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’dlived 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 had shut the door after letting in Emma and Laurel. There was no record that the power outage had disabled the alarm after that, though. Nor did the log indicate that Mrs. Chamberlain had had to rearm the alarm system after the power snapped back on. There was also no record that someone had tripped it, which would’ve happened if the strangler had gotten in through the doors or the windows. So … how had he gotten in? How had he gotten out?
Emma raised her head, a cold, slippery feeling passing through her. Maybe there was no need to get past the alarms. Maybe the strangler had been inside the house to start with. She thought about the voice in her ear. I told you to play along. I told you not to leave. And then she thought about the call with Charlotte and Laurel today. Are you at the Greyhound station? Laurel had asked. Could it be?
I was pretty sure it could be. I thought about the memory
I’d just had. The broad-shouldered figure pulling me out of the trunk. The shock of red hair when she stepped into the light. Whoever had strangled Emma was indeed someone inside the house: one of my very best friends.
20DEAR DIARY, TODAY I DIED
As soon as Laurel pulled into the Mercers’ driveway on Saturday morning, Emma shot out of the car, flung open the door, and started up the stairs. She almost knocked over Mrs. Mercer, who was crossing the foyer with a pile of laundry in her arms. “Sutton?”
“I just …” Emma muttered, then trailed off. She reached Sutton’s bedroom, slammed the door shut, and locked it fast. The first thing she saw was a large stack of pink envelopes sitting on Sutton’s bed. RSVP said the one on top. Emma stared at an unfamiliar girl’s name written in pink pen at the top of the card. Can’t wait! the girl had added. She turned it over. SUTTON MERCER’SBIRTHDAY BASH, FRIDAY SEPT 10. GIFT OPTIONAL, FABULOUSNESS REQUIRED. There Were At Least Fifty RSVP Cards In The Pile.
Emma collapsed on the bed, jostling a few of the RSVP cards to the floor. Her head felt like it had been crushed in a vise. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the strangler press up against her, that voice in her ear.
Keep being Sutton, or you’re next.
She’d lain awake all night in Charlotte’s bedroom, armed with the new information and petrified from the assault in the kitchen. The home screen of The Hills had played over and over. Someone had killed Sutton—and it was one of her very best friends.
How could one of my best friends or my sister do such a thing? But then I thought about how nasty I’d been to all of them that night at the hot springs. What if I was like that all the time? What if, sometimes, I was worse?
Emma flopped down on the bed and stared at the pink paper lantern that hung by the window, trying to think things through. The killer must have taken the video down from the site because she knew Emma would show it to the cops immediately. The killer also knew, obviously, that Emma wasn’t Sutton. Emma tried to piece together the timing of everything. Had Sutton received the note from Emma, written her back, and then coincidentally died that very night? Had Emma’s arrival been a surprise—but agood surprise—for the killer? After all, there was an Insta-Sutton in Tucson again. No missing girl meant no crazed search, no hunt for a dead body, no crime.
Then Emma’s eyes widened, hitting on an even scarier idea. What if Sutton hadn’t received Emma’s note at all? What if the killer had been the one to lure Emma to Tucson, not Sutton? One of Sutton’s friends could have easily hacked into her Facebook account. She could have seen Emma’s note and sent one back immediately, knowing she had a naive girl to manipulate and put in Sutton’s place.
A tiny spider crawled along the upper corner of Sutton’s bedroom, pulling behind it a thin, gossamer thread. Emma stood, rolled back her shoulders, and marched over to the filing cabinet under her sister’s desk. THE L GAME, it said. Aka the Lying Game.
She held the heavy padlock in her palm. There had to be a way to unlock it. Pulling open Sutton’s drawers, she searched once more for the missing key, feeling for secret compartments built into the back, looking in every single empty jewelry box and CD case, and even spilling a nearly full pack of Camel Lights onto the carpet. Tobacco flaked onto her hands.
“Get it open!” I shouted to her uselessly. Screw feeling protective of my stuff. I was dead, and we both needed to know why.
Then something came to Emma in a flash. Travis. That YouTube video he’d watched about how to open a padlock with a beer can. During the brief time they’d been friendly, Travis had made Emma watch it, too. It hadn’t looked hard.
She leapt up and found an empty Diet Coke can on Sutton’s windowsill. Grabbing a pair of scissors, she drew out the design for the shim that would be used to break the lock and started to cut. In moments, she’d made an M-shaped shim, just like the criminal-in-training had made in the YouTube video. As soon as she wiggled the shim down the left shackle, the ball released and the lock snapped open. Emma couldn’t help but grin. “Thanks, Travis,” she murmured. She never thought she’d say that.
The lock clunked to the floor. The drawer made a grating screech as it opened. Emma peered inside. Sitting in the bottom was a thick spiral-bound notebook. That was all.
Emma pulled it out and held it in her lap. There was nothing written on the front cover—no names or doodles, just a shiny piece of blue card stock. The wire spirals were perfectly coiled and even, without a hint of bending or rust. She turned to the first page. There was Sutton’s handwriting, round and neat and eerily similar to Emma’s own. January 10, she’d written.
