TWO

TRUTHS

AND

A LIE

A LYING GAME NOVEL

BY

SARA SHEPARD

Copyright

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © 2012 by Alloy Entertainment and Sara Shepard

Sara Shepard asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780007433001

Ebook Edition © APRIL 2012 ISBN: 9780007461448

Version: 2016-11-16

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

PROLOGUE : AN UNWANTED VISITOR

CHAPTER 1 : SHE’S SEEN HIM

CHAPTER 2 : A BOY NAMED TROUBLE

CHAPTER 3 : EVERYONE LOVES A POET

CHAPTER 4 : HOMECOMING HANGOVER

CHAPTER 5 : GAME, SET, OUTMATCHED

CHAPTER 6 : LITTLE EMMA IN THE BIG WOODS

CHAPTER 7 : NIGHT HIKING

CHAPTER 8 : WHAT NOW?

CHAPTER 9 : STARSTRUCK

CHAPTER 10 : GONNA GETCHA

CHAPTER 11 : PARTY OF FOUR

CHAPTER 12 : I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR

CHAPTER 13 : LOVE, S.

CHAPTER 14 : IF THE KEY FITS

CHAPTER 15 : PROJECT: RUN AWAY

CHAPTER 16 : THE MAKEUP

CHAPTER 17 : THE FALSE BOTTOM

CHAPTER 18 : VISITOR FOR VEGA

CHAPTER 19 : CATCH ME IF YOU CAN

CHAPTER 20 : BLOOD DOESN’T LIE

CHAPTER 21 : MOTHER KNOWS BEST

CHAPTER 22 : SEEK AND YE SHALL FIND

CHAPTER 23 : THE PSYCHOPATH TEST

CHAPTER 24 : WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

CHAPTER 25 : SOUND THE AL ARM

CHAPTER 26 : FORECLOSED BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

CHAPTER 27 : ONE FLEW THE COOP

CHAPTER 28 : WE ALL FALL DOWN

CHAPTER 29 : LIKE POISON

CHAPTER 30 : CHEESE, MILK, AND EX-CONS

CHAPTER 31 : MEET THE MERCERS

EPILOGUE

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

Also by Sara Shepard

About the Publisher

Epigraph

A half-truth is a whole lie.

—YIDDISH PROVERB

PROLOGUE

AN UNWANTED VISITOR

If anyone had peeked through my window, they would have thought it was just a normal slumber party, a festive night that involved popcorn, manicures, and six gorgeous girls from the most exclusive clique at Hollier High giving each other makeovers, sharing juicy gossip, and plotting their next prank for the Lying Game. My iPhone had dozens of photos of past sleepovers that looked exactly like it: a shot of my best friend, Madeline, holding up a picture of a model with fringe bangs and asking if the look would flatter her heart-shaped face; one of my other besties, Charlotte, sucking in her cheeks to apply the new shade of blush she’d bought at Sephora; one of my adoptive sister, Laurel, snickering at a D-list celeb in Us Weekly; and plenty of photos of me, Sutton Mercer, looking like the glamorous, powerful “It girl” I was.

But on this particular night, something was different . . . and five out of the six girls didn’t even know it. The girl my best friends were laughing with, the girl they thought was me . . . wasn’t. Because I was dead. My BFFs were talking to my long-lost twin, Emma, who’d taken my place.

I’d died a month ago and was now perched somewhere between the land of the living and the great beyond, watching my life continue, but with Emma as the star. Everywhere she went, I went, like we were still sharing the same womb. Bizarre, right? I didn’t think the afterlife would be like this either.

That night, I watched as my twin sister sat among my friends. Her legs were curled beneath her on the plush white sofa in the exact same way I used to sit. Her heavy-lidded eyes sparkled with my favorite silver MAC shadow. She even laughed the same way I did—loud, staccato, and a bit sarcastic. Over the past month she had perfected my mannerisms, answered to my name, and worn my clothes, all with the aim of being me until my murderer was exposed.

The worst part? I didn’t even remember who killed me. There were whole chunks of my life that had been wiped clean from my mind, and I was left wondering who I’d been, what I’d done, and who I’d pissed off so much that they’d murdered me and then tricked my sister into assuming my identity. Every once in a while I would get a sudden flash of lucidity and a whole scene would snap into brilliant clarity, but the moments before and after it? Complete blanks. It was like getting a few random screen-grabs from a ninety-minute movie and trying to make sense of the entire plot. If I wanted to find out what had happened to me, I would have to rely on Emma . . . and hope that she caught my killer before my killer caught her.

There were some things Emma and I had figured out: My friends all had alibis for the night I died. As did Laurel, meaning they were all cleared. But there were so many suspects left. A particular one lingered in both our minds: Thayer Vega, Madeline’s estranged brother, who’d skipped town last spring. His name kept popping up, and rumors swirled that he and I were somehow involved. Naturally, I couldn’t remember a thing about Thayer himself, but I could tell something had happened between us. But what?

I watched as my best friends giggled and gossiped and began to wind down. By 2:46 A.M., the lights were low, and each girl’s breathing was slow and deep. The iPhone I’d sent hundreds of texts on before I’d died suddenly chimed, and Emma’s eyes sprang open as though she were expecting the message. I watched as she checked the screen, frowned, and tiptoed out of the house and across the yard. Ethan Landry, the only person who knew Emma’s true identity—apart from my killer, of course— stood waiting for her by the curb. And there, in the moonlit driveway, I watched as they talked, hugged, and shared their very first kiss. Even though I no longer had a body, a heart, I still ached all the same. I would never kiss anyone again.

But then footsteps crunched nearby. Emma and Ethan flew apart worriedly. I was yanked behind Emma as she rushed back inside. I glanced over my shoulder just before she slammed the door, and I saw Ethan running into the night. Then, a shadow passed across the front porch. I could hear Emma’s shallow, nervous breathing. I could tell she was scared. With another jolt, I was tugged along as she ran toward the stairs to make sure my bedroom window was locked.

When she and I reached the landing, we both caught a glimpse of the inside of my old bedroom. The window was indeed open, and standing in front of it was a familiar- looking boy. The blood drained from my sister’s face as she took in his features. I let out a scream, but it faded noiselessly into the ether.

It was Thayer Vega. He leveled a smirk at Emma that said he knew all of her secrets—including exactly who she wasn’t. And I could tell, in an instant, that whatever it was he had meant to me in life was wrapped up in mystery— and danger.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember what that danger was.

CHAPTER 1

SHE’S SEEN HIM

“Thayer,” Emma Paxton said, staring at the teenage boy in front of her. His mussed hair looked black in the darkness of Sutton’s bedroom. His cheekbones were prominent above his full lips. His deep-set, hazel eyes narrowed sinisterly.

“Hey, Sutton,” Thayer said, drawing the name out.

A nervous chill ran down Emma’s spine. She recognized Thayer Vega from his missing person posters—he’d vanished from Tucson, Arizona, in June. But that was long before Emma had made the trek to Tucson to reunite with her long-lost twin sister, Sutton. Long before she’d received an anonymous note saying that Sutton was dead and that Emma had to take her place, and tell no one . . . or else.

Emma had scrambled to figure everything out about Sutton on the spot—who her friends were, who her enemies were, what she liked to wear, what she liked to do, who she was dating. She’d come to Tucson simply to find a family member—a foster child, she was desperate for family, any family—but now she was mired in solving her sister’s murder. It had been a relief to rule out Sutton’s closest friends and sister, but Sutton had made a lot of enemies . . . and any number of people could have been her killer.

And Thayer was one of them. Like so many other people in Sutton’s life, what Emma knew about him she’d cobbled together from Facebook posts, gossip, and the Help Us Find Thayer website his family had created after he’d skipped town. There was something dangerous about him—everyone said he’d been mixed up in some kind of trouble and had a horrible temper. And according to the rumors, Sutton had something to do with his disappearance.

Or maybe, I wondered, staring at the wild-eyed boy in my room, Thayer had something to do with mine. A memory popped into my head. I saw myself standing in Thayer’s bedroom, the two of us locked in a bitter stare-off. “Do what you want,” I spat, wheeling toward the door. Thayer looked hurt, then his eyes flashed with anger. “Fine,” he snapped. “I will.” I had no idea what the fight was about, but it was obvious I’d really pissed him off.

“What’s the matter?” Thayer assessed Emma now, crossing his arms over his toned, soccer-player chest. His knowing expression was identical to the one in his MISSING poster. “Scared of me?”

Emma swallowed hard. “W-why would I be afraid of you?” she asked in the toughest voice she could muster, the one she used to reserve for butt-grabbing foster brothers, borderline-personality foster moms, and creepy guys loitering in the dodgy neighborhoods she’d grown up in after our biological mother, Becky, ditched her. But it was all a front. It was almost 3 A.M. on Saturday. Sutton’s friends, who were downstairs for a post-Homecoming sleepover, were fast asleep. So were the Mercer parents. Even the family’s huge Great Dane, Drake, was snoring away in the master bedroom. In the eerie calm, Emma couldn’t help but think of the note she’d received on Laurel’s car her first morning in Arizona: Sutton’s dead. Tell no one. Keep playing along . . . or you’re next. And the strong, terrifying hands that had strangled her with Sutton’s locket at Charlotte’s house a week later, threatening her once again to keep quiet. And the imposing, shadowy figure she’d seen in the high school auditorium just after an overhead light fell inches from her head. What if Thayer was behind all that?

