The Lying Game Complete Collection - Sara Shepard Page 0,337

I take a message?”

I shift my weight. Why would my dad be calling for Dr. Banerjee? They both work at the same hospital, but as far as I know they don’t interact—my dad’s in orthopedics, Nisha’s dad is in psychiatrics. Maybe he’s calling to ask Nisha’s father to keep an eye out for me. Maybe he’s trying to round up some kind of dad posse.

Someone in the backyard shrieks, “Marco!” I hear a splash and then giggles. They sound so young, their voices so high and innocent, like they’ve never had to face anything heartbreaking or real. Suddenly all of the energy drains out of me at once, a dull ache pulling at my limbs. I can’t be here right now; I can’t paint a bubbly smile on my face and pretend everything’s all right.

Exhausted, I walk back across the road to the canyon and plop down on a park bench, figuring I’ll call a cab. Who knows where my car is after that freak drove off with it. Maybe my dad will cover for me. It’s basically his fault this happened, after all.

Thinking about my parents’ lies enrages me all over again. Why would they keep a secret like that from me? Was it so hard to admit that we were all related by blood? Maybe they were ashamed of me. Maybe they just wanted to make sure everyone knew the way I was wasn’t their fault, that I was a bad seed from who knew where—not some monster they created. Angry tears pool in my eyes and I quickly brush them away.

The snap of a breaking branch cuts through the darkness. As I turn, I suddenly realize the crickets have gone silent. I stare into the darkness, but I can’t see a damn thing.

What the hell am I doing here? A few years ago a woman got mauled while jogging through the canyon at dusk. She was training for a marathon. The authorities said she probably never even saw the mountain lion—the cats move so stealthily most people don’t know they’re being stalked until it’s too late. After that happened, you couldn’t turn on the TV without seeing a PSA warning people to hike in groups of two or more. Remember, there’s safety in numbers! Don’t go hiking alone in Pima County.

Don’t run away from your ride when you’re stuck in the wilderness at midnight, I think. The hair on the back of my neck tingles.

It could be a wild animal. Or it could be the maniac who stole my Volvo and ran down Thayer. He could be back for more.

I hold my breath and listen. Far away, a police siren wails.

Then, there it is again, the same sound I heard before: leaves stirring, crunching underfoot. I stand up slowly, my heart in my throat. Carefully, I step toward the path that will lead me back to the park’s entrance.

That’s when my eyes catch movement in the trees. Something rushes toward me. I turn on my heel and sprint up the path before I can see what it is. My body is sore from everything that’s happened during this long, awful night. I can hear my pursuer behind me, crashing through the bushes. My shin slams straight into something—I don’t see what—and I fall on my hands and knees. I scrabble at the dirt feebly, trying to get back to my feet. But behind me I can hear my pursuer getting closer. I roll over just in time to see someone detach from the shadows and step into view.

It’s a woman. When she sees me, she stops and stares, breathing hard. Her black hair looks almost blue in the moonlight. Her face is pitted and sunken, her eyes deep holes in her skull. She wears a dirty waitressing uniform with a tear at the hem. She steps toward me and I crabwalk backward, the dirt stinging my hands. When I turn around, I realize I’ve backed myself against the canyon rock. I have nowhere to run.

“Wait,” the woman says, extending one of her hands toward me. When she gets close, I see that her eyes aren’t black like I thought, but bright, oceanic blue. There’s an eerie, predatory expression on her face, too—as if she knows I’m trapped and she likes it.

“Hello, Sutton.” Her voice is soft and gravelly, and as causal as if we’d talked a thousand times before. “I’m your mother. Becky.”

And then the memory collapses in on itself, and I’m left with nothing at all.

8

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