seen you do is trail behind Thayer like a puppy dog. ”

  Laurel’s mouth opens and closes. Tears dot her eyes. Then I notice Charlotte’s shocked expression and Madeline’s tight one.

  For a split second, I wonder if I’ve gone too far. You should be nicer to Laurel, Thayer’s voice floats back to me. She looks up to you. And I think of Garrett, too, and how caring he is for his sister. How lucky she is to have him.

  “That was low, even for you, Sutton,” she says, her voice quiet. And then they all head into the costume shop so Laurel can change back into street clothes.

  “Mads,” I say weakly. “Char?” Laurel played dirty, too, I want to tell them. She tricked me.

  But I have a feeling that, right now, they don’t want to hear it.

  10

  DOWN TO THE WIRE

  Later that afternoon, Garrett and I are sitting in a private Bellagio cabana next to the glittering swimming pool. Due to the 110-degree heat, it’s clogged with people in trunks and bikinis, each person more beautiful and toned than the last. Caribbean music plays over the speakers, and the air is fraught with the smell of hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill.

  Once again, I’m so glad I invited Garrett along. I’d felt unsettled after the last challenge, but after a few hours of relaxation with him poolside, I’ve decided to chalk my guilty feelings up to temporary insanity. Laurel asked for this, after all. If she wants into the Lying Game, she has to toughen up.

  I leap up and pull Garrett to stand, too. “I’m bored,” I say. “Let’s race. ”

  “A swimming race?” Garrett’s eyes twinkle. “Okay. ”

  “Once around the middle fountain. ” I extend an index finger to clarify. The streams of water spurting from the center of the pool shimmer like an oasis. “First one back here wins. ” I adjust the straps on my white crocheted bikini in preparation, bouncing on my toes. Suddenly, I’m itching to compete—and win. I want to keep my muscles limber for the next and final Lying Game challenge, whenever Mads and Char decide to drop it on me. Laurel and I are tied, so whoever wins the last challenge will win it all. And the winner has to be me.

  All at once, Garrett bursts into movement and pushes me backward lightly, teasing. “One, two, three . . . GO!” he shouts, a devilish look in his eyes. He dashes for the pool, a blur in blue-and-red madras.

  “Oh, you are so dead!” I dart after him.

  He races to the deep end of the pool and plunges in. I dive in after him.

  The water hits my skin like a cool wave of satin. I head in the opposite direction around the fountain, determined to complete a lap faster than him.

  I flutter forward, the current of the fountain bubbling to my left. Garrett’s blond hair waves underwater as he heads toward me. I kick faster, picking up the pace. Just as Garrett moves directly into my peripheral vision, his fingers brush against my leg. I squirm, and they clamp down on my ankle. He pulls me toward him, wrapping an arm around my waist, and we break the surface together, the spray from the fountain dotting our shoulders like a light rainfall.

  I smile at the drops of water clinging to his eyelashes. “You play dirty. ”

  He grins and pulls my face closer to his. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  I shake my head. “You win. Here’s your prize. ” I lean in for a kiss. I let my lips linger on his, tasting the slight tingle of chlorine. Then I pull back and dunk him playfully.

  He bursts from underwater sputtering. “Okay. Now, we’re even. ”

  I paddle toward a raft that’s parked along the edge of the pool and pull it in, climbing on top. “To the victor go the spoils,” I say, leaning back and closing my eyes.

  “Victor? I thought we were even,” Garrett protests.

  “We were. ” I drape an arm over my eyes languidly. “But then you lost the rematch to the raft. Sorry. ”

  He laughs and splashes a light drizzle of water over my shoulders, making goose bumps break out on my arms, although they’re quickly warmed by the blazing sun. For a few minutes, it feels like paradise. I don’t think about anything that’s wrong. I don’t think about losing my club to my sister. I don’t think about how it’s Sunday and we’re going to have to drive through the night to make it back to school tomorrow. I just hold Garrett’s hands and float off.

  “I wish I could stay here forever,” I whisper.

  “Me, too,” Garrett says, and then he leans into the raft and kisses me again.

  An hour later the sun begins to set, painting vivid, fiery streaks across the sky. I shrug into a Juicy terry-cloth cover-up, ready to head back to my suite and maybe chill with some trashy reality TV before dinner. Garrett pulls a T-shirt on and steps into his sandals. “Walk you back?”

  “Sure,” I say, offering him my arm.

  We make our way through the soaring lobby of the hotel, my flip-flops slapping against the marble tile. Soon enough, the elevator doors slide open, and we walk down the hallway to the Emperor Suite. I slip my key card into the lock and swing the door to the suite open. Something in the room seems . . . different. After a moment, I realize what it is.