Thayer smirked as though he was reading her mind. “I’m sure you have your reasons.” And then he leaned back and stared at her like he could see right through her—like he was why she was here, pretending to be her dead sister.

Emma looked around, assessing her options for escape, but Thayer grabbed her arm before she could put any distance between them. His grip was hard, and she let out an instinctive, piercing scream. Thayer clamped a hand over her mouth. “Are you insane?” he growled.

“Mmm!” Emma moaned, struggling to breathe through Thayer’s suffocating hold. He was standing so close that Emma could smell his cinnamon gum and see the tiny freckles that dotted the bridge of his nose. She struggled against him, panic welling in her chest. She bit down hard on his hand, tasting earthy, salty sweat.

Thayer swore and stepped back, letting Emma go. She spun away from him. His elbow crashed into a sea-green vase on Sutton’s bookshelf. It tipped over, plummeted to the ground, and shattered into dozens of tiny pieces.

A light flipped on in the hall. “What the hell was that?” a voice called. Footsteps sounded and, seconds later, Sutton’s parents burst into the room.

They moved to Emma’s side. Mrs. Mercer’s hair was mussed and she wore a baggy yellow nightshirt under a robe. Mr. Mercer’s white undershirt was messily tucked into blue flannel pajama bottoms and his hair stood out straight from his head in silver-flecked spikes.

As soon as the parents noticed the intruder, their eyes widened. Mr. Mercer inserted himself between Emma and Thayer. Mrs. Mercer wrapped a protective arm around Emma’s shoulders and pulled her close. Emma sank gratefully into Sutton’s adoptive mother’s embrace, rubbing the five angry marks that had popped up on her skin where Thayer had gripped her.

I had mixed feelings about my parents protecting Emma from Thayer. Were they simply worried because she’d screamed . . . or was it because of something more sinister about Thayer himself, something they knew about him from a past run-in?

“You!” Mr. Mercer bellowed at Thayer. “How dare you? How did you get in?”

Thayer just stared at him, a hint of a smirk on his face. Mr. Mercer’s nostrils flared. His square jaw was set menacingly, his blue eyes blazed, and a vein stuck out on his temple, visibly throbbing. For a second, Emma wondered if Mr. Mercer assumed Sutton had invited Thayer into her room and was mad that his daughter let a boy in at three in the morning. But then she noticed the way Mr. Mercer and Thayer were crouched, as if ready to fight. It felt like something dark and hate-filled hung in the air between them, something that had nothing to do with Sutton at all.

More footsteps pounded up the stairs. Laurel and Madeline appeared in the doorway, having come from the den where the sleepover was taking place. “What’s going on?” Laurel grumbled, rubbing her eyes. Then she caught sight of Thayer. Her light eyes opened wide and she covered her mouth with trembling fingers.

Madeline was dressed in a black camisole and her black hair was pulled back in a perfect bun even though it was the middle of the night. She elbowed her way between Laurel and Mrs. Mercer. Her mouth fell open. She reached out for Laurel’s arm as if she might fall to the ground in shock.

“Thayer!” Madeline’s voice was shrill, her expression an odd mixture of anger, confusion, and relief. “What are you doing here? Where have you been? Are you okay?”

The muscles in Thayer’s arms flexed as he balled his fists. He glanced around at Laurel, Madeline, Emma, and the Mercer parents like he was a wounded animal wanting to flee his attackers. After a beat, he spun on his heel and bolted in the opposite direction. He shot across Sutton’s bedroom, hoisting himself out the window and shimmying down the oak tree that served as an escape hatch from Sutton’s room. Emma, Laurel, and Madeline flew to the window and watched Thayer scramble through the darkness. His gait was uneven—he favored his left leg with a pronounced limp as he moved across the grass.

“Get back here!” Mr. Mercer screamed, racing from Sutton’s bedroom and banging down the stairs. Emma scampered after him, with Mrs. Mercer, Laurel, and Madeline following behind. Charlotte and the Twitter Twins staggered out from the den, looking sleepy and confused.

Everyone gathered around the open doorway. Mr. Mercer had run halfway across the yard. “I’m calling the cops!” he shouted. “Get back here, damn it!”

No answer came. Tires screeched around the corner. Just like that, Thayer was gone.

Madeline whirled around to stare at Emma. Tears welled in her blue eyes and her face was red and blotchy. “Did you invite him here?”

Emma gasped. “What? No!”

But Madeline sprinted out the door. A few sharp bleeps pierced through the air, and Madeline’s SUV lights illuminated the darkness.

Laurel shot Emma a pissed-off look. “Now look what you’ve done.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Emma protested.

Laurel looked at the other girls for support. Charlotte cleared her throat. The Twitter Twins fingered the iPhones in their hands, surely itching to post an update about this to their many social-networking sites. Laurel’s glare was icy and incredulous, and Emma could guess why. Laurel and Thayer had been best friends before his disappearance, and Laurel had a major crush on him. But Thayer had barely registered Laurel’s existence in Sutton’s bedroom. From what Emma had gathered over the past few weeks in Tucson, something big had gone on between Sutton and Thayer before he went missing.

“Didn’t do anything?” Laurel whipped back to face Emma. “You got him in trouble! Again.”

Mrs. Mercer ran her hands over her face. “Please, Laurel. Not now.” She stepped toward Emma, cinching the belt of the pink terry-cloth bathrobe she’d stopped to grab on her way downstairs. “Sutton, are you alright?”

Laurel rolled her eyes. “Look at her. She’s fine.”

Finally, Drake, the Great Dane, trotted down the stairs and nudged Mrs. Mercer’s hand with his slobbery nose. “Some guard dog you are,” Mrs. Mercer muttered. Then she turned back to Emma, Laurel, and the three remaining girls in the foyer. “I think you girls should go home now,” she said wearily.

Without a word, Charlotte and the Twitter Twins turned back to the den, presumably to gather up their stuff. Emma’s head felt too foggy to follow them, so she trudged back upstairs and took refuge in Sutton’s bedroom to get her bearings. The room looked exactly as she’d left it: Old issues of Vogue lay neatly stacked on Sutton’s bookshelf, necklaces were twined together on her dresser, school notebooks were piled on her white oak desk, and the computer cycled through images of Madeline, Charlotte, Laurel, and Sutton with their arms wrapped around each other—probably celebrating some perfectly pulled-off Lying Game prank. Nothing was missing. Whatever reason Thayer had to break in, it wasn’t theft.

Emma sank to the floor, Madeline’s hurt look flashing through her mind once more. One thing Thayer definitely had stolen was the tenuous peace she’d finally made with Sutton’s friends and Laurel. Sutton had ruffled a lot of feathers while she was alive, and it had taken a fair amount of work to repair her relationships.

I bristled at Emma’s thoughts. These were my friends she was talking about. People I had known forever and loved, and who loved me back. But even I couldn’t deny that I’d made some questionable decisions. I’d stolen Charlotte’s boyfriend, Garrett. I’d clearly had some sort of rocky relationship with Madeline’s brother. I’d given Gabby a seizure during a Lying Game prank—and then told her sister that if she told anyone what I’d done, I’d make her life in high school a living hell. And I’d been dismissive of Laurel’s feelings in too many ways to count. One thing I’d learned being dead was that I’d made a lot of mistakes when I was alive. Mistakes I could never set right. But maybe Emma could.

After a few minutes of deep breathing, Emma slipped out of Sutton’s room and slowly went down the stairs.

The scent of roasted hazelnuts greeted her in the kitchen. Sutton’s father was staring into a cup of black coffee, his face still twisted into an angry, almost unrecognizable mask. Mrs. Mercer traced circles between his shoulder blades with the tips of her fingers and whispered something into his ear. Laurel stared listlessly out the window, spinning a pineapple suncatcher around.

When Mrs. Mercer noticed Emma, she looked up and gave her a small smile. “The police will be here any minute, Sutton,” she said softly.

Emma blinked, wondering how to react. Would Sutton’s parents expect her to be relieved by this detail . . . or start vehemently defending Thayer? She settled on an expressionless face, crossing her arms over her chest and staring at Sutton’s dad.

“Do you understand how dangerous that boy is?” Mr. Mercer asked, shaking his head.

Emma opened her mouth to speak, but Laurel was faster. She pushed past Emma and gripped the back of one of the wooden chairs that circled the round oak table. “That boy is one of my best friends, Dad,” she growled. “And did it ever enter your mind that Sutton—not Thayer—is the one causing all the trouble?”

“Excuse me?” Emma squeaked indignantly. “How is this my fault?”

They were interrupted by the distant wail of sirens. Mr. Mercer headed for the hall, and Mrs. Mercer followed. The sirens grew louder and louder until they were right outside of the house. Emma heard a car pull up the drive and saw red and blue lights flashing on the front porch. She was about to follow the Mercer parents into the foyer when Laurel caught her arm.

“You’re going to throw Thayer under the bus, aren’t you?” Laurel hissed, her eyes blazing.

Emma stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know why he always comes to you first,” Laurel continued, as if she hadn’t heard Emma’s question. “You just make his life worse. And you’re never there to pick up the pieces. You leave that to me, don’t you?”

