Authors: Sara Shepard
Laurel glared at Emma for a moment, but then followed her into the crowded hall. Emma let out a sigh of relief when Laurel headed in the opposite direction. She felt like she’d dodged a huge bullet.
Or maybe, I thought, opened up a huge can of worms.
After tennis practice, Laurel steered her black VW Jetta onto the Mercers’ street, a development in the Catalina foothills with sand-colored stucco houses and front yards full of flowering desert succulents. The only sound in the car was Laurel’s jaw working the piece of gum she’d shoved into her mouth.
“So . . . thanks for the ride home,” Emma offered, breaking the awkward silence.
Laurel shot Emma a frosty glare. “Are you ever going to get your car out of the impound lot, or am I going to have to chauffeur you forever? You can’t keep lying about it being at Madeline’s, you know. Mom and Dad aren’t
that
stupid.”
Emma slumped down in the seat. Sutton’s car had been impounded since before Emma arrived in Tucson. It looked like she’d have to retrieve it if Laurel wouldn’t drive her around anymore.
Then Laurel fell into silence again. She’d been frosty with Emma ever since ceramics, turning away when Emma asked to partner with her for tennis volleying and shrugging off Emma’s suggestion that they hit Jamba Juice on the drive home. Emma wished she knew the magic words to get Laurel to open up, but navigating the world of sibling relationships was something with which she had no real experience. She’d had foster siblings, sure, but those relationships rarely ended well.
Not that mine and Laurel’s had either. We hadn’t been close for years. I saw flashes of us when we were much younger, holding hands on the Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair and spying on our parents’ dinner party when we were little, but something had happened between now and then.
After passing by three large homes—two of which had gardeners out front, watering the mesquite trees—Laurel pulled into the Mercers’ driveway. “Shit,” she said under her breath.
Emma followed Laurel’s gaze. Sitting on the wrought-iron bench on the Mercers’ front porch was Garrett. He was still in his soccer cleats and practice shirt. Two muddy pads covered his knees, and he cradled a bike helmet in his arms.
Emma exited the car and slammed the door. “H-hey,” she said tentatively, her gaze on Garrett’s face. The corners of his pink mouth curved into a scowl. His soft brown eyes blazed. His blond hair was sweaty from practice. He sat at the very edge of the porch seat like a cat ready to pounce.
Laurel followed her up the driveway, waved at Garrett, and headed inside.
Slowly, Emma walked up the porch steps, standing a safe distance away from Garrett. “How are you?” she asked in a small voice.
Garrett made an ugly noise at the back of his throat. “How do you think I am?”
The automatic sprinklers hissed on in the front yard, misting the plants. In the distance, a weed whacker growled to life. Emma sighed. “I’m really sorry.”
“Are you?” Garrett palmed his helmet with his large hands. “So sorry you didn’t return my calls? So sorry you won’t even look at me right now?”
Emma took in his strong chest, toned legs, and just a hint of stubble on his chin. She understood what Sutton had seen in him, and her heart panged that he didn’t know the truth.
“I’m sorry.” The words lodged in Emma’s throat. “It’s been a weird summer,” she said.
That
was an understatement.
“Weird as in you met someone else?” Garrett balled his fist, making the muscles in his forearms pop.
“No!” Emma took a startled step back, almost bumping into the wind chimes Mrs. Mercer had hung from the eaves.
Garrett wiped his hands on his shirt. “Jesus. Last month you were into this. Into
me
. Why do you hate me all of a sudden? Is this what everyone warned me about? Is this classic Sutton Mercer?”
Classic Sutton.
The words echoed painfully in my ears, a refrain I’d heard so many times over the past few weeks. From my new vantage, I’d begun to realize how badly I used to treat people.
“I don’t hate you,” Emma protested. “I just . . .”
“You know what? I don’t care.” Garrett slapped the sides of his legs and stood. “We’re done. I don’t want your excuses. I’m not falling for your games anymore. This is just like what you did to Thayer. I should have known.”
Emma recoiled at the harshness of Garrett’s voice—and at the mention of Madeline’s brother.
Thayer.
Just hearing his name made his clear green eyes, high cheekbones, and mussed dark hair flicker across my mind. And then, I saw something else: an image of the two of us standing in the school courtyard. Tears streamed down my face as Thayer talked to me in urgent tones, as if he were trying to get me to understand something, but the memory flaked apart at my fingertips.
Emma struggled to regain her voice. “I’m not sure what you think I—”
“I’d like my
Grand Theft Auto
game back,” Garrett interrupted, turning to face the Mercers’ impeccable lawn. A black lab lifted his leg on an ash tree. “It’s in your PS3.”
“I’ll look for it,” Emma mumbled.
“And I guess I don’t need this either.” Garrett pulled a long, thin ticket from his gear bag.
halloween homecoming dance
, it proclaimed in melting letters. He thrust it at her almost violently, then stepped closer to her until they were almost touching. His body shivered with what seemed like coiled, pent-up energy. Emma held her breath, acutely aware that she had no idea what he might do next.
