The Lying Game Complete Collection - Sara Shepard Page 0,92

Alex still thought Sutton was alive and had taken Emma in. Sometimes, when Emma woke up in the morning, she tried to pretend like that was what really happened, and that the previous events and threats had all been a dream. She’d even started a section of her journal called Stuff Sutton and I Would Do Together if She Were Here. She would teach Sutton how to make French cream puffs, something she’d learned at an after-school catering job. Sutton would show her how to curl her eyelashes, which Emma had never been able to properly master. And maybe, at school, they’d switch places for the day, going to each other’s classes and answering to each other’s names. Not because they had to. Because they wanted to.

Suddenly, Emma had the distinct feeling someone was watching her. She whirled around to find the ceramics room was now mostly empty. But out in the hall, two pairs of eyes stared at her. It was Gabby and Lili, the Twitter Twins. When they noticed that Emma had spotted them, they smirked, leaned their heads close, and whispered. Emma flinched.

A hand touched Emma’s arm, and she jumped once more. Laurel stood behind her, leaning against the big gray trash barrel of wet clay next to the sink.

“Oh, hey.” Emma’s heart pounded in her ears.

“Just waiting for you.” Laurel brushed a lock of highlighted blonde hair over her shoulder and stared at the iPhone in Emma’s hands. “Writing to anyone interesting?”

Emma dropped Sutton’s phone into her bag. “Uh, not really.” The spot where the Twitter Twins had stood was now empty.

Laurel caught her arm. “Why did you bring up the train prank?” she asked, her voice hushed and hard. “No one finds it funny.”

Sweat prickled on the back of Emma’s neck. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Laurel’s words echoed the note she’d gotten: The others might not want to remember the train prank, but I’ll be seized by the memory always. Something had happened that night. Something horrible.

Emma took a deep breath, rolled back her shoulders, and slung her arm around Laurel’s waist. “Don’t be so sensitive. Now let’s go. It smells like ass in here.” She hoped she sounded breezier than she felt.

Laurel glared at Emma for a moment, but then followed her into the crowded hall. Emma let out a sigh of relief when Laurel headed in the opposite direction. She felt like she’d dodged a huge bullet.

Or maybe, I thought, opened up a huge can of worms.

Chapter 4

Paper Trail

After tennis practice, Laurel steered her black VW Jetta onto the Mercers’ street, a development in the Catalina foothills with sand-colored stucco houses and front yards full of flowering desert succulents. The only sound in the car was Laurel’s jaw working the piece of gum she’d shoved into her mouth.

“So . . . thanks for the ride home,” Emma offered, breaking the awkward silence.

Laurel shot Emma a frosty glare. “Are you ever going to get your car out of the impound lot, or am I going to have to chauffeur you forever? You can’t keep lying about it being at Madeline’s, you know. Mom and Dad aren’t that stupid.”

Emma slumped down in the seat. Sutton’s car had been impounded since before Emma arrived in Tucson. It looked like she’d have to retrieve it if Laurel wouldn’t drive her around anymore.

Then Laurel fell into silence again. She’d been frosty with Emma ever since ceramics, turning away when Emma asked to partner with her for tennis volleying and shrugging off Emma’s suggestion that they hit Jamba Juice on the drive home. Emma wished she knew the magic words to get Laurel to open up, but navigating the world of sibling relationships was something with which she had no real experience. She’d had foster siblings, sure, but those relationships rarely ended well.

Not that mine and Laurel’s had either. We hadn’t been close for years. I saw flashes of us when we were much younger, holding hands on the Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair and spying on our parents’ dinner party when we were little, but something had happened between now and then.

After passing by three large homes—two of which had gardeners out front, watering the mesquite trees—Laurel pulled into the Mercers’ driveway. “Shit,” she said under her breath.

Emma followed Laurel’s gaze. Sitting on the wrought-iron bench on the Mercers’ front porch was Garrett. He was still in his soccer cleats and practice shirt. Two muddy pads covered his knees, and he cradled a bike