Then I sink down into the hot water. Some girls get into the springs slowly, making little squeals as they expose an inch of flesh to the heat at a time. I like to plunge in all at once. The eye-watering burn gives me a rush.
Charlotte is the next one to emerge from behind the rocks. She’s still wearing a pink terry-cloth cover-up, her hands shielding her pale, pudgy legs. We all cheer hello. Laurel follows right behind Charlotte, giggling hysterically. I sigh and curl my toes under the water. What is Laurel doing here? I didn’t invite her.
Garrett’s cell phone rings. MOM, says the Caller ID. “I’d better get that,” he murmurs. He pushes out of the spring, water plopping onto the rocks. “Hello?” he says in a gentle voice, disappearing into the trees.
Madeline rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Garrett’s such a mama’s boy.”
“It’s not like he doesn’t have a good reason,” Charlotte says in a know-it-all voice. She perches on a rock close to the springs. “I mean, when we were togeth—”
“Why don’t you get in with us this time, Char?” I interrupt,wanting to cut Charlotte off before she starts in on another one of her I-know-what’s-best-since-I-dated-your-boyfriend-before-you monologues.
Charlotte pulls her legs away from the water. “I’m fine,” she says prissily.
I giggle. “C’mon. What’s a little lobster-splotchy skin among friends? I bet some guys find heat hives sexy.”
Charlotte twists her mouth and moves her bare foot farther away from the water. “I’m fine right here, Sutton.”
“Suit yourself.” I grab Madeline’s iPhone from a nearby rock. “Picture time! Everyone gather around!”
All of us squeeze into the frame and I snap the flash. “Good, but not great,” I say when I check the result. “Mads, you’re doing your beauty-queen face again.” I frame my face with my hands and give them an all-I-want-is-world-peace smile.
Laurel looks over my shoulder. “I’m not in it at all.” She points out her arm, the only part of her body that made it in the photo.
“I know,” I say. “Iplanned it that way.”
A heartbroken look crosses Laurel’s face. Madeline and Charlotte shift uncomfortably. After a moment, Charlotte pokes Laurel’s shoulder. “Love the necklace, Laur.”
Laurel brightens a little. “Thanks! I got it today.”
“Very pretty,” Madeline chimes in.
I lean over to see what all the fuss is about. A large silver circle dangles from Laurel’s neck. “Can I see that?” I ask Laurel in the sweetest voice I can muster.
Laurel looks at me nervously, then leans closer.
“Pretty.” I trace my finger over the locket. “Pretty familiar.” I narrow my eyes, lift my hair from my neck, and show her the same necklace around my throat. I’d had it forever, but I’d only started wearing it recently. I’d announced to the group that it was going to be my signature necklace, like how Nicole Richie always wears drapey boho dresses or how Kate Moss does the blazer and micro-denim-shorts thing. Laurel was there when I said it, too. She was also there when I’d added that from then on I was never going to take it off. The only way someone was going to get it from me was if they chopped off my head.
Laurel fiddles with the strap on her bikini top. She’s wearing what I call her slut-kini; the top’s straps are so thin and the triangles so small that she’s practically giving all of us a free peepshow. “It’s not quite the same,” she argues. “Your locket is bigger, see? And mine isn’t even a locket. It doesn’t open.”
Charlotte squints at my neck, then at Laurel’s. “She’s right, Sutton.”
“Yeah, they’re different enough,” Madeline agrees.
I want to fling molten-hot water into their faces. How dare my friends fuss over my sister’s complete lack of originality? It’s bad enough Laurel tagged along with us. It’s bad enough that my friends let her into our club just because they feel sorry for her after Thayer’s disappearance. And it’s really bad enough that my parents—especially my dad—dote on her at home, meanwhile treating me like I’m a bomb about to detonate.
Before I know what I’m doing, my hand wraps around the locket and I yank the chain from Laurel’s neck. Then I fling it into the woods. There’s a tiny plink of metal bouncing off one of the rocks, and then a nearly inaudible rustling sound as the necklace lands in the thick brush.
Laurel blinks hard. “W-Why did you do that?”
“That’s what you get for copying me.”
Tears fill her eyes. “What’s wrong with you?” She lets out a tortured wail, climbs out of the hot springs, catapults over the rocks, and runs into the woods.
No one moves for a few long beats. Steam swirls around my friends’ faces, but it suddenly seems foreboding instead of sexy. I groan and climb out of the water, too, feeling a stab of guilt.
“Laurel!” I call into the woods. No answer. I jam my feet into my flip-flops, pull on a T-shirt and a pair of terry-cloth shorts, and start in the direction she went.