“Have a nice life, Sutton,” Garrett whispered, his voice icy. His cleats made loud clacking sounds as he stalked across the driveway, mounted his bike, and cruised away.
“Goodbye,” I whispered to his receding back.
That
went well. Technically, this had been Emma’s first breakup ever—all her previous relationships had either ended in mutual friendship or fizzled away. No wonder people said it sucked.
Shaken, Emma turned to head inside. As she walked across the porch for the front door, a white SUV on the street caught her eye. She squinted at the flash of blond hair through the windshield. But before she could make out a face, the car sped up, rocketing away in a plume of gray exhaust.
Emma found Laurel in the kitchen, slicing an apple into thin pieces. “Do we know anyone who drives a white SUV?” she asked.
Laurel stared at her. “Besides the Twitter Twins?”
Emma frowned. The twins lived all the way across town.
“So?” Laurel asked. “What happened with Garrett?” There was a smug look on her face. Now
she wants to talk
, Emma thought bitterly.
Emma walked up to the island and popped a juicy apple slice into her mouth. “It’s over.”
Laurel’s expression softened just a bit. “Are you okay?”
Emma wiped her hands across her tennis shorts. “I’ll be fine.” She looked at Laurel. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”
Laurel crunched an apple slice and glanced out the French doors into the backyard. “I don’t know. Garrett always struck me as sort of an enigma,” she finally said. “I always wondered if there was something more lurking beneath the surface.”
Emma flinched, thinking of how Garrett had loomed over her on the porch. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Laurel waved her hand dismissively, as if she suddenly remembered she wasn’t speaking to Emma today. She slid a stack of mail across the kitchen table. “These are for you.”
Then she wheeled around and sauntered down the hallway. As Emma absentmindedly sorted through the catalogs, mulling over Garrett’s visit and Laurel’s haunting words, an envelope with a bank logo in the upper corner caught her eye.
AMEX BLUE
, said the label. It was addressed to Sutton Mercer.
Emma’s breath caught in her throat as she tore it open. This was Sutton’s credit card statement, the one from the month leading up to her murder. With shaking fingers, she unfolded the paper and scanned the column of charges in August. BCBG . . . Sephora . . . Walgreens . . . AJ’s gourmet market. Then, her gaze landed on a charge on August 31.
Eighty-eight dollars. Clique.
Nerves snapped inside of her.
Clique.
The word suddenly seemed ominous, like the sound of a safety latch releasing from a gun.
Emma yanked Sutton’s phone from her bag. Ethan answered on the second ring. “Clear your schedule for tonight,” Emma whispered. “I think I’ve got something.”
Chapter 5
Extreme Times Call for Extreme Measures
Hours later, Emma and Ethan sat in Ethan’s beat-up, dark red Honda in the back parking lot of a series of shops near the University of Arizona. The smell of brick-oven pizza filled the air, and tipsy college students walked past, singing Taylor Swift songs off-key. There was a head shop called Wonderland, a punk-rock beauty salon called Pink Pony, and a place called Wildcat Central, which sold University of Arizona sweatpants and shot glasses. On the very end was a boutique called Clique.
Ethan pulled down the brim of his red Arizona Diamondbacks ball cap. “Ready?”
Emma nodded, suppressing her nerves. She
had
to be ready.
As Ethan unlatched his seat belt, Emma felt a surge of gratitude rush through her. “Ethan?” She touched the soft spot behind his elbow, tiny pricks of heat shooting down her fingertips. “I just wanted to say thank you. Again.”
“Oh.” Ethan looked slightly embarrassed. “You don’t have to keep thanking me. I’m not Mother Teresa.” He pushed the car door open with his foot. “C’mon. It’s showtime.”
The mannequins in the Clique storefront wore avant-garde Halloween masks. Luxurious cashmere coats, silk dresses, and diaphanous scarves draped their bodies. Their hollow black eyes stared at Emma. Bells dinged when she and Ethan pushed through the front door.
I looked around the place, trying to get a tingle of recognition. A large table stuffed with skinny jeans, skinny chinos, skinny cargo pants, and even skinnier skinny leggings took up most of the real estate in the front of the store. Boots, flats, heels, and espadrilles were lined up on the windowsill like soldiers readying for battle. But nothing stood out; it just looked like the normal sort of boutique I used to frequent.
Emma walked to a rack and checked the price tag on a plain white cotton tee.
Eighty
dollars
? Her entire junior year wardrobe cost less than that!
“Can I help you?”
Emma whirled around to see a tall brunette with a Megan Fox scowl and Heidi Montag boobs. When the girl saw Ethan, her face brightened. “Ethan? Hey!”
