for the bus. Laurel glared at Emma over her shoulder as she walked across the driveway, her high heels making staccato clacks. “That was a lame way to try to get out of school.” She hit a button on the keychain remote. After two short bleeps, a black VW Jetta under the basketball hoop unlocked. “Your long-lost twin sister? Where’d you come up with that?”
Emma peered across the street again. She kept hoping to see Sutton saunter down the sidewalk, ready with an apology and an explanation. Bees swarmed impassively around the flowering bushes. A landscaping truck trundled past. The mountain range glowed in the rising sun, Sabino Canyon somewhere among it.
“Hello, space cadet?”
Emma flinched. Laurel walked toward her again, a small white envelope in her hands. SUTTON, it said on the front in tall capital letters. “It was under my wiper.” Laurel’s voice was tinged with bitterness. “Do you have another secret admirer?”
Emma considered the note for a moment. A few buds of pollen had stained the upper right corner. Should she open something that wasn’t hers? But Laurel kept staring, waiting, snapping her gum in Emma’s ear.
Finally Emma gave Laurel a look. “Do you mind giving me a little space?” It sounded like something Sutton might say.
Laurel sniffed and took one step away. Emma slid her finger under the flap on the envelope and pulled out a sheet of lined paper.
Sutton’s dead. Tell no one. Keep playing along . . . or you’re next.
Emma whipped around the yard, but the morning was eerily still. The school bus grumbled to the corner and picked up the little kids. As it pulled away, its squeaky brakes sounded like screams.
“What’s it say?” Laurel leaned over.
Emma quickly crumpled the note in her hand. “Nothing.” Her voice was barely audible.
Laurel’s lip curled in a snarl. Then she opened the passenger door and pointed to the seat. “Just get in.”
Emma did as she was told, dazedly slumping into the seat and staring straight ahead. Her heart pounded so hard she was afraid it might explode.
“You’re being so weird,” Laurel said, starting the car. “What’s wrong with you?”
As I watched, spots began to cloud my vision. A rushing sound whooshed in my ears. What’s wrong with you? I heard Laurel say again and again. The words rippled out in waves, growing louder and louder. Suddenly I saw Laurel sitting in a dark grotto. Light danced across her face. The corners of her mouth turned down. Tears dotted her eyes. What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with you? The words clanged in my head like a clapper in a bell.
A tiny flare erupted in the darkness of my mind. And then another flare, and then another. It was like a line of falling dominoes, cascading until I had a fully formed scene from my past. A memory.
All at once, I could distinctly remember where and when Laurel had asked, “What’s wrong with you?” before. And that wasn’t the only thing I saw. . . .
Chapter 9
IMITATION IS THE HIGHEST FORM OF FLATTERY
“The party has officially started,” I call, strutting out from behind a big boulder where I changed into a silver bikini. My legs are freshly waxed, my face is blemish-free, and my hair glows softly in the lights from the resort. All eyes are on me.
Garrett whistles. “You put the hot in hot springs.”
I grin. “You know it.”
Garrett beckons me closer. He’s submerged in the warm, swirling water of the hot springs at the Clayton resort, a secret spa in the shadows of the mountains. We aren’t technically allowed to be here—the spring is strictly for the wealthiest visitors—but that wasn’t about to stop my friends and me. We always find ways of getting what we want.
“Come on in, dahling,” Madeline calls. She’s already in the hot spring, too. Her hair is swept up on the top of her head in a sloppy bun, her arms are lithe from her million-hours-a-week of Pilates and ballet, and the heat from the water gives her skin a sexy sheen. Mads always looks a little bit better than I do, which always pisses me off. And she’s sitting close to Garrett—a little too close. Not that I’m really worried about anything happening—both Madeline and Garrett know I’d kill them if it did—but I like to have Garrett all to myself.
We’ve only been dating for two months. Everyone thinks I’m dating him because he’s one of the school’s star soccer players, or because he looks devastatingly gorgeous on top