Emma fiddled with Sutton’s locket that hung from her neck, silently begging Laurel to explain herself, but Laurel just glared accusingly. Clearly whatever she was talking about was something Sutton was supposed to know already.

Except . . . I didn’t.

“We’ve got coffee on,” Mrs. Mercer’s voice echoed from the foyer. Emma turned just in time to see Sutton’s parents leading two officers into the kitchen. One of them had red hair and freckles and didn’t look much older than Emma. The other was more weathered, with oversized ears and a woodsy cologne. Emma instantly recognized him.

“Hello again, Miss Mercer,” the second cop said, shooting Emma a weary look. It was Detective Quinlan, the officer who hadn’t believed Emma when she had told him her real identity the day she’d arrived in Tucson. He’d assumed the long-lost-twin routine was another one of Sutton’s hoaxes—the Tucson police had an entire case file dedicated to Sutton’s wrongdoings as part of the Lying Game, a cruel club Sutton and her friends had invented over five years ago, which involved playing pranks on unwitting victims. One of the most horrific pranks involved Sutton pretending that her car had stalled on the train tracks as a commuter train barreled toward her and her friends. It had ended in Gabby’s hospitalization for a seizure. Emma had only learned about it last week, after she’d purposely gotten caught shoplifting to get a peek at Sutton’s rap sheet. She’d snooped, and she’d scored, but she wasn’t exactly looking for more quality moments with the Tucson police force.

Quinlan sank into one of the kitchen chairs. “Why is it that whenever there’s a call on my beat you have something to do with it, Miss Mercer?” he said in a tired voice. “Did you organize this meeting with Mr. Vega? Do you know where he’s been all this time?”

Emma leaned against the table and glared at Quinlan. He’d had it in for her—er, Sutton—since the day she’d met him. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said quickly, flicking a strand of chestnut brown hair from her shoulder.

Mr. Mercer threw up his hands. “Sutton, please,” he said. “Cooperate with the police. I want this kid out of our lives for good.”

“I told you, I don’t know anything,” Emma argued.

Quinlan turned to Sutton’s dad. “We’ve got three squad cars patrolling the area for Mr. Vega. We’ll find him sooner or later. You can be sure of that.”

There was something about his threat that made Emma shiver. I shivered right along with her, the same question on both our minds: But what if Thayer found Emma again first?

CHAPTER 2

A BOY NAMED TROUBLE

“Sutton?” Mrs. Mercer’s voice floated upstairs. “Break fast!”

Emma’s eyes slowly opened. It was Saturday morning, and she was lying in Sutton’s bed, which was a zillion times more luxurious than any bed she’d ever slept on in her foster homes. She would have thought the plush mattress, thousand-thread-count sheets, down pillows, and satin comforter could ensure a perfect eight hours of sleep every night, but she’d slept fitfully ever since she arrived here. Last night, she’d woken up every thirty minutes to make sure Sutton’s window was still locked. Each time she stood at the window ledge, looking out on the perfectly manicured lawn that Thayer had scurried across just hours before, the same thoughts ran through her head, over and over. What if she hadn’t screamed? What if the vase hadn’t broken? What if Mr. and Mrs. Mercer hadn’t barged into Sutton’s room when they had? Would Thayer have threatened Emma to her face at last? Would he have told her to stop snooping, or else . . . ?

Long-lost Twin Encounters Crazed, Possibly Murderous Runaway, Emma thought to herself. During her years as a foster kid, she’d gotten into the habit of titling her daily activities with a punchy headline as training for becoming an investigative journalist. She’d recorded the headlines in a notebook and named her newspaper The Daily Emma. Since moving to Tucson and taking over Sutton’s life, her adventures really were newsworthy—not that she could tell anyone about them.

She rolled over, the events from last night flooding into her brain once more. Could Thayer be Sutton’s killer? His behavior certainly wasn’t dispelling her suspicions.

“Sutton?” Mrs. Mercer called again.

The sugary smell of maple syrup and waffles wafted up to Sutton’s bedroom, and Emma’s stomach rumbled with hunger. “Coming!” she yelled back.

With a groggy yawn, Emma climbed from the bed and pulled an Arizona Cardinals sweatshirt from the top drawer of Sutton’s white wooden dresser. She yanked the $34.99 price tag from the collar and slid it over her neck.

The shirt was probably a present from Cardinals überfan Garrett, who’d been Sutton’s boyfriend when she died—now her ex-boyfriend after Emma turned down his naked and willing body at Sutton’s eighteenth birthday party. There were some things sisters weren’t meant to share.

Uh, yeah—like each other’s lives. But I guess it was a little too late for that.

Sutton’s iPhone buzzed, and Emma checked the screen. A small photo of Ethan Landry appeared in the upper right-hand corner, which made Emma’s heart do a flip. ARE YOU OKAY? he wrote. I HEARD THERE WERE COPS AT YOUR HOUSE LAST NIGHT AFTER I LEFT. WHAT HAPPENED?

Emma shut her eyes and tapped her fingers on the keys.

LONG STORY. THAYER BROKE IN. SUPER SCARY. MAYBE HE’S A SUSPECT. MEET UP LATER AT THE USUAL PLACE?

AREN’T YOU GROUNDED? Ethan wrote back.

Emma ran her tongue over her teeth. She’d forgotten that the Mercers had grounded her for stealing the purse from Clique last week. They’d only let her go to Homecoming because she’d done well in school—a first for Sutton, apparently. I’LL FIGURE OUT A WAY TO GET OUT, she typed back. SEE YOU AFTER DINNER.

Damn right she’d figure out a way. Other than my murderer, Ethan was the only person who knew who Emma really was, and the two of them had joined forces to try to identify Sutton’s killer. He’d definitely want to know about Thayer.

But that wasn’t the only reason Emma wanted to see Ethan. After the hubbub of last night, she’d almost forgotten that they’d reconciled . . . and kissed. She was dying to see him and take things to the next level. Ethan was the first real almost-boyfriend Emma had ever had—she’d always been too shy and moved around too much to make an impression on guys—and she wanted it to work out.

I was hoping that it would work out, too. At least one of us should find love.

Emma descended the stairs for breakfast, pausing for a moment to stare at the family photographs in the Mercers’ hallway. Black-framed photos showed Laurel and Sutton with their arms wrapped around each other at Disneyland, sporting matching neon pink–trimmed ski goggles on a ski trip, and making a sand castle on a beautiful white-sand beach. A more recent one showed Sutton and her dad in front of a British racing-green Volvo, Sutton holding up the key gleefully.

She looked so happy. Carefree. She had a life Emma had always wanted. It was a question that plagued her constantly: Why had Sutton gotten such a wonderful family and friends, while Emma had spent thirteen years in foster homes? Sutton had been adopted into the Mercer family when she was a baby, while Emma had remained with their birth mother, Becky, until she was five. What if their roles had been reversed, and Emma had gotten to live with the Mercers? Would she be dead now? Or would she have lived Sutton’s life differently, appreciated her privileges?

I gazed at the photos, zeroing in on a recent snapshot of the four of us on the front porch. My mom, my dad, Laurel, and I looked like the picture-perfect family, all of us dressed in white tees and blue jeans, the Tucson sun brilliant in the background. I blended so well with them, my blue eyes almost the same as those of my adoptive mother. I hated when Emma assumed that I’d been a huge, ungrateful brat my whole life. Okay, so maybe I hadn’t appreciated my parents as much as I should have. And maybe I’d hurt some people with Lying Game pranks. But did I really deserve to die because of it?

In the kitchen, Mrs. Mercer poured golden batter into a waffle iron. Drake sat patiently beneath her, waiting for the batter to ooze over the sides and drip onto the floor. When Emma appeared in the doorway, Mrs. Mercer glanced up with a pinched, worried expression. The lines around her eyes stood out prominently, and there was just a hint of gray at her temples. The Mercer parents were a little older than most parents she knew, possibly in their late forties or early fifties.

“Are you all right?” Mrs. Mercer asked, shutting the top to the waffle iron and dropping the whisk back into the batter.

“Uh, fine,” Emma murmured, even though she would have felt a lot better if she knew where Thayer was.

A loud thwack sounded across the room, and Emma turned to see Laurel sitting at the kitchen table bringing a long silver knife down hard over a ripe, juicy pineapple. Sutton’s sister caught her eye and grinned mockingly, holding out a dripping slice. “Some vitamin C?” she asked coldly. The knife glinted menacingly in her other hand.

If it had been a week or so ago, Emma would have been afraid of that knife—Laurel had been in her top-ten suspect list. But Laurel’s name had been cleared; she’d been at Nisha Banerjee’s sleepover the whole night of Sutton’s murder. There was no way she could have done it.

Emma looked at the pineapple and made a face. “No thanks. Pineapple makes me gag.”

Mr. Mercer, who was standing by the espresso machine, turned around and gave her a surprised look. “I thought you loved pineapple, Sutton.”

A fist inside Emma tightened. Emma hadn’t been able to eat pineapple ever since she was ten, when her then foster mother, Shaina, had won a lifetime supply of canned pineapple after submitting a pineapple upside-down cake recipe to a cooking magazine. Emma had been forced to eat the slippery yellow chunks at every meal for six months. Of course it would be Sutton’s favorite fruit.