“Oh hey, Samantha.” Ethan ran his fingers along a garment on the table, then blushed and backed away when he realized it was a pair of lacy pink panties. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
“Only part-time.” The shopgirl glanced at Emma again. Her expression soured. “Are you two . . .
friends
?”
Ethan glanced at Emma, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Sutton, this is Samantha. She goes to St. Xavier. Samantha, this is Sutton Mercer.”
Samantha snatched the cotton tee from Emma and placed it back on the rack. “Sutton and I are already acquainted.”
Emma squared her shoulders, wary of Samantha’s tone. “Um, right,” she said. “Actually, I was wondering if you kept transaction records?” She held up her sister’s Amex bill. “I’m kind of in trouble for overspending on my credit card, and I want to return some stuff I bought on August thirty-first.” She let out an embarrassed giggle. “The problem is, I can’t remember what I bought where.”
Samantha pressed her hand to her chest, feigning surprise. “You don’t remember what you purchased?”
“Uh, no.” Emma wanted to roll her eyes. If she knew the answer, why would she be asking? But she needed Samantha’s help, so she’d have to bite her tongue and save her retort for her Comebacks I Should Have Said folder, a collection of nasty responses she’d thought of but hadn’t dared to say.
“Do you remember what you
stole
?” Samantha challenged.
“Excuse me?”
“The last time you were in,” Samantha said slowly, like she was speaking to a kindergartener, “you and your friends stole a pair of hammered gold earrings. Or have you conveniently forgotten that, too?”
Looks like I spent my last day on Earth as a shoplifter.
Emma clung to Samantha’s words. “My friends? Which ones?”
“Seriously, what are you on?” Samantha’s eyes were on fire. “Trust me, if I knew who they were or had solid proof of what you guys did, I’d press charges in a heartbeat.” With that, she whipped around, strode to the back of the store on her spike-heel booties, and began feverishly reorganizing a display of argyle sweaters.
For a moment, the only sounds in the store were the pounding beats of a Chemical Brothers dance mix. Then Emma ran her fingers over an itchy wool sweater dress and glanced at Ethan. “Which friends could Sutton have been with? Why wouldn’t they have just told me?”
Ethan picked up a ballet flat, turning it over in his hands before setting it next to its twin. “Maybe the shoplifting had them freaked out.”
“Freaked out about shoplifting? Are you serious?” Emma moved closer to Ethan and lowered her voice to a whisper. “These are the same girls who strangled Sutton for
fun
. And when the police escorted me to Hollier in a cop car on the first day of school, they were thrilled.”
Emma’s mind drifted back to her brief encounter at the police station. The cops had written her off so fast when she tried to explain who she was, not believing for a second she could’ve been anyone other than Sutton. Then again, Sutton had a long track record—the cop on duty, Detective Quinlan, had brought out an enormous manila file packed with Sutton’s past misdeeds. It probably contained countless Lying Game pranks.
Emma straightened up, a thought striking her hard. What if the file contained something about the train prank? Madeline had said something about the cops showing up. At the back of the store, Samantha glanced at Emma out of the corner of her eye.
Ethan touched Emma’s shoulder. “I don’t like that look on your face,” he said. “What are you thinking?”
“You’ll see.” Emma casually picked up a teal Tori Burch clutch from the table. When she was sure Samantha was watching, she shoved it up her shirt. The leather was soft on her bare skin.
“What the hell?” Ethan made a frantic slashing motion across his throat. “Are you nuts?”
Emma ignored him.
Her pulse quickened. This felt so foreign, so
wrong
. Becky used to steal from convenience stores all the time—swiping a candy bar here, slipping a pack of gum into Emma’s pocket there, once even walking out with several two-liter bottles of Coke stuffed up her shirt like two freaky boobs. Emma had lived in fear that the cops would haul both of them off to jail—or, worse, take her mother away from her. But in the end, it hadn’t been the police who’d taken Becky away. Becky abandoned her daughter of her own volition.
“Stop right there!”
Emma froze, her hand on the doorknob. Samantha spun her around. Her eyebrows made a perfect
V
. “Nice try. Give it back.”
Sighing, she removed her hand from her midriff and shook out her shirt. The clutch clunked to the ground, the gold chain clanging on the tiled floor. A half-dressed girl poked her head out of the fitting room and gasped.
Samantha scooped up the clutch with a smug grin and pulled a BlackBerry from the pocket of her skintight jeans. She placed the call on speaker.
“Wait.” Ethan scuttled around a wine-colored velvet sofa. “This was a misunderstanding. I can explain.”
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” a voice squawked on the other line.
Samantha’s eyes narrowed on Emma. “I’d like to report a robbery in progress.”
Emma shoved her shaking hands in her pockets and tried to keep the saucy, entitled, I’m-Sutton-Mercer-and-I’m-thrilled-to-be-hauled-off-to-jail smirk glued to her lips.
In a way, it wasn’t hard—going to the police station was exactly what she’d wanted.