The solar lights that line the path end a few yards past the springs, giving way to eerie darkness. I take a few tentative steps into a thicket of mesquite trees, my arms outstretched in front of me. “Laurel?” I hear a flutter close by, then a snap. “Laurel?” I take another few steps, pushing through tall desert grass. Tiny cactus spines prick my skin.
More footsteps. A sob. “Laurel, come on,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’m sorry, okay? I’ll buy you a new necklace.” One that doesn’t look exactly like mine, I want to add.
After passing a few more trees, I emerge into an emptyclearing—a long-dried-out creek bed. Hot, stale air hangs heavily around my face. Twisted shadows spill across the cracked earth. Cicadas croak noisily in the bushes. “Laurel?” I cry. I can’t see the resort lights through the trees anymore. I’m not even sure where the resort is. Then, I hear a footstep. “Hello?” I call out, suddenly alert. Something blinks at me from the savanna grass. I hear a whisper, followed by a faraway giggle. And then I feel a hand on my shoulder. Something cold and sharp presses up against my neck.
My whole body stiffens. Strong hands grab me and pin my arms back. Something presses against my throat, cutting off my breathing, digging into my skin. Pain shoots through me. It’s a knife. “Scream and you die,” a voice rasps in my ear.
And then … darkness.
10EVERY GUY LOVES A FELON
I snapped back to Laurel’s car, where Emma sat stiffly in the passenger seat as she backed out of the driveway.
Sutton’s dead, she thought. Sutton’s DEAD. It was impossible to comprehend. Dead … where? How? Did it have to do with that snuff video? Had someone actually strangled her?
A tight ball filled her stomach. Her eyes watered with tears. Even though she’d never met her sister, even though she’d found out about her existence only two days earlier, it was an earth-shattering loss. Discovering she had a twin was like hitting the jackpot, something Emma had never dared to dream of. All the hope she’dbottled up for years had reached a crescendo these past two days. And now …
Think about how I felt. I’d stared hard at the note when Emma opened it. Actually seeing SUTTON’S DEAD written there on the paper in black and white made it undeniable. I was really dead. Gone. And I had been murdered—my jumbled memories had been right. The darkness. The flailing. The knife at my throat. Now whoever had done this wanted a sister I’d never met to take my place so no one else would ever find out the truth. As if it was that easy! If only I had a say in this. I didn’t want to hand my life over to someone else.
And Emma didn’t want to step into it either. She sniffed loudly and Laurel turned. “What?” The corners of her mouth turned down.
Emma pressed her fingertips against the note. Sutton’s dead. Laurel deserved to see this, didn’t she? Sutton’s very own sister should know she was dead, right? Yet, Emma couldn’t show her. What if Laurel didn’t believe her, figuring it was just another attempt to skip school? And what if the second part of the threat was true? Keep playing along, or you’re next. If Emma told someone, something terrible could happen.
“Nothing,” she finally answered.
Laurel shrugged and rolled down the neighborhood street, turning right at a big park with a dog run, a hugeplayground, and three outdoor tennis courts. When she made another turn, a line of organic markets, high-end nail salons, and funky boutiques flanked one side, and a UPS store, a stucco police station, and the stone entrance for Hollier High School were on the other. Cars jammed the left-turn lane, waiting to enter the school lot. Blond girls in Ray-Bans lazed in convertibles. The bass throbbed inside a big Escalade with a HOLLIER VARSITY FOOTBALL bumper sticker. A dark-haired girl on a sea-green Vespa wove through the waiting cars, sometimes with just a few inches to spare.
Emma stared at the police station as they made the turn into the school. Six squad cars sat in the parking lot. A cop in a uniform stubbed out a cigarette on the front walk.
Laurel gunned the car up a small slope and passed a large red sign that said JUNIOR PARKING LOT. She glanced at Emma out of the corner of her eye. “You can’t lie to Mom forever about where your car is. And I don’t really want to be your chauffeur for the rest of the year.”
Just then, something occurred to Emma. She turned to Sutton’s sister. “Why didn’t you just drive your car to Nisha’s party last night?”
Laurel blew air out of her cheeks. “Duh. Because Dad took it into the shop. You knew that.”
They drove past the line of parked cars. The mood was like a tailgate party before a football game. Kids lounged
on the bumpers, sipping Jamba Juice smoothies. Guys played soccer in the dusty square to the right of the lot. Three pretty girls wearing sherbet-colored Havaiana flip-flops watched a slide show of vacation photos on a laptop propped up inside a Mini hatchback.
Sutton’s dead, Emma thought once more. The realization kept sweeping over her like a series of crashing waves. She had to do something. She couldn’t keep this to herself any longer. No matter what the note said. Emma’s heart started to pound.