It was the little details about Sutton, things she couldn’t possibly know, that always tripped her up. Sutton’s dad seemed hyper-aware of her gaffes, too—he was the only one who’d questioned Emma about a tiny scar when she’d first arrived in Tucson, one that her twin didn’t have. And he always seemed to weigh whatever he had to say to her carefully, as though he were holding back, hiding something. It was like he knew something about his daughter was off, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“That was before I found out it was really high in badfor-you carbs,” Emma said quickly, thinking on her feet. It sounded like something Sutton would say.

Steam erupted from the espresso maker on the soap-stone countertop before anyone could respond. Mr. Mercer poured milk into four porcelain mugs printed with pictures of Great Danes much like Drake and then turned to Emma. “The police found Thayer last night. Picked him up trying to hitchhike on the on-ramp to Route 10.”

“He’s been arrested for unlawful entry,” Mrs. Mercer added, adding a stack of waffles to a plate. “But that’s not all. Apparently, he had a knife on him—a concealed weapon.”

Emma flinched. One wrong move last night and Thayer might have slashed her.

“Quinlan says he resisted arrest,” Mr. Mercer went on. “It sounds like he’s really in trouble. They’re holding him at the precinct for questioning about some other things, too. Like where he’s been all this time and why he’d worried his family for so long.”

Emma kept her expression neutral, but relief coursed through her body. At least Thayer was in jail, not roaming Tucson. She was safe—for now. With Thayer behind bars, she had time to get to the bottom of his mysterious relationship with Sutton . . . and to figure out if she really needed to be afraid of him.

“Can we visit him in jail?” Laurel asked as she stuffed the spiky stem of the pineapple into the garbage.

Mr. Mercer looked horrified. “Absolutely not.” He pointed at both his daughters. “I don’t want either of you visiting him. I know he was your friend, Laurel, but think about all the fights he got into on the soccer field. And if half those rumors about alcohol and drugs are true, then he’s a walking pharmacy. And what was he doing carrying a knife? Trouble follows that kid wherever he goes. I don’t want you mixed up with someone like that.”

Laurel opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Mercer quickly interrupted. “Set the table, will you, sweetie?” There was a wobbly quality to her voice, as if she were trying to smooth everything over and sweep the mess under the rug.

Mrs. Mercer set a heaping mound of Belgian waffles on the kitchen table and filled everyone’s glass with orange juice. Mr. Mercer strolled over from the coffee machine and sat down at his regular seat. He sliced a piece of waffle and popped it into his mouth. His eyes were on Emma the whole time. “So. Is there a reason Thayer snuck into your bedroom?” he asked.

Nerves darted through Emma’s insides. Because he might have killed your real daughter? Because he wanted to make sure I wasn’t going around telling people about it?

“You weren’t expecting him, were you?” Mr. Mercer continued, his voice sharpening.

Emma lowered her eyes and grabbed for a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s. “If I was expecting him, I wouldn’t have screamed.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Last night.”

Mr. Mercer sighed exaggeratedly. “Before that.”

These were questions Emma couldn’t answer. She looked around at the table. All three Mercers were staring at her, waiting for her response. Mr. Mercer looked irritated. Mrs. Mercer was nervous. And Laurel’s face was a murderous bright red.

“June,” Emma blurted. It was the month that all the flyers in the police station and Facebook pages said Thayer went missing. “Just like everyone else.”

Mr. Mercer sighed heavily, like he didn’t believe her. But before he could say anything else, Mrs. Mercer cleared her throat. “Let’s not worry about Thayer Vega anymore,” she chirped. “He’s in jail—that’s what matters.”

Mr. Mercer’s brow wrinkled. “But—”

“Let’s talk about happy things instead, like your birthday party,” Mrs. Mercer interrupted. She touched her husband’s arm. “It’s only a few weeks away. Almost all the plans are complete.” Even Emma knew about the plans for Mr. Mercer’s birthday party. Mrs. Mercer had been planning the festivities at the Loews Ventana Canyon resort for weeks. Her party to-do lists were scattered around the house on bright yellow Post-its.

Mr. Mercer’s face was still a stony grimace. “I told you I didn’t want a party.”

Mrs. Mercer scoffed. “Everyone wants a party.”

“Grandma’s coming, right?” Laurel asked after swallow ing a slug of orange juice.

Mrs. Mercer nodded. “And you girls know you’re welcome to invite your friends,” she said. “I’ve already sent invitations to the Chamberlains and Mr. and Mrs. Vega. And I just ordered the cake from Gianni’s, that gourmet baker who did the cake for Mr. Chamberlain’s party,” Mrs. Mercer went on. “Apparently they’re the best. It’s carrot with a cream cheese frosting. Your favorite!”

Her voice lifted higher and higher. After Teenage Murder

Suspect Breaks Into Home, Dutiful Wife Tries to Lighten Mood with Talk of Dessert, Emma thought with a smirk.

“May I be excused?” Laurel asked, even though a whole waffle remained on her plate.

“Sure,” Mrs. Mercer said distractedly, her eyes still on her husband’s face.

Emma jumped up, too. “I have German homework,” she said. “Might as well get an early start on it.” This was something Sutton clearly wouldn’t say, but she was eager for the escape. She carried her dish to the sink and kept her head pointedly down as Laurel brushed past. Laurel muttered something under her breath. Emma was almost positive it was bitch.

When she passed by the table again, on her way toward the hall, she felt Mr. Mercer’s eyes on her. He was giving her such a suspicious stare that a sharp pain shot through Emma’s stomach. Suddenly, her mind flashed back to the look Mr. Mercer and Thayer had exchanged the previous night. Was it just her imagination, or did something big happen between them? Did they have some sort of . . . history together? Did Mr. Mercer know something about Thayer—something potentially dangerous—that he wasn’t letting on about?

I had to agree—my dad definitely knew something about Thayer. As I followed Emma up the stairs, I caught a glimpse of the mountains outside the window, and two puzzle pieces connected for a brief moment in my mind. I saw spidery branches casting shadows across the packed earth while sticky, late summer air clung to my bare legs. I saw Thayer keeping pace at my side, sliding his arm through mine as we navigated a rocky path in the twilight. I saw him opening his mouth to speak, but the memory scattered before I could hear what he’d been about to say.

But maybe, just maybe, it had been something I hadn’t wanted to hear.

CHAPTER 3

EVERYONE LOVES A POET

Later that evening, Emma made her way to the local park. Even though it was dusk, there were still lots of people jogging on the dirt paths that wound up toward the mountains, cooking burgers on the public grills, and roughhousing with their dogs on the grass. A radio was playing a Bruno Mars song, and a bunch of kids were splashing each other with water from a fountain.

Just seeing that park made me ache. It was only a few blocks away from my house, and even though I couldn’t remember specifics, I knew I’d spent lots of time here. What I wouldn’t give to dip my fingers into the cool water of that fountain or bite into a juicy burger hot off the grill—even if it did go straight to my thighs.

There was still a basketball game raging, but all of the tennis courts were dark. Emma walked to the very last one and pushed open the creaky gate. She could just make out a figure lying on the ground near the net. Her heart swelled. It was Ethan.

“Hello?” Emma whispered.

Ethan jumped to his feet and walked toward her, his stride even and calm. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his worn Levi’s. A tissue-thin T-shirt clung to his strong arms. “Hey,” he said. Even in the dark she could tell he was grinning. “Did you sneak out?”

Emma shook her head. “I didn’t have to. The Mercers lifted my punishment—I guess all the homework I’ve been doing changed their minds. But Mr. Mercer asked me a million questions about where I was going.” She glanced over her shoulder at the dark trees beyond. “It’s a wonder he didn’t follow me. Then again, I guess I should be grateful. Nobody’s ever cared enough to know where I was at all times.” She laughed halfheartedly.

“Not even Becky?” Ethan asked, raising an eyebrow.

Emma gazed out at the twisted trees beyond the court. “Becky left me at a convenience store once, remember? She wasn’t exactly a model parent.” She felt guilty for trashing her mother. She had some good memories of Becky—like the time she had let Emma dress up in a silky slip and play Snow White around their hotel room, or the many nights Becky had set up treasure hunts for her—but they’d never make up for how she had abandoned Emma when she needed her most.

“Well, I’m glad you made it,” Ethan said, changing the subject.

“Me too,” Emma answered.

She met his eyes for a brief moment. There was a long pause, and they both looked down. Emma kicked a loose tennis ball near the net. Ethan jingled change in his pockets. Then he reached out and took her hand. She caught the scent of his spicy aftershave as he leaned in close. “Lights on or off?” he asked. The tennis courts had manual lights—seventy-five cents for every thirty minutes.

“Off,” Emma answered, excitement flooding her body.

Ethan tugged her down until they were both lying on the cement. The ground was still warm from the day’s heat, and it smelled vaguely of tar and rubber sneakers. Above them, a silvery moon shone. An owl flapped to a high tree branch.

“I can’t believe Thayer broke into your house,” Ethan said after a beat, holding her close. “Are you okay?”

Emma rested her cheek against his chest, feeling suddenly exhausted. “I’m better now.”

“So did Thayer sneak in to see Sutton?”

Emma pulled back and sighed. “I guess so. Unless . . . ”

“Unless what?”

