The Lying Game Complete Collection - Sara Shepard Page 0,22

it toward Emma.

“I’m serious. My name is Emma,” she told them.

“Emma, hmm? And what’s your last name?”

“Pa—” Emma started, but Laurel slammed her coffee cup to the table. “You seriously don’t believe her, do you, Mom? She’s just trying to get out of school.”

“Of course I don’t believe her.” Mrs. Mercer pushed a folded piece of paper into Emma’s hand. “Here’s your schedule. Laurel, can you get Sleeping Beauty’s shoes and tennis bag from upstairs?”

“Why do I have to do it?” Laurel whined.

“Because I don’t trust your sister.” Mrs. Mercer grabbed a set of keys from a pineapple-shaped holder by the cordless phone. “She might fall back to sleep.”

“Fine.” Laurel groaned and scraped back her chair.

Emma stared blankly at the shiny brass buttons on Mrs. Mercer’s business suit, then at the new-agey crystal necklace at her throat. How could this be happening? Why didn’t they believe her? Was it that crazy?

Maybe. Even though I wanted my parents to believe what Emma was saying, it did kind of sound insane.

Laurel walked across the room toward the stairs. “Thanks a lot for last night, jerk,” she hissed at Emma as she passed.

Emma stepped back as if Laurel had just slapped her. Then she remembered Charlotte’s remark at the party. Did you ditch Laurel again? You’re a bad, bad sister. There was also the text from Laurel on Sutton’s phone: THANKS FOR NOTHING, BITCH.

“I didn’t ditch you.” Emma spun around and stared at Laurel’s receding back. “I was waiting for Sutton when Madeline dragged me to the party. I had no control.”

Laurel backtracked and stopped right in front of Emma. “Sure, Sutton. Just blow off the one thing I asked you weeks ago to do. I was basically stranded at Red Door. I bet you rigged it so you knew my phone was about to die, too, huh?” She had natural highlights and tiny freckles across her nose. Her wide jaw worked a fresh piece of Juicy Fruit gum. “Where’s your locket?”

Emma’s hand fluttered to her collarbone and she shrugged helplessly.

Laurel’s lips parted. She let out a low scoff. “But I thought it was so special to you,” she said icily. “Something no one else has. ‘The only way someone’s getting this from me is if they chop off my head!’” Her voice took on a singsong quality as she mimicked Sutton’s.

“Girls, don’t fight,” Mr. Mercer warned, reaching across the kitchen island to grab his leather briefcase and car keys.

“Yes, don’t fight,” Mrs. Mercer urged. “Just get those bags, okay? You have thirty seconds.” Laurel whirled around and started up the stairs. “Whose car are you taking? Sutton, is yours still at Madeline’s?”

Mrs. Mercer turned to Emma, waiting. “Uh, yes?” Emma guessed.

“We’ll take mine,” Laurel yelled from the floor above.

Mrs. Mercer ushered Emma out into the foyer. Emma’s nose twitched with the smell of Fracas perfume. She looked deep into the woman’s eyes, trying to convey exactly who she was . . . and exactly who she wasn’t. Surely she’d recognize her own daughter, right?

But Mrs. Mercer just pressed her hands on Emma’s shoulders. A tendon stood out in her neck. “Can you please go easy on us today?” She shut her eyes and let out a huge sigh. “We’re throwing you a huge birthday party in two weeks. Just once can you actually earn it?”

Emma flinched, then quickly nodded. Apparently they really didn’t believe her.

Laurel thundered back down the stairs with a bunch of sports bags and purses in her arms. She pushed the T-straps Mrs. Mercer had picked out, the tennis duffel, and a buttery-leather beige purse Emma didn’t recognize into Emma’s arms. Emma peeked inside the handbag. Sutton’s blue Kate Spade wallet and pink-cased iPhone were nestled into the inside pockets. At the bottom of the bag were pens, pencils, Dior mascara, and a spanking-new iPad. Emma raised her eyebrows. At least she’d finally find out what an iPad was like.

Mrs. Mercer opened the front door wide. “Get out of here.” Laurel strode to the porch, her car keys jingling in her hands. A silver RETURN TO TIFFANY & CO. keychain dangled from the ring. After shoving on her shoes, Emma followed. She had a feeling that if she didn’t, Mrs. Mercer would jab her out the door with the decorative rowing oar that stood in the corner of the foyer.

As soon as Emma stepped outside, sweat beaded at her forehead. Sprinklers hissed on the lawn across the street, and little kids in plaid school uniforms waited at the corner