The Lying Game Complete Collection - Sara Shepard Page 0,69

the night. Becky stood in the middle of the driveway next to Laurel’s car.

I gawked at the woman on the driveway. This was the first time I’d ever seen our mother. She had chin-length, silky dark hair and blue-green eyes. Her body was thin—almost too thin—and she wore baggy jeans with a hole in the knee and a faded T-shirt that said THE CASUAL CLAM RESTAURANT. She would’ve been someone I’d just pass by on the street. I felt no connection to her, no instant bond. It didn’t feel real.

But when Emma got to Becky, her arms went right through her body. She stepped back, blinking hard. “Mom?” she cried again. She tried to touch Becky, but it was as though she was made of vapor. Emma touched her own face to make sure she was still real. “What’s going on?”

“It’s not what you think, honey,” Becky said in her gravelly smoker’s voice. “You have to be careful,” Becky added. “You have to be quiet. Things are about to get very dangerous.”

“W-What do you mean?” Emma asked.

“Shh.”

“But—”

Then Becky stepped forward and pressed her hand over Emma’s mouth. It felt like a real hand to Emma, solid and stable. “You need to do this for me.”

Suddenly a vision flashed in my brain. I heard that same voice say, You need to do this for me, loud and clear. At least I thought it was the same voice. I wasn’t sure if the voice was speaking to me . . . or to someone else. But just as I was grappling to see this memory, it dissolved.

All at once, Emma’s eyes popped open.

She was in Sutton’s dark bedroom once more. The curtains fluttered in the breeze. The glass of water she’d filled before she went to sleep sat on the nightstand. The dream still pounded in her head. She sat up, and her vision cleared. There was a figure standing over her.

Becky? Emma thought immediately. But this person’s hair was blond, not brown. Her nose turned up at the end, and freckles splashed across her cheeks. Emma stared straight into Laurel’s tourmaline-green eyes. Laurel’s hand clapped tightly over Emma’s mouth.

“Scream!” I yelled frantically at Emma.

That was just what Emma did. She kicked the sheets off and whacked her hands at Laurel’s arms. Laurel backed away, an astonished expression on her face. In seconds, the bedroom door opened and the Mercer parents burst inside. Mr. Mercer didn’t have a shirt on. Mrs. Mercer wore plaid pajama pants and a lacy tank top. Drake bounded in, too, emitting a few short, low barks.

“What’s going on?” Mr. Mercer demanded.

“Laurel’s trying to kill me!” Emma screamed.

“What?” Laurel backed away from the bed as though it were on fire.

Emma shuffled back until she was pressed against the headboard. Her chest heaved with sobs. “She was trying to suffocate me.”

Laurel let out an indignant squeak. “No, I wasn’t!” She gestured to the digital clock next to the bed. The red numbers flashed 12:01. “I came in here because I wanted to be the very first one to wish you a happy birthday.”

“Don’t deny it.” Emma held the sheets to her chest. “I saw you!”

“Sutton, honey, Laurel wouldn’t do something like that,” Mr. Mercer said gently.

“You probably just had a nightmare.” Mrs. Mercer rubbed her eyes. “Are you worried about your birthday party?”

“Why would I be worried about a birthday party?” Emma snapped. She whipped a finger in Laurel’s direction. “She. Tried. To. Kill. Me!”

But when she looked at the Mercers again, sleepy skepticism was obvious in both of their faces. “Honey, why don’t you go downstairs and have a glass of milk?” Mrs. Mercer suggested.

And then, yawning, they turned for the door. Drake and Laurel followed. But before Laurel turned in the hall, she wheeled around and met Emma’s gaze. Her eyes narrowed. The corners of her mouth arced down. Fire shot through Emma’s veins. The words Becky had said in the dream flashed into her mind once more. Things are about to get very dangerous.

The words swirled in my mind, too. Talk about a dream come true.

Chapter 27

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NOW DIE

“There’s the birthday girl!” Madeline cried, tottering across the patio in bright blue stilettos, a silver party dress, and a foil crown. She plopped an almost identical crown on Emma’s head, which said 18 in pink numbers.

“Smile!” Charlotte darted up to them, dressed in a short striped dress and espadrilles. She smushed close to Emma and held a digital camera out from their bodies. Just as the