Emma sucked in her stomach. Did she really want to read her sister’s diary? When she lived in Carson City, she’d sneaked into a bedroom that belonged to Daria, a pretty, mysterious older foster sister who paid no attention to her. She’d read every page of Daria’s diary, which was mostly about boys and how she thought her legs and arms were too fat. Emma had also searched through the pockets of Daria’s jeans. She’d stolen a pair of headphones out of Daria’s room, purely because they were hers. She’d taken little things every time she went in after that: a rap CD, a black jelly bracelet, a departmentstore sample of Chanel No. 5. After she’d moved on to another home, Emma felt ashamed about what she’d done. She’d put all of Daria’s pilfered things in a manila envelope, wrote Daria’s name on the top, and sent them back to social services, vowing she’d never do something like that again.
It’s nice that she was being all moral, but I just wanted her to read the damn diary.
Sighing, as though she’d actually heard my thoughts, Emma looked down at the first page again and started to read.
Each entry was short and sweet, more like quick Twitter entries and scattered thoughts. Sometimes Sutton wrote things like Elizabeth & James clogs or B-day party on Mount Lemmon? Sometimes she wrote exclamations like
I hate history! or Mom can kiss my ass! The entries that seemed like they might be about something deeper were even more baffling though. C has been so bitchy lately, Sutton had penned on February 10. She just needs to get over it. On March 1: I had an unexpected visitor after school today. He’s such a cute little puppy dog, following me everywhere. On March 9: M outdid herself today. Sometimes I think C is right about her.
Emma leafed through the pages, trying to extrapolate meaning from the entries. There were a lot about L, who she could only assume was Laurel. L came downstairs this morning in an identical outfit to mine. And, Playing an awesome prank on L this afternoon. Maybe she’ll be sorry she wanted in so badly! And then on May 17, L is still ruined over T. Pull yourself together, bitch. He’s just a guy. Emma’s gaze landed on an entry from August 20, just a week and a half ago: If L brings up that night one more time, I’m going to kill her.
What night? Emma wanted to yell. Why was Sutton so ridiculously vague? It was like she was keeping a journal for the CIA.
I was just as frustrated as she was.
Then a small construction-paper square fell out of the notebook and fluttered to the floor. Emma picked it up, gazed at the bold writing on the front, and gasped: THE LYING GAME MEMBERSHIP CARD. Below that was Sutton’sname, the title EXECUTIVE PRESIDENT AND DIVA, and then a date in May more than five years ago.
On the other side of the card was a list of rules:
Don’t tell ANYONE. Telling will be punishable by expulsion!
Only three people allowed in the club at one time. (But someone had crossed out three and written four above it.)
Every new prank must be better than the last. Those who outdo one another earn a special badge!
If we’re really in trouble, if it’s not a prank, we will say the sacred code words: “Cross my heart, hope to die.” This means 9-1-1!
Beneath that was a sub-list of pranks that were off-limits. It mostly contained things like hurting animals or little children, damaging stuff that was irreplaceable or really expensive (Charlotte’s dad’s Porsche was the example), or doing something that would have the government after them (someone had written a ha! after that). In different-colored blue ink at the very bottom, someone had added No more sexting, underlining it three times.
I stared at the membership card, too, my brain buzzing. I had a flash of Madeline, Charlotte, and me cutting out the cards and presenting them to one another ceremoniously, like we were receiving Oscar statuettes. But then, just like that, the memory was yanked away.
Emma read and reread the membership card several times over, feeling affirmed. At least she had a clear picture of what the Lying Game was now: Girl Scouts for psychopaths. She thought again about the snuff film. Perhaps it had started out as a prank, too. But maybe one of Sutton’s friends took it too far….
She placed the membership card aside and went back to the journal. On the very next page, she noticed an entry from August 22: Sometimes I think all my friends hate me. Every last one. Nothing more, nothing less. Below it Sutton had written down what looked like a Jamba Juice order: bananas, blueberries, Splenda, wheatgrass detox shot.
Okaaay, Emma thought.
The next page was full of drawings of girls in dresses and skirts, titled “ideal summer outfits.” Sutton’s last entry was on August 29, two days before Travis showed Emma the video. I feel like someone is watching me, she’d written in shaky, hurried handwriting. And I think I know who it is. Emma read the entry again and again, feeling like someone had reached into her heart and squeezed.
I concentrated hard, but nothing came to me.
Emma placed the journal on Sutton’s desk next to her computer. She moved the mouse on the sky blue pad, and the screen flickered to life. She opened Safari and clicked on Facebook. Sutton’s page loaded automatically. As Emma scrolled through the posts and notes, patterns began to emerge. In August, Sutton had written, I see you on Laurel’s Wall. In July, she’d told Madeline, You’re such a naughty spy. She wrote Charlotte a private message in June: You’re after me, aren’t you? She’d even written something similar on the Twitter Twins’ pages: Will you two stop plotting against me?