  “My leather jacket is gone. ” Then I walk into the suite and check the bed. “So is my tote. ” I’d used it for the spa.

  I peek in the closet, then under the bed, thinking the cleaning staff might have moved them there. Both are empty. “Were you robbed?” Garrett asks. “Should I call security?”

  “Hang on,” I say faintly. I scan the room more closely. It’s only my things that are missing: my yellow, floral Kate Spade makeup bag, which I’d left strewn, half-open, eyeliners and eyelash curlers spilling all over the round, dark wood table in the dining nook; my Kindle Fire, which had been on the table alongside my makeup; and my Mason Pearson paddle brush. Char’s Tory Burch satchel is still here. So are Mads’s diamond earrings. But Laurel’s Kate Spade bag isn’t. Nor are her sandals and tie-dyed sarong.

  Puzzled, I head into the bedroom I’d been sharing with Mads. Her stuff is exactly where it was this morning, her wedge espadrilles tangled by the bed in a heap alongside some strappy, patent stiletto sandals, and her yoga pants draped across the back of the velvet chair in the corner of the room. The queen bed I’d claimed as my own is meticulously made up, satin pillows and thick, luxurious throws artfully draped across its surface. But nothing else lies on the bed—not the four different bikinis I tried and rejected before heading out to meet Garrett, not my vintage Louis Vuitton luggage. Running to the closet, I see that everything that was packed in the luggage is gone, too.

  Panic tickling my stomach, I glance at the safe, which swings open easily. Also empty. I think of my oriental silk jewelry roll. Inside it was my prized locket; I’d taken it off before going to the pool. It’s gone, too.

  “What the hell?” My heart pounds.

  “Um, Sutton,” Garrett calls from the living room. “I think this is for you. ”

  He’s holding out a creamy peach-colored envelope with my name on it. “It was on the co
ffee table,” he says in a puzzled voice.

  I pluck the card from his hands and rip it open. The message is etched in Charlotte’s formal script, in flowing gray ink.

  Ms. Sutton Mercer:

  You are cordially commanded

  to the Grand Finale

  of the Lying Game Sudden Death Tournament.

  Come to the amusement park on the edge of the strip.

  RSVP: regrets are not an option.

  Sincerely,

  The Lying Game

  Understanding settles over me. This is it. The final challenge.

  Garrett puts a warm hand on my shoulder, peering to check out the note. “What’s that all about?”

  I hide the card from him. “Nothing,” I say dismissively. “But it looks like I’m going to be busy for a bit. ”

  “No problem. ” Garrett pecks me on the cheek. “I’ll go meet up with the guys. ”

  “Don’t worry,” I say, pulling back and looking him in the eyes. “This won’t take long. ”

  It’s time to show Baby Sis who the real star of the show was, is, and always will be.

  11

  PARKS AND RECREATION

  An hour later, I stand at the edge of the amusement park. The sweet, fried scent of funnel cake wafts through the air. Lights from arcade games flash wildly, and there’s a loud shriek from the fun house. I glance right and left, wondering where the others are. To my right is the open part of the park with all the rides. To the left, blocked off by a big gate, is the rest of the park, which is closed for construction.

  This is it, Sutton, I tell myself. Game on.

  I exhale, nervous, and run my fingers through my hair. I’ve changed into a “borrowed” pair of Mads’s J Brand skinnies and tossed on one of her fleece hoodies, figuring she owes me, seeing as how she and Char are the ones who took my stuff in the first place. But even swathed in several layers, the evening feels cool and I shiver. More than that, I’ve always found amusement parks a little eerie.

  I hear a rustle and whirl around, but I don’t see anyone. The rustling sounds again, and suddenly someone taps my shoulder. I turn around and scream. I’m looking straight at a dead ringer for Bozo. He wears chalky whiteface, a giant red smile lined in greasy black pencil, and tufts of orange “hair” spike out over each ear. No wonder I find amusement parks creepy.

  “Sutton Mercer?” the clown asks, his grin spreading into a wide rictus. His accordion collar bobs as he talks. The pom-pom buttons on the front of his suit are as large as saucers.

  “Yeah,” I say, wary.

  “This is for you. ” He plucks a horn from a pocket on the front of his traffic-cone orange jumper and tweaks its rubber honker. A shower of confetti sprays over me as the horn coughs out a little square of folded paper. A note.

  I sidle into the shaft of acid-yellow light cast by an overhead fluorescent lamp and eagerly unfold the missive. It’s a full-color map of the park along with a note, again in Charlotte’s calligraphy script and that expensive dove-gray ink: Complete the hunt, and you’ll get back the item you treasure most.