The Lying Game Complete Collection - Sara Shepard Page 0,507

the concert tickets and the fashion magazine clippings her twin had hung there. The postcard had a photo of the Alamo at sunset, and said GREETINGS FROM SAN ANTONIO in a blocky font. On the back, a scratchy, untidy hand had scrawled only I’m doing okay. —B. It had arrived the day before, addressed to Mr. Mercer. He’d left it by Emma’s plate at the breakfast table.

Becky still didn’t know the truth—that Sutton was dead, that Emma was now here in Tucson with the Mercers. But it was a relief to know that Becky was safe. Emma liked imagining different versions of a new life for her mother: She pictured Becky strong and healthy, putting weight back on her skeletal frame so the severe, haunted look vanished from her face. She pictured her painting houses in bright colors, or selling fruit from a roadside stand, or learning to guide a skiff down the river from some patient, kind mentor. More than anything, she wanted to believe Becky could change. She wanted to believe they all could, if they wanted to.

Her eyes moved back to her own reflection as she raised the lip gloss to her mouth. But what she saw in the mirror made her drop the tube in shock, and it clattered into the sink, forgotten. For less than a heartbeat, she saw her there, a shimmer, a flicker. Sutton.

Her twin stood right next to her. She wore the same pink hoodie and terry-cloth shorts she’d died in, her hair in long loose waves around her shoulders. Their eyes met in the mirror. The ghost of a smile played around her lips . . . and then she was gone.

“Sutton?” Emma whirled around to look behind her. But even as she turned, she knew she wouldn’t see anyone there. She turned back to the mirror, to her own high cheekbones, her own turned-up nose. The line between Emma and Sutton had been so blurred for so long. Where did her twin’s life end and hers begin?

My sister would have the rest of her life to figure out who she was. But I had a feeling I would always be a part of her—that somehow, we’d changed each other.

A light knock sounded. “Come in,” Emma called softly. Laurel opened the door. She fixed a stare on Emma for a long moment.

“What’s up?” Emma asked.

Laurel shook her head. “It’s still just spooky. Sorry. I know you’re probably tired of hearing that. It’s like you’re Sutton, but . . . not.” She came and stood next to Emma, running a brush through her honey-blonde hair.

“No, you’re right. It’s spooky to me, too,” Emma said, staring into the mirror again. She was wearing her vintage 1970s Tootsie Pop T-shirt and a DIY denim skirt she’d made from an old pair of jeans. She’d braided her hair loosely back and trimmed her own bangs—they’d been in her eyes since she came to Tucson. “This stuff doesn’t even feel like me anymore. But Sutton’s clothes don’t feel like me, either.”

Laurel pinned her hair up in a sloppy bun. “Well, that just means we have to have an identity-crisis shopping trip soon. Maybe this week we’ll hit La Encantada.”

“That sounds awesome,” Emma said. Their eyes met in the mirror, and they both smiled.

“Anyway,” Laurel said, flushing with pleasure, “I think they’re waiting on us to start the tree. Are you ready to go down?”

Emma took a deep breath. This was what she’d dreamed of for so long. A family Christmas. Now that it was here, she was oddly nervous. What if it wasn’t what she’d expected? Maybe the Mercers would resent her being there. Maybe they didn’t want her to come down and help.

“You think it’ll be okay?” she asked, biting her lip.

Laurel raised an eyebrow. “You lived through blackmail, kidnapping, and assault, and you’re worried about trimming the tree? Come on.” She threaded her arm through Emma’s and gave her a reassuring squeeze. Together, they went downstairs.

Mrs. Mercer had hung a garland along the banister already, and the smell of vanilla and cinnamon wafted through the house. In the living room, they’d moved an armchair to make room for the silvery green fir. Someone had already strung tiny winking lights around its branches. Bing Crosby crooned from the surround-sound stereo, and a platter of sugar cookies sat on top of the baby grand’s lid. Drake—wearing plush reindeer antlers—lifted his nose to sniff hopefully at the plate.

The Mercers were already there, a fire crackling in the