“Unless Thayer knows who I really am and came to remind me to stay in line.” Just saying the words aloud made Emma shiver.

Ethan hugged his knees to his chest. “You think Thayer killed Sutton?”

“It’s definitely possible. He’s the only one of her friends we haven’t been able to investigate. What do you think was going on between Sutton and Thayer before he ran away?” Emma placed her palm flat on the asphalt, feeling its heat. She needed to touch something solid, something she understood.

An expression of regret crossed Ethan’s face. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I wish I did, but they weren’t my crowd.”

“A couple of people hinted that he might’ve been fooling around with Sutton,” Emma said. One of them was Garrett, Sutton’s ex—he’d more or less accused Sutton of it at Homecoming on Friday. And Nisha Banerjee had pretty much spelled out how Sutton had stolen Laurel’s crush. Then there were the icy glances Laurel had been shooting Emma ever since Thayer had turned up in Sutton’s bedroom, and the cryptic thing she’d said. You just make his life worse. What was that about?

“Then again, other people have made it sound like Sutton did something that caused Thayer to leave town,” Emma said slowly.

“I heard something about that.” Ethan kicked at a crack in the court with the heel of his sneaker. “But who knows if it’s true? People only started whispering that recently. When Thayer first went missing, everyone assumed he’d just run away to escape his dad. He was always screaming at Thayer during soccer matches and putting a ton of pressure on him.”

Emma winced, remembering something else from the night of the dance. At Homecoming, Emma had noticed purple bruises on Madeline’s arms. She said they’d come from her father. She’d also said he was hard on Thayer, too. The moment had been heart-wrenching, but it also felt special. It was the first time Emma had had a real, honest conversation with one of Sutton’s friends. She craved that connection: Other than her best friend, Alex, who lived in Henderson, Nevada, it had been hard to make many lasting friends because she’d moved around so much.

I had to admit it made me sort of sad that Emma was bonding with my bestie. In some ways, Emma was a better version of me, Sutton 2.0, which really stung. Madeline had never shared her secret about her dad with me—she’d more or less implied that she thought I didn’t care. I’d definitely sensed something was up with Mr. Vega, though. One night, Charlotte, Laurel, and I had sat in Madeline’s bedroom as Mr. Vega flung pots and pans around the kitchen, screaming at Mads and Thayer about God knows what. When Madeline returned to her room, eyes wide and bloodshot, we’d all pretended nothing had happened. If only I’d taken the time to ask Mads if she was okay. She’d probably given me plenty of clues. My twin was turning out to be a better friend to Mads and Char than I’d ever been—and now there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.

Ethan leaned back on his elbows, exposing a taut line of tanned stomach muscles. “Thayer could have left for a reason other than his dad or Sutton. I’ve heard people say that he was mixed up in some really dangerous stuff.”

“Like what? Alcohol? Drugs?” Emma asked, recalling what Mr. Mercer had said.

Ethan shrugged. “It was all just vague gossip. I can try to ask around. Now that he’s back, people will definitely be talking about him. It’ll just be a matter of separating rumor from fact.”

Emma flopped down on the hard court. “Have I mentioned how frustrating this is? I have no idea how to find out exactly what happened between Thayer and Sutton without giving away who I really am.”

Ethan linked his fingers through hers. “We’ll figure this out. I promise. We’re so much closer than we were a month ago.”

Gratitude washed over Emma like a wave. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Ethan waved his free hand. “Stop that. We’re in this together.” Then he shifted his weight and pulled out a crinkled piece of paper from his back pocket. “Hey . . . so I wanted to ask you . . . Do you have any interest in going to this with me?”

Emma smoothed the creases from the paper. 10TH ANNUAL POETRY SLAM CONTEST, a typewriter font read. The event was in early November. She glanced up at him questioningly.

“I’ve read my poems at Club Congress the last couple of weeks,” Ethan explained. “I just thought it might be nice to have some moral support in the audience for once.”

Emma couldn’t stop the grin that spread across her face. “You’re going to let me hear your poetry?” The very first night she’d met Ethan—which was also the very first night she’d been in Tucson—she’d seen him scribbling poems in a notebook. She’d been dying to read his work but was afraid to ask.

“As long as you don’t make fun of it.” Ethan ducked his head.

“Of course I won’t!” Emma clasped his hand. “I’ll absolutely be there.”

Ethan’s eyes shone. “Seriously?”

Emma nodded, moved by how vulnerable he seemed. Her fingertips touched the inside of his palm. Fireflies sparked in the distance, flitting back and forth between cacti and madrone trees. The wind gusted through the dark pieces of Ethan’s hair as he put his arm around Emma’s shoulders. Emma inched closer, her knees brushing against the denim of Ethan’s jeans. She thought of their kiss last night, of how soft his lips had been on hers. It felt selfish to indulge her feelings for Ethan while her sister’s murder remained unsolved, but Ethan was the only thing keeping her sane right now.

And weirdly, watching my sister do something that made her feel so happy made me feel sane, too.

Emma leaned forward and tilted her chin. Ethan moved close. But suddenly, a metallic clinking noise rang out from the other side of the fence. Emma whipped around and squinted. A long-legged figure slithered between two oak trees.

“Hello?” she called, her pulse inching up a notch. “Who’s there?”

Ethan jumped to his feet, jammed a few quarters into the machine, and turned on the lights. They were so bright that Emma had to shade her eyes for a moment. They both scanned the court, the silence deafening. The basketball game had stopped, and there wasn’t even any traffic on the road. How long had it been quiet like this? How loudly had she and Ethan been talking? Had someone heard?

When the figure emerged from the trees, Emma grabbed Ethan’s arm and stifled a scream. Then her eyes adjusted. She saw a girl in black leggings, a metallic sports bra, and white sneakers. Her blonde hair was in a high ponytail, and she jogged in place as though she’d just arrived. Emma’s mouth dropped open. It was Laurel.

Laurel’s eyes widened at Emma and Ethan. After a moment, she raised her hand and gave a four-finger wave. “Oh, hey, guys!” She said it as though she hadn’t been eavesdropping on them, but Emma knew better.

I did, too. Especially when Laurel mouthed Caught ya!, before popping her iPod earbuds back into her ears. Then, ponytail swinging, she darted through the trees and disappeared.

CHAPTER 4

HOMECOMING HANGOVER

On Monday morning, the Hollier High campus looked like it was still recovering from Friday night’s Homecoming festivities. The school had a tradition of throwing a Halloween-themed dance, and remnants of the raucous evening were everywhere. A lone strand of bright-orange crepe paper fluttered from a windowsill outside the gym. A set of discarded fangs lay in a patch of grass. The remains of a burst black balloon were splattered on the cement sidewalk. And a wad of pink gum was stuck to the loincloth of the granite statue of a Native American that trickled water in the courtyard.

“This place looks hungover,” Emma murmured.

Laurel, who was sitting next to her in the driver’s seat of the VW Jetta, didn’t even snicker. She was Emma’s ride to school until Emma figured out where Sutton’s car had disappeared to—it had been impounded for unpaid tickets sometime before Sutton went missing, but Sutton had allegedly retrieved it from the impound the night she died. The car had been missing ever since.

Emma had tried to make small talk with Laurel on the ride over—she didn’t dare confront Laurel about spying on her and Ethan in the park on Saturday, even though she was dying to know what she’d heard. But Laurel had just stared stiffly ahead, her jaw set and her eyes narrowed, not wanting to talk about the new Beyoncé single or how Maybelline Great Lash mascara didn’t hold a candle to DiorShow.

Sighing, Emma stepped out of the car and veered around a forgotten Mardi Gras mask. She was so sick of Laurel’s hot-and-cold moods. Last week, she and Laurel had gotten along swimmingly, and it seemed that whatever bitter rivalry there’d been between Sutton and Laurel was beginning to dissolve, but Thayer’s appearance had set them back ten paces. Emma missed smiling at Laurel at breakfast, doing their makeup side-by-side at the bathroom mirror in the morning, and singing along to the radio on the drive to school. Laurel had given her a taste of what having a sister could be like, something she’d never had.

As she crossed to the front lawn, she noticed everyone was buzzing excitedly. One name cropped up over and over: Thayer Vega.

“Did you hear Thayer was arrested for breaking into the Mercer house?” a girl in a faux-fur vest whispered. Emma froze and ducked behind a column, wanting to hear the conversation.

The girl’s friend, a guy with a pronounced widow’s peak, nodded excitedly. “I heard it was a huge set-up. Sutton knew he was coming all along.”

“Where do you think he’s been?” Faux Fur asked.

Widow’s Peak shrugged. “I heard he went to L.A. to make it as a male model.”

“No way.” A junior girl with frizzy blonde hair had joined Widow’s Peak and Faux Fur. “He was mixed up in a Mexican drug cartel and got shot in the leg. That totally explains the limp.”

“That makes sense.” Widow’s Peak nodded sagely. “Thayer probably broke into Sutton’s bedroom to steal her laptop to pay off his drug-lord debt.”

Faux Fur rolled her eyes. “You guys are lame. He broke into Sutton’s room because they had unfinished business. She was the reason he left.”

“Sutton?”

