The Lying Game Complete Collection - Sara Shepard Page 0,26

truth. As if it was that easy! If only I had a say in this. I didn’t want to hand my life over to someone else.

And Emma didn’t want to step into it either. She sniffed loudly and Laurel turned. “What?” The corners of her mouth turned down.

Emma pressed her fingertips against the note. Sutton’s dead. Laurel deserved to see this, didn’t she? Sutton’s very own sister should know she was dead, right? Yet, Emma couldn’t show her. What if Laurel didn’t believe her, figuring it was just another attempt to skip school? And what if the second part of the threat was true? Keep playing along, or you’re next. If Emma told someone, something terrible could happen.

“Nothing,” she finally answered.

Laurel shrugged and rolled down the neighborhood street, turning right at a big park with a dog run, a huge playground, and three outdoor tennis courts. When she made another turn, a line of organic markets, high-end nail salons, and funky boutiques flanked one side, and a UPS store, a stucco police station, and the stone entrance for Hollier High School were on the other. Cars jammed the left-turn lane, waiting to enter the school lot. Blond girls in Ray-Bans lazed in convertibles. The bass throbbed inside a big Escalade with a HOLLIER VARSITY FOOTBALL bumper sticker. A dark-haired girl on a sea-green Vespa wove through the waiting cars, sometimes with just a few inches to spare.

Emma stared at the police station as they made the turn into the school. Six squad cars sat in the parking lot. A cop in a uniform stubbed out a cigarette on the front walk.

Laurel gunned the car up a small slope and passed a large red sign that said JUNIOR PARKING LOT. She glanced at Emma out of the corner of her eye. “You can’t lie to Mom forever about where your car is. And I don’t really want to be your chauffeur for the rest of the year.”

Just then, something occurred to Emma. She turned to Sutton’s sister. “Why didn’t you just drive your car to Nisha’s party last night?”

Laurel blew air out of her cheeks. “Duh. Because Dad took it into the shop. You knew that.”

They drove past the line of parked cars. The mood was like a tailgate party before a football game. Kids lounged on the bumpers, sipping Jamba Juice smoothies. Guys played soccer in the dusty square to the right of the lot. Three pretty girls wearing sherbet-colored Havaiana flip-flops watched a slide show of vacation photos on a laptop propped up inside a Mini hatchback.

Sutton’s dead, Emma thought once more. The realization kept sweeping over her like a series of crashing waves. She had to do something. She couldn’t keep this to herself any longer. No matter what the note said. Emma’s heart started to pound.

Laurel pulled into a space near a large trash can already filled to the brim with water bottles and Starbucks cups. As soon as she cut the engine, Emma yanked at the door handle, leapt out of the car, and took off through the field toward the police station.

“Hey!” Laurel screamed behind her. “Sutton? What the hell?”

Emma didn’t answer. She picked her way across the hardscrabble vegetation that separated the school from the police-station parking lot. Brambles scratched her arms, but she barely noticed. She emerged on a narrow strip of lawn and burst through the station doors.

It was cool and dark inside. The big room, arranged into a series of cubicles and desks, smelled like Kung Pao chicken and sweat. Phones rang, walkie-talkies buzzed, and a sports radio droned in the background. The Venetian blinds had dust on the slats, and there was a crumpled Fanta can full of cigarette butts on the floor near the door. On the far wall was a big bulletin board tacked with IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING posters and Most Wanted lists. A black-and-white photo of a young guy with dark hair and familiar soulful eyes caught Emma’s eye. MISSING SINCE JUNE 17. THAYER VEGA. It was the same eerie poster Emma had seen on Sutton’s Facebook.

A wild-haired older man in a trench coat took up most of the only bench. There were handcuffs around his wrists. When he saw Emma, he brightened and gave her a big I’m-the-kind-of-guy-who-shows-my-naughty-parts-to-little-girls smile.

“Can I help you?”

Emma turned. A young cop with white-blond buzz-cut hair eyed her from behind a big desk. A small oscillating fan on his desk blew stale air into her face. The screen saver