vigorously shook canisters in their hands. Slowly, silently, they spray-painted designs on a large rock. WE MISS YOU, T, Madeline’s message said. Sutton’s message said NISHA WAS HERE.
“Where’s Laurel?” Charlotte asked.
“A thousand bucks says she’s too scared,” Sutton murmured on the screen. Her voice was so familiar it made Emma’s throat catch.
Emma clicked on the other videos. There was one of Sutton and her friends skydiving, another of them bungee jumping. A whole bunch of videos showed one of the girls walking around the corner unaware, and the rest of them ambushing her and making her scream. The last video was titled “Cross my heart, hope to die.” It opened with Madeline pirouetting into a pool at night. As soon as she hit the water, she started to flail. “Help!” she screamed, her dark hair plastered against her face. “I think I broke my leg! I . . . can’t . . . move!”
The camera wobbled. “Mads?” Charlotte cried out.
“Shit,” someone else said.
“Help!” Madeline continued to flail.
“Wait a minute,” Sutton’s voice called haltingly. “Did she say it?”
The camera zinged to Charlotte, frozen midstep. She held a red-and-white life preserver in her hands. “What?” she asked dazedly.
“Did she say it?” Sutton said again.
“I-I don’t think so,” Charlotte squeaked. She clamped her lips together and dropped the life preserver on the deck. “Very funny. We know you’re faking, Mads,” she yelled, annoyed. “Such a bad actress,” she said under her breath.
Madeline stopped splashing. “Fine,” she panted, paddling for the ladder. “But I had you going for a minute. Char looked like she was going to pee her pants.” Everyone cackled.
Whoa, Emma thought. So this was what they did for fun?
I was a little freaked, too.
Emma searched the rest of the Facebook profile for any references to the weird strangling video Travis had found, but there wasn’t a single mention. The only semi-spooky thing she found was a scan of a black-and-white flyer that said MISSING SINCE JUNE 17, a boy’s face grinning back at her. THAYER VEGA, it said in block letters under the photo. Emma clicked back to the names on Sutton’s profile picture. Madeline’s last name was Vega, too.
Finally, she clicked on Sutton’s Wall. Sutton had written a post just a few hours before: Ever wish you could run away? Sometimes I do. Emma frowned. Why would Sutton want to run away? It looked like she had everything.
I had no idea, but that post told me tons. If I’d written it only a few hours before, it meant I hadn’t been dead for long. Did anyone even know I’d been killed? I looked at the rest of my Wall that was visible on the screen. No RIP, Sutton notes or plans for a Sutton Mercer memorial. Maybe no one knew then. Maybe no one had found me? Was I lying in a field somewhere, my necklace still at my throat? I gazed down at my shimmering body. Even though no one else could see me, every so often I could just make out a tiny flicker of myself—a hand here, an elbow there, a pair of terry-cloth shorts and yellow FitFlops. I didn’t see any blood. My skin wasn’t blue.
Just as Emma was about to close up the computer, some more posts on Sutton’s Wall caught her eye. Can’t wait for your b-day party! Charlotte had written. It’s going to be sick! Emma’s birthday was coming up, too. She checked Sutton’s Info tab. The birthday listed was September 10, the same as Emma’s.
Her heart pounded. That was some coincidence.
I felt scared and hopeful and confused, too. Maybe it was real. Maybe we were twins.
After a moment, Emma opened a new window and logged into her own Facebook page. It looked paltry and pathetic next to Sutton’s—her profile picture was a blurry close-up of herself and Socktopus, and she only had five friends: Alex, an old foster sister named Tracy, Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, and two of the cast members from CSI. Then she found Sutton’s page again and clicked on the button that said SEND SUTTON A MESSAGE. When the window appeared, she typed: This will sound crazy, but I think we’re related. We look exactly the same, and we have the same birthday. I live in Nevada, not too far from you. You’re not by any chance adopted, are you? Write back or call if you want to talk.
MESSAGE SENT! the screen announced. Emma stared around the quiet room, the small fan on the desk blowing warmish air