Emma whirled around and saw Charlotte advancing toward her. The three kids who had been talking about Sutton flinched as they spotted Emma behind a column. Other kids passing by stared at her curiously. A couple of guys chuckled.

I had a feeling this wasn’t the response I used to get when I walked through the halls of Hollier. People might have whispered about me, but no one would have dared laugh.

“News travels fast, doesn’t it?” Emma said as Charlotte fell in step beside her. Emma tugged at the hem of Sutton’s gray pinstriped short shorts. If she’d known she would be so ogled today, she wouldn’t have worn an outfit quite so revealing.

“News like this does.” Charlotte adjusted a wave of silky red hair over her shoulder and handed Emma a Starbucks latte. Then she glared at a goth girl who was gaping at Emma. “Is there a problem?” she asked in a pinched tone.

The goth girl shrugged and slunk away. Emma shot Charlotte a grateful smile as the girls settled on a bench. It was times like this when Emma appreciated Charlotte’s flinty bitchiness. She was the loudest and most controlling of their clique, the kind of girl who you desperately wanted on your side and didn’t dare cross. In Emma’s old life, she’d known plenty of girls like Charlotte, but only from afar. Mostly, the Charlottes of the world looked at Emma like she was some kind of foster-girl freak.

Charlotte sipped from her own cup of coffee and looked around the lawn. “What a mess,” she murmured. Then her green eyes widened. Emma followed her gaze and saw Madeline stepping from her SUV. She straightened to her full height as she walked through a mob of gaping students.

“Mads!” Charlotte called, waving.

Madeline turned her head and froze at the sight of Charlotte and Emma. For a split second, Emma thought she was going to spin and run in the opposite direction. But then she strode toward them with all of her ballet-dancer grace and settled next to Charlotte on the bench.

Charlotte squeezed her hand.

“How are you doing?” “How do you think?” Madeline snapped. She was impeccably dressed in a tight-fitting cashmere sweater and navy shorts ironed within an inch of their life, but her alabaster skin looked even paler than usual. Then Emma noticed a pair of Chanel sunglasses propped on top of her head. They were new shades, even though Emma and Madeline had picked out a vintage pair last week, a very un-Sutton move. Had Mads deliberately chosen not to wear the sunglasses today to show she was pissed at Emma, or was Emma reading too much into things?

“Thayer’s arraignment hearing was this morning,” Madeline explained, looking at Charlotte but not at Emma. “His bail is set at fifteen thousand dollars. My mom won’t stop crying. She’s begging my dad to pay his bail, but he refuses—he says he’s not going to waste his money bailing Thayer out because he’s just going to bolt again. I’d bail him out myself, but where am I going to get fifteen grand?”

Charlotte draped an arm around Madeline and squeezed her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mads.”

“At the hearing he just sat there, staring at us.” Madeline’s lower lip trembled. “It’s like he’s become this complete stranger. He has a tattoo he won’t explain, and that crazy limp. He’ll never be able to play soccer again. It was his biggest love—the thing he was best at—and now his future is ruined.”

Emma reached out her hand to rest it on Madeline’s. “That’s awful.”

Madeline tensed her shoulders and pulled away. “Worst of all, Thayer won’t tell us where he was all this time.”

“At least you know where he is now, and that he’s safe,” Emma offered.

Madeline whipped around and stared at her. Her blue eyes were puffy, and her mouth was a straight line. “What was he doing in your bedroom?” she asked bluntly.

Emma flinched. Charlotte fidgeted with a heart-shaped keychain that hung on her leather Coach purse, avoiding eye contact with both of them.

“I already told you I don’t know,” Emma stammered, feeling her stomach muscles bunch up into a tight knot.

“Did you know he was coming to your house that night?” Madeline’s eyes narrowed.

Emma shook her head. “I had no idea. I swear.”

Madeline raised an eyebrow like she wanted to believe her, but couldn’t. “Come on, Sutton. You knew when he was going to take off. You’ve been talking to him while he was gone, right? You knew where he was all along.”

“Mads,” Charlotte said. “Sutton wouldn’t—”

“Mads, if I had known where he was or was communicating with him, I would have told you,” Emma interrupted. She could only guess at the truth of this. Yes, she hadn’t been talking to Thayer. But had Sutton?

I had the sinking suspicion that Emma was right, even if I didn’t want it to be possible that I could have kept that from Mads. I had hurt so many people and kept so many secrets. If only I could remember what they were.

Madeline chipped a fleck of gold nail polish from her index finger. “I know what was going on with you guys before he left.”

A sharp, bitter taste filled Emma’s mouth. She breathed in to speak, but couldn’t find the words. What was she supposed to say? Maybe you could fill me in?

Just then a shrill bell blared across the courtyard. Charlotte shot up. “We should go.”

But Madeline just sat there, glaring.

Charlotte rested a hand gently on the sleeve of Madeline’s sweater. “The last thing we need is your dad getting a phone call about you being late to class.”

Finally, Madeline sighed and slung her bag over her shoulder. Charlotte murmured something about seeing Emma at lunch, then looped her arm through Madeline’s and guided her toward their first class. Even though Emma’s class was in the same direction, she got the distinct impression that she wasn’t invited.

A hand clamped down on Emma’s shoulder, and she flinched. When she turned, Ethan smiled sheepishly behind her. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “I just wanted to know if you’re okay.”

Emma reached out for Ethan’s hand, then pulled back. Her eyes swept furtively around the yard. A couple of drama kids were rehearsing a scene near the parking lot. There was a small line for coffee at the kiosk just inside the school doors. No one was looking at them, but she still felt paranoid. Ethan wasn’t part of Sutton’s clique, nor did he want to be.

She sighed. “I’ve only been here for ten minutes and already it’s been a long day,” she moaned. “And from the way Madeline’s acting, something was definitely going on between Sutton and Thayer before he skipped town.”

Ethan nodded. “Sounds like Sutton was playing Garrett, then.”

“I guess,” Emma said. She didn’t want to assume her sister was cheating, but it was really looking like she had been.

“So how are you going to find out more?” Ethan asked.

Emma took a long sip of the coffee Charlotte had brought for her. “Continue eavesdropping on all the gossip, maybe?” she said with a shrug.

Ethan looked like he was going to say something else, but he was cut off by the final bell. Both of them snapped to attention. “We’ll talk about this later, okay?”

“Okay,” Ethan said. He stepped forward just as Emma did. They bumped feet and stepped back.

“Sorry,” Emma murmured.

“It’s cool,” Ethan said gruffly, shifting his backpack higher on his shoulder. Their eyes met for a moment, but then Ethan lowered his head again and scuttled toward the doors. “I’ll see you,” he mumbled.

“Okay,” Emma said to his disappearing shape. She swung around and began to walk in the opposite direction.

Suddenly, a rustling in the bushes made her stop short. Someone snickered behind a podium. Emma squinted, trying to make out who it was. Was someone watching her? Was it Laurel again, spying on her and Ethan? Before she could get a glimpse, whoever it was ducked into the school and darted up the stairs.

CHAPTER 5

GAME, SET, OUTMATCHED

After school that day, Emma walked off the tennis court at Wheeler High, Hollier’s main rival, shading her eyes from the bright glare and smiling bashfully at the smattering of applause. All of Hollier’s sports teams were playing Wheeler that week, and Emma had just finished a grueling match against a petite redhead. Well, it wasn’t supposed to be grueling—Coach Maggie had basically said that the girl was so subpar she could be beaten with an ankle strain and a badminton racket. Before Emma had arrived in Tucson, the most tennis she’d ever played was on a Ping-Pong table in a dingy basement with Stephan, her Russian foster brother. She did use some of the Russian curse words he had taught her when she wanted to swear during a match without getting in trouble, though.

For me, it was yet another reminder of how different our childhoods had been.

“Good game, Sutton,” several people Emma didn’t recognize said as she passed. She collapsed into a chair on the sidelines, kicked off the state-of-the-art tennis sneakers she’d found in Sutton’s closet—not that they helped her game any—and let out a groan.

“Someone still out of shape?” a voice lilted.

Emma looked up and saw Nisha Banerjee leaning against the fence, a smirk on her face. Nisha’s long, slender fingers rested on her trim waist, her überwhite tennis uniform gleamed—she probably bleached it after every match—and there wasn’t even a hint of sweat on the terry cloth band that circled her head of sleek, dark hair. She was Sutton’s tennis co-captain, and she never missed a chance to tell Emma how undeserving she was of the title. Emma bit her lip and tried to tell herself that Nisha was being mean because she was hurting inside—she’d lost her mother this past summer and was dealing with a lot of pain. In a parallel universe, maybe she and Emma would even bond over their absent mothers.

But not in this universe, I wanted to tell her. Nisha Banerjee and Sutton Mercer were sworn enemies and always would be. If Nisha hadn’t had a solid alibi for the night of my murder—she’d had the entire tennis team over at her house for a sleepover—she would have been at the top of my suspect list.

Emma grabbed her gym bag and made her way inside the school. Wheeler’s locker room smelled like old socks and strawberry-scented body spray. A shower head dripped in the corner, and a flyer for intramural water polo hung limply on the cinderblock wall. Emma crumpled her sweaty white socks into her gym bag, pulled her tennis uniform over her head, and changed into Sutton’s pink ballet flats, denim shorts, and V-neck tee. As she walked toward the sinks, the muscles along the backs of her thighs protested loudly, and she winced. She had eight more tennis matches to go before the end of the season. She’d probably have to get thigh replacements after that.

