The Lying Game Complete Collection - Sara Shepard Page 0,193

felt a tiny spray of soda bubbles against her fingertips. “I’m not keeping secrets,” she said smoothly, summoning up her best snooty Sutton voice. “Especially not about Ethan.” It hurt her heart just to say the words.

“Well, then, you’ll have no problem pranking Ethan with us,” Laurel said, clapping her hands together in a loud smack. She pointed across the courtyard at Ethan’s straight back. “I do believe, girls, that Mr. Emo Boy is next.”

11

PARTY OF FOUR

That night, strains of Laurel’s latest hip-hop ballad obsession filtered from her bedroom, down the hall, and into Emma’s ears. Emma pushed her index and middle fingers into her temples. What she wouldn’t give for an afternoon with Alex, her best friend from Henderson, listening to Vampire Weekend or any music that didn’t involve “Baby, baby, baby” in the lyrics. She wondered if her twin had shared Laurel’s awful taste in music.

For the record, my music taste has always been impeccable. Maybe I couldn’t tick off all the amazing concerts I went to—I’m sure I’d gone to more than a few—but whenever Adele, Mumford & Sons, or Lykke Li came on the radio, I knew they had to be on my most-played iTunes list. The lyrics came back in haunting chunks, siren voices from my past.

“I can’t come, Caleb,” Emma heard Laurel shout over the music. “I told you, we’re going to dinner tonight as a family.”

Sighing, Emma rose and made her way to Sutton’s closet and sorted through a row of T-shirts stacked neater than the anally folded T-shirts at the Gap. Sutton had kept everything neatly ordered when it came to her clothes. Emma pulled a turquoise boat-neck tee from the pile, yanked it over her head, and selected a pair of dark denim leggings and metallic flats to go with it.

“Yeah, I know it sucks.” Laurel’s voice vibrated through the walls. “I so don’t want to go. The less time I spend with her, the better.”

Emma guessed she was the her to whom Laurel was referring. When she and Laurel had gotten home from tennis practice, Mrs. Mercer had announced that the family was in serious need of bonding time—in other words, Emma and Laurel needed to bury the hatchet—so they were going out for a nice meal at Arturo’s, an expensive restaurant in one of the Tucson resorts. In her past life, Emma most likely would have worked at Arturo’s as a hostess instead of dining there with a family. Emma wished she could tell Mrs. Mercer not to bother with a special let’s-kiss-and-make-up dinner. After the whole let’s-prank-Ethan announcement, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to reconcile with Laurel, either.

Another peal of laughter sounded from Laurel’s bedroom. Emma stared at her reflection in the mirror, running a round brush through her hair. Did Caleb know about Laurel’s crush on Thayer? What did he think of her camping out at the Free Thayer petition table, wearing that stupid black T-shirt? Had he signed the petition? And what did Laurel know about Thayer and Sutton, anyway? Once again she thought about Laurel’s vague comment: You got him in trouble! Again. What was she referring to? How could Emma find the answer?

“I’ll call you when we get home,” Laurel promised, interrupting Emma’s thoughts. “Bye!” And then the music shut off abruptly, filling the second floor with silence. Emma heard a drawer open and shut, and then Laurel’s door creaked. She saw a shadow pass under Sutton’s door, and then heard Laurel’s voice downstairs in the kitchen, calling out to Mrs. Mercer.

Suddenly, an idea came to her. She sprang up from Sutton’s bed and padded into the hall. Laurel’s bedroom door was ajar. Light from a bedside table spilled onto the carpet. Listening to make sure Laurel wasn’t coming back up the stairs, she tiptoed toward the bedroom. Within seconds, she was inside. She pulled the door closed, listening to the lock catch.

Laurel’s bedroom was eerily similar to Sutton’s, down to the white bubble chair and the purple pillows on the bed. Emma stepped to the far wall where a recent collage of tennis team pictures hung next to a calendar of puppies. OCTOBER, the calendar heading read. Laurel had covered the days with notes about homework assignments, tennis matches, and parties.

Slowly, quietly, she pulled a lime-green tack from the wall and flipped the calendar pages back to August, which featured three tiny Boxer puppies. Laurel had written FAMILY VACAY in bold letters across the squares marking the first week of the month.