The Lying Game Complete Collection - Sara Shepard Page 0,52

prickled in a mix of fear and excitement. She cocked her head and listened for sounds of Sutton sneaking up on her. Breathing. Giggling. Waiting.

But there was nothing. Emma grabbed a water glass from the cabinet and tried the faucet. The water dribbled noisily into the sink. Just as she swallowed the last of the water and turned for the stairs again, she heard a creak. She halted and peered around. Her heart thudded. The clocks ticked from 2:06 to 2:07 in perfect synchronicity.

Another creak rang out. “Is someone there?” Emma whispered. Her vision blurred in the darkness. And then, all of a sudden, there was a loud crashing sound. Pain shot through Emma’s hip. She started to turn, but someone pushed her harder against the island and pressed a hand over Emma’s mouth. The water glass slipped out of Emma’s hand and clattered to the floor. Fear streaked through her, hot and messy. “Mmm!” she cried out.

The person didn’t pull away. A body pressed up against her, warm and close. “Don’t you dare yell out,” said a voice in her ear. It was raspy and indecipherable, a mere whisper. “What were you thinking? I told you to play along. I told you not to leave.”

Emma tried to whip around to see who it was, but the figure shoved her forward and pressed her cheek to the kitchen island. “Sutton’s dead,” the voice insisted. “Keep being her until I tell you different. And don’t try and skip town again or you’re next.”

Emma whimpered. The hand squeezed her wrist so hard she thought her bones might break. Then something cold and metallic encircled her neck. It grew tighter and tighter around her throat until Emma’s windpipe began to collapse. Her eyes bulged. She flailed her arms, but the wire just constricted her throat even more. Emma fought for breath, but she couldn’t inhale, couldn’t swallow. As she thrashed up and down, her feet began to tingle.

I stared in horror. My vision was clouded, just like Emma’s; all I could tell was that the strangler had broad shoulders. I thought of the dark shadow hovering over me in the trunk from the memory I’d just been given. That voice sounded a lot like this one.

But then the stranglehold around Emma’s neck loosened. Whoever it was pulled Emma back up to standing. Bright spots danced in front of her eyes. Air rushed into her lungs. She leaned over and coughed.

“Now keep your head down and count to one hundred,” the strangler went on. “Don’t look up until you’re done. Or else.”

Trembling, Emma pressed her forehead to the island countertop and started to count. “One . . . two . . .”

Footsteps rang out behind her. I strained to see who it was, but the figure was a dark shadow.

“Ten . . . eleven . . .” Emma counted. A door slammed. Emma cautiously raised her head. The kitchen was as silent and unassuming as it had been five minutes ago. She tiptoed to the front door and peered out, but the strangler was gone.

She bent over her knees for a moment, wheezing. As she stood up again, something knocked heavily against her collarbone. She cautiously groped her skin. Dangling from a chain around her throat was a round locket—Sutton’s round locket. The one she’d looked for in Sutton’s jewelry box but couldn’t find. The one Sutton had been wearing in the snuff film. The chain fit perfectly in the red, freshly strangled indentations on Emma’s neck.

Emma’s world turned upside down all over again. Sutton really was dead. There was no doubt about it now. Hot, wet tears dotted her eyes. Her shaky hand flew to her mouth and muffled a sob.

She did a full 180, peering frantically into the kitchen doorway, the bookcase-filled study, the double staircase, the majestic front entrance. Her gaze locked on a shining, uninterrupted red beam above the doorway. Next to it was a security system keypad, a green light illuminated over the word ARMED. Emma tiptoed to the device. She’d lived briefly with a foster family in Reno who had this same alarm system—they had a cabinet full of valuable antique Wedgwood china, and yet they made four foster kids sleep in the same cramped bedroom—and Emma’s foster brother had showed her how to use it. She hit the down arrow, and a list of times when the alarm had been armed and disarmed appeared. The last entry said ARMED, 8:12 PM. It was from when Mrs. Chamberlain