As she turned the corner, she saw girls in swim caps printed with HOLLIER SWIM TEAM. The room was filled with steam, and shower taps whooshed. Emma caught snippets of conversation: about someone’s butterfly splits, and then about some hot Wheeler swimmer named Devon. When she heard the name Thayer Vega, the hair rose on the back of her neck. She inched toward the showers.

“And you just know Sutton Mercer had something to do with it,” a girl chirped.

“Doesn’t she always?” said another, her voice raspier than the first.

“It’s unreal how Thayer went to her house after everyone says she put his life in danger. I mean, what’s that guy thinking getting involved with her again?”

A prickly feeling crawled along Emma’s body. Sutton had put Thayer’s life in danger? Suddenly, she remembered something Ethan had told her on Friday, right before they kissed: There was a rumor that Sutton had almost killed someone with her car. She pictured Thayer’s exaggerated limp as he ran from the Mercers’ house. Was it possible?

Sutton’s iPhone buzzed, and Emma scrambled to answer it. She ducked into a bathroom stall so that the swimmers wouldn’t see her spying and checked the screen. It was an unknown number with a 520 area code. “Hello?” she whispered.

“Sutton?” a low voice grumbled. “This is Detective Quinlan.”

She clenched the phone tighter, her heart lurching. Emma had grown up fearing the police. Becky had had some run-ins with them, and Emma had always worried the cops would throw her in jail, too, by association. “Yes?” she squeaked.

“I need you to come to the station to answer some questions,” Quinlan barked.

“About . . . what?”

“Just come.”

Emma couldn’t exactly say no to the police. Sighing, she said she’d be there soon. Then she pocketed the phone and pushed out of the changing room into Wheeler’s marble halls. There was a long line of lockers on the far wall, many of them decorated with stickers, miniature pom-poms, and graffiti that said things like GO WHEELER or ENGLISH SUCKS or JANE IS A HO. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through an open window and cast rectangles of gold onto the cornflower-blue walls.

Emma looked at her phone again. The police station was right next to Hollier High, five miles away. How was she going to get there? Laurel still wasn’t talking to her, and she’d no doubt report back to the Mercers that Sutton was in trouble again. The questioning could have something to do with Thayer, which meant she couldn’t call Madeline. Charlotte was still finishing up her tennis match, and Ethan was taking his mom to the doctor. The Twitter Twins were the only option left.

Emma scrolled through Sutton’s iPhone and found Lili’s number.

“Of course I’ll drive you,” Lili said when she answered and Emma explained her plight. “What are friends for? Gabby and I are on our way!”

In minutes, the Twitter Twins’ shiny white SUV pulled up to the curb. Lili sat in the driver’s seat, wearing a Green Day T-shirt and ripped jeans, while Gabby lounged in überpreppy rugby stripes on the passenger side. Both girls had their iPhones in their laps. As Emma hopped into the back seat, she could feel the twins’ eyes on her.

“So,” Gabby started as they pulled away, her voice dripping with hunger. “You’re going to visit Thayer in jail, aren’t you?”

“We knew it,” Lili said before Emma could answer. Her blue eyes widened as she glanced in the rearview mirror, clumps of mascara dotting her lashes. “We knew you couldn’t stay away.”

“But we won’t tweet about it if you don’t want us to,” Gabby said quickly. “We can keep a secret.” The Twitter Twins, true to their name, were the school’s biggest gossip hounds, airing everyone’s dirty laundry on their Twitter pages.

“I heard his trial is set for a month from now and his dad’s going to let him rot in jail until then,” Lili said. “Do you think he’ll go to prison?”

“I bet he looks good in orange,” Gabby trilled.

“I’m not going to see Thayer,” Emma said as lightly as she could, leaning against the leather backseat. “I, um, just need to sign something about the shoplifting fiasco. The shopkeeper is dropping all charges.” That piece, at least, was true. Ethan knew the salesgirl at Clique and had gotten her to back down.

Gabby frowned, looking disappointed. “Well, since you’re there, you could stop in to see him just for a second, couldn’t you? I’m dying to know where he’s been all this time.”

“You know, don’t you?” Lili jumped in, waving her finger in the air. “Naughty, naughty, Sutton! You knew where he was this whole time and you didn’t tell anyone! So how did you guys communicate? I heard it was secret email accounts.”

Gabby nudged her sister. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Caroline’s sister is friends with a girl whose friend hooked up with the goalie on Thayer’s traveling soccer team,” Lili explained. “Apparently, Thayer told him lots of stuff before he took off.”

Emma glared at the Twitter Twins in the front seat. “I think I feel a migraine coming on,” she said icily, summoning up her best I’m-Sutton-Mercer-and-you-will-do-anything-I-ask voice. “How about we ride the rest of the way in silence?”

The twins looked deflated, but turned down the radio and drove the final stretch in utter silence. Emma glanced out the window at the sand-colored buildings of the University of Arizona whizzing past. Could Sutton have communicated with Thayer through a secret email account? She hadn’t come across anything on Sutton’s computer or in her bedroom, but Sutton was nothing if not sneaky and smart. They could have communicated any number of ways—disposable cells, fake email addresses or Twitter accounts, regular old mail . . .

I racked my memory for any kind of correspondence with Thayer—secretive or not. I saw myself sitting at my desk with a blank computer screen in front me, a familiar feeling of restlessness in my body, like there was something I needed to tell someone, anyone. Maybe Thayer. But the computer screen stayed as white and untouched as fresh snow, the blinking cursor mocking me with its steady beat.

The car passed a ranch called the Lone Range, where three palomino horses grazed in a rectangular pasture. A woman dressed in a flowing white skirt and a raisin- colored tube top sold turquoise jewelry next to a handwritten sign advertising HIGH QUALITY, LOW PRICE. The sun blazed just above the horizon.

When they pulled into the parking lot of the police station, Lili caught Emma’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Do you want us to wait for you?”

“Yeah, we could even come in with you, you know, for moral support,” Gabby added.

“I’ll be fine.” Emma slid out of the backseat and slammed the door. “Thanks for the ride!”

Emma and I didn’t need to turn back around to know that Gabby and Lili were watching her as she walked through the glass doors marked TUCSON POLICE DEPARTMENT.

CHAPTER 6

LITTLE EMMA IN THE BIG WOODS

The inside of the station was the same as the past two times Emma had been there: first to report that Sutton was missing, then after she’d stolen the bag from Clique. It still had that rancid smell of old takeout. The telephones bleated loudly and jarringly. An old HAVE YOU SEEN HIM? flyer with Thayer Vega’s face and information hung on a bulletin board in the corner, next to a document listing Tucson’s most wanted. Emma stepped forward and gave her name to an emaciated woman with a helmet-perm who sat at the front desk.

“S-U-T-T-O-N7 M-E-R-C-E-R,” the woman repeated, her purple acrylic nails tapping each letter on an ancient-looking keyboard. “Have a seat and Detective Quinlan will be right with you.”

Emma sat on a hard yellow plastic chair and looked at the bulletin board again. The calendar was still on August. Emma guessed it was the receptionist who had chosen the picture of a kitten chasing a tattered ball of red yarn. Next she scanned the MOST WANTED poster. It looked like the majority of the guys on it had outstanding warrants for drug possession. Finally, she let her eyes graze the MISSING poster. Thayer’s hazel eyes stared directly at her, the hint of a smile playing across his lips. For a moment, Emma swore the boy in the photo actually winked at her, but that was impossible. She ran her hands over the back of her neck, trying to get a grip. But Thayer was somewhere in this building. Just his proximity made her shudder.

“Miss Mercer.” Quinlan appeared in the doorway wearing dark brown pants and a tan button-down. At six feet tall, he cut an imposing figure. “C’mon back.”

Emma stood and followed him down the tiled hallway. Quinlan opened the door to the same cinderblock interrogation room he’d stuck Emma in the week before, when he’d questioned her about shoplifting from Clique. As soon as the door whooshed open, Emma was enveloped in lavender Febreze. She pressed her hand to her nose and tried to breathe through her mouth.

Quinlan scraped back a chair and gestured for Emma to sit. She lowered herself into it slowly, and Quinlan sat across from her. He leveled a look at her over the table, as if he expected her to just start talking. Emma studied the gun at his waist. How many times had he used it?

“I called you in about your car,” Quinlan finally said. He steepled his hands and stared at Emma over his finger-tips. “We found it. But first—is there anything you want to tell me about?”

Emma tensed, her mind drawing a blank. She knew very little about Sutton’s car—that she had used it in a cruel prank against her friends a few months ago, pretending to stall the vehicle on the train tracks when an Amtrak commuter was barreling down on them. That she had signed it out of the impound lot the night she died. That it had since vanished, along with Sutton.

I wished I remembered what I’d done with the car that day. But I didn’t.

Still, Emma’s heart quickened with excitement, too. Sutton was driving that car the day she died. Maybe the car held a clue inside of it. Maybe there was some sort of evidence in there. Or maybe—she cringed—maybe it contained Sutton’s body.