Laurel pulled into a space near a large trash can already filled to the brim with water bottles and Starbucks cups. As soon as she cut the engine, Emma yanked at the door handle, leapt out of the car, and took off through the field toward the police station.
“Hey!” Laurel screamed behind her. “Sutton? What the hell?”
Emma didn’t answer. She picked her way across the hardscrabble vegetation that separated the school from the police-station parking lot. Brambles scratched her arms, but she barely noticed. She emerged on a narrow strip of lawn and burst through the station doors.
It was cool and dark inside. The big room, arranged into a series of cubicles and desks, smelled like Kung Pao chicken and sweat. Phones rang, walkie-talkies buzzed, and a sports radio droned in the background. The Venetian blinds had dust on the slats, and there was a crumpled Fanta can full of cigarette butts on the floor near the door. On the far wall was a big bulletin board tacked with IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING posters and Most Wanted lists. A black-and-white photo of a young guy with dark hair and familiar soulful eyes caught Emma’s eye. MISSING SINCE JUNE 17. THAYER VEGA. It was the same eerie poster Emma had seen on Sutton’s Facebook.
A wild-haired older man in a trench coat took up most of the only bench. There were handcuffs around his wrists. When he saw Emma, he brightened and gave her a big I’m-the-kind-of-guy-who-shows-my-naughty-parts-to-little-girls smile.
“Can I help you? ”
Emma turned. A young cop with white-blond buzz-cut hair eyed her from behind a big desk. A small oscillating fan on his desk blew stale air into her face. The screen saver on his monitor showed pictures of two bug-eyed children in baseball and gymnastic uniforms. Emma eyed the handcuffs linked to his belt and the gun in his holster. She licked her lips and took a few steps toward him.
“I want to report a … a missing person. Possibly a murder.”
Blondie’s pale, almost nonexistent eyebrows shot up. “Who’s missing?”
“My twin sister.” And then, everything that had happened spewed out of her, spurting like blood from a wound. “Last night, I thought it was just a miscommunication, and Sutton was fine,” she finished. “But this morning, I got this.” She unfolded the note and smoothed it out on the cop’s desk. SUTTON’S DEAD. TELL NO ONE. KEEP PLAYING ALONG … OR YOU’RE NEXT. It looked so real and scary under the harsh fluorescent lights.
Blondie’s lips moved silently as he read it. “Sutton,” he whispered emphatically. It was as though a light bulb had illuminated over his head. He picked up the receiver on his phone and pressed a button. “Quinlan? You free?”
He hung up the phone and patted the orange chair next to his desk. “Stay here,” he told Emma. Then he grabbed the note, strode to the back of the station, and disappeared into a small office marked DETECTIVE QUINLAN. Emma stared at the officer’s profile in silhouette against the large, bright back window. His hands moved quickly as he spoke.
The door to the detective’s office swung open again, and the blond cop strode out. Quinlan, a taller, older, dark-haired guy with a manila folder under his arm and a university of Arizona coffee mug in his hand, followed. When he saw Emma at the front desk, he grimaced. “How many times are we going to go down this road?” he demanded, waving Emma’s note in the air.
Emma looked around. Was he talking to someone else? Besides Mr. Indecent Exposure on the bench, she was the only person in the room. “Excuse me?”
Quinlan leaned his forearms on the back of the chair. “Although a fake murder threat is a new one even for you, Sutton.”
Sutton’s name was a punch to Emma’s gut. “No. I’m not Sutton. I’m her twin sister, Emma. Didn’t he tell you?” She jutted a thumb at the blond cop. “Something awful happened to Sutton, and now whoever did it is threatening me! I’m telling the truth!”
“Just like you were telling the truth about that dead body near Mount Lemmon last year? “ The muscles around Quinlan’s mouth grew tight. “Or about how your neighbor was raising ninety Chihuahuas in her guest house? Or how you swore, up and down, you heard a baby crying in a Dumpster behind Trader Joe’s?” He tapped the folder. “You don’t think I keep a record of your stunts?”
Emma stared at the folder. The name SUTTON MERCER was written on the tab in thick black ink. It made her think of her foster brother, David, in Carson City. David used to call the cops every few weeks to tell them the Port-a-Potties on a nearby worksite were on fire, mostly so he could watch fire trucks drive around. The 911 dispatchers finally caught on to his tricks, and they didn’t believe David the day he called screaming about the brushfire that raged in their backyard. Flames had swallowed half the family’s house before they finally sent out a rescue truck. David had officially become the Boy Who cried Port-a-Potty. Did the cops really think Sutton was the Girl Who cried Baby in the Dumpster?
