“Girls, don’t fight,” Mr. Mercer warned, reaching across the kitchen island to grab his leather briefcase and car keys.
“Yes, don’t fight,” Mrs. Mercer urged. “Just get those bags, okay? You have thirty seconds.” Laurel whirled around and started up the stairs. “Whose car are you taking? Sutton, is yours still at Madeline’s?”
Mrs. Mercer turned to Emma, waiting. “Uh, yes?” Emma guessed.
“We’ll take mine,” Laurel yelled from the floor above.
Mrs. Mercer ushered Emma out into the foyer. Emma’s nose twitched with the smell of Fracas perfume. She looked deep into the woman’s eyes, trying to convey exactly who she was . . . and exactly who she wasn’t. Surely she’d recognize her own daughter, right?
But Mrs. Mercer just pressed her hands on Emma’s shoulders. A tendon stood out in her neck. “Can you please go easy on us today?” She shut her eyes and let out a huge sigh. “We’re throwing you a huge birthday party in two weeks. Just once can you actually earn it?”
Emma flinched, then quickly nodded. Apparently they really didn’t believe her.
Laurel thundered back down the stairs with a bunch of sports bags and purses in her arms. She pushed the T-straps Mrs. Mercer had picked out, the tennis duffel, and a buttery-leather beige purse Emma didn’t recognize into Emma’s arms. Emma peeked inside the handbag. Sutton’s blue Kate Spade wallet and pink-