I hoped not. But suddenly, a flash of memory sparked in my mind. I felt my feet pounding over rocks and my ankles scratching against tree branches and cactus needles as I sprinted across a dark path. Fear pulsed through me as I ran. Then I heard footsteps hammering the earth behind me, but I didn’t stop to turn around to see who was following me. In the distance, I was able to make out the outline of my car waiting in a clearing beyond the brush. But just before I could reach it, the memory popped like a soap bubble.

Quinlan cleared his throat. “Sutton? Can you answer my question?”

Emma swallowed hard, wrenched from her spinning thoughts. “Um, no. I don’t have anything to tell you about the car.”

The detective sighed loudly, raking his hands through his dark hair. “Fine. Well, the car was abandoned in the desert a few miles away from Sabino Canyon.” He sat back, crossed his arms over his chest, and looked at Emma meaningfully, as if waiting for some sort of reaction. “Want to explain how it got there?”

Emma blinked, her nerve endings firing rapidly. “Um . . . it was stolen?”

Quinlan smirked. “Of course it was.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “So then I’m guessing you don’t know anything about the blood we found on it?”

Emma’s entire body shot to life. “Blood? Whose?”

“We don’t know yet. We’re still testing the evidence.” Emma pushed her hands to her lap so Quinlan wouldn’t see them shake. The blood had to be Sutton’s. Had someone run down her sister then stashed the car and Sutton’s body in the desert? Who?

Quinlan leaned forward, perhaps sensing Emma’s fear. “I know you’re hiding something. Something big.”

Emma shook her head slowly, not trusting her voice to work.

Then Quinlan reached behind him and pulled a plastic bag from a rusted metal shelf. He emptied the contents onto the table in front of Emma. An ikat-print silk scarf fluttered across the table, along with a stainless-steel water bottle, a duplicate of the sign-out sheet from the impound lot with Sutton’s signature on it in big, bold letters, and a copy of Little House in the Big Woods.

“We found these items inside the car,” he explained, pushing them across the table.

Emma’s fingers traced a line across the silk scarf. It smelled exactly like Sutton’s room—like fresh flowers, chocolate mint, and that organic, Suttony essence she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“And as for the car, we’re holding it—along with these items—until we figure out whose blood is on the hood.” Quinlan leaned forward and eyed Emma sternly. “Unless you’re going to change your mind and enlighten us.”

Emma stared at the detective, the air heavy and stale between them. For a moment, she considered telling him that it was Sutton’s blood. That someone had killed her twin sister and was after her, too. But Quinlan wouldn’t believe her any more now than he had a month ago. If he did believe her, he might presume what Ethan had warned her about—that Emma had killed Sutton, all because she wanted to ditch her foster-kid persona and take over Sutton’s charmed life.

“I don’t know anything,” Emma whispered.

Quinlan shook his head and slapped his hand on the table. “You’re just making this more difficult for all of us,” he grumbled. Then he turned as the door to the interrogation room opened. Another cop stuck his head in and mouthed something Emma didn’t catch. Quinlan stood and moved for the door. “Don’t go anywhere,” he warned Emma. “I’ll be right back.”

He slammed the door hard. Emma waited until he padded down the hall, then gazed down at the items he’d left on the table. The scarf, heavily perfumed with eau de Sutton. The sign-out sheet, Sutton’s signature in loopy swirls at the bottom. Then she stared hard at the cover of Little House in the Big Woods. A young girl in a red dress clutched a brunette doll. Emma had loved the books when she was younger, spending hours getting lost in the hardships of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s characters—for all of Emma’s shitty home situations, at least she didn’t have to live in a mud hut like the pioneers. But what was Sutton doing with a copy of this book in her car? Emma doubted it was something she would read at eighteen—if at all.

I had to agree. Just looking at the cover made me want to yawn.

Emma picked up the book and rifled through the pages. It smelled musty, as if it hadn’t been opened in a while. When she reached the middle, a postcard fell to the floor. She bent down and turned it over. The front was printed with a generic image of a sun setting over two multiarmed saguaro cacti. WELCOME TO TUCSON, it said in hot-pink bubble letters on the top.

Emma flipped it over to read the black ink printed on the back: Downtown bus station. 9:30 PM. 8/31. Meet me. —T.

Her heart began to pound. August thirty-first. That was the night Sutton died. And . . . T. There was only one person in Sutton’s life with that initial: Thayer. So was Thayer with Sutton the night she died? Wasn’t he supposed to be out of town?

Emma ran her fingers along the card. There was no postage stamp on it, meaning no date to signify when the postcard had been mailed—or from where. Perhaps Thayer had sent it in an envelope. Perhaps he’d slipped it under Sutton’s bedroom door or under her windshield wiper.

Footsteps pounded down the hallway. Emma froze, looking at the postcard in her hands. At first, she considered shoving it back into the book—it was probably wrong to tamper with evidence—but at the last minute she dropped it into her bag instead.

Quinlan walked through the door, and a second person followed. At first, Emma thought it was just going to be another cop, but then her eyes widened. It was Thayer. She gasped. His hazel eyes were lowered to the ground. His high cheekbones jutted as though he’d lost weight rapidly. Handcuffs circled his wrists, clasping his hands together like he was praying. A dingy rope bracelet was pushed up his forearm. It was so tight that it cut into his skin.

I stared at him, too. Just seeing him again made a strange tingle shoot through me. Those deep-set eyes. That dark, messy hair. That permanent smirk. There was something sexy and dangerous about him. Maybe I had fallen for him.

Quinlan made a grunting noise from behind Thayer and pushed him toward the table. “Sit,” he commanded.

But Thayer just stood there. Even though he wasn’t looking at Emma, she scooted her chair away, afraid he might lunge for her.

“I suppose you both are wondering why I brought you in here for a little reunion,” Quinlan said in an oily voice. “I thought that if I spoke to you both at the same time, we could clear some things up.”

He pulled another plastic bag from his pocket and held it in front of Thayer’s face. A long rectangular piece of paper was lodged within the plastic. “I believe this is yours, Thayer,” he said, shaking the bag under Thayer’s nose. “I found it in Miss Mercer’s car. Care to explain?”

Thayer glanced at it. He didn’t flinch—didn’t even blink.

Quinlan yanked the paper from the bag. “Don’t play dumb, kid. There’s your name, right there.”

He slammed the plastic bag on the table and pointed to the piece of paper. Emma leaned forward. It was a bus ticket with a Greyhound logo in the corner. The point of departure was Seattle, WA, and the destination was Tucson, AZ. The date was August thirty-first. And there, printed in small, neat letters at the bottom, was the passenger’s name: THAYER VEGA.

I drew in a breath the same time Emma did. So Thayer was in my car the night I died.

Quinlan eyed Thayer. A blue vein at his temple pulsed. “You were back in Tucson in August? Do you know what you put your parents through? What you put this community through? I spent a lot of time and money searching for you, and it turns out you were right here, under our noses!”

“That’s not quite true,” Thayer said in a quiet, steady, discomfiting voice.

Quinlan crossed his arms over his chest. “Then how about you tell me what is true?” When Thayer didn’t answer, he sighed. “Is there anything you can tell us about the blood on the hood of Ms. Mercer’s car? Or how your ticket ended up in her car?”

Thayer limped over to where Emma sat. He put both palms on the table, glancing from Emma to Quinlan. He opened his mouth like he was about to give a long speech, but then just shrugged. “Sorry,” he said, his voice creaking as though he hadn’t spoken for days. “But no. There’s nothing I can tell you.”

Quinlan shook his head. “So much for being cooperative,” he grumbled, then shot to his feet, grabbed Thayer by his muscular forearm, and dragged him from the room. Just before Thayer slipped out the door, he turned his head and gave Emma a long, eerie look. Emma stared back, her lips slightly parted. Her gaze fell from Thayer’s face to his shackled hands, and then to the rope bracelet around his wrist.

I looked at the bracelet, too, and was overcome with a strange snapping feeling. I’d seen that bracelet somewhere. All of a sudden, the pieces fell into place. I saw the bracelet, and then Thayer’s arm, and then his face . . . and then a setting. More and more dominoes fell over, more and more images flashed into my mind. And before I knew it, I was falling headlong into a full-blown memory . . .

CHAPTER 7

NIGHT HIKING

I pull up to the Greyhound station in Tucson just as a silver bus chugs into the parking lot. I roll down my window and the pungent smells of a hot-dog vendor’s cart waft into my British racing-green 1965 Volvo 122. Earlier this afternoon I rescued my car, my baby, from the impound. The paperwork flutters on the dash, my signature prominent at the bottom, a big, red-stamped AUGUST 31 at the top. It had taken me weeks to save up the money to pay cash to get the car off the impound lot—there was no way I was going to charge it on a credit card, since my parents always saw the statement.

The bus door sighs open, and I crane my neck to scan the exiting passengers. An overweight man with a fanny pack, a teenage girl bopping her head to an iPod, a family who looks shell-shocked from the long journey, all of them holding pillows. Finally, a boy tumbles down the stairs, black hair disheveled, shoelaces untied. My heart leaps. Thayer looks different, slightly scruffier and skinnier. There’s a tear in the knee of the Tsubi jeans I bought him before he left, and his face looks more angular, maybe even wiser. I watch as he scans the parking lot, looking for me. As soon as he spots my car he breaks into his trademark, soccer-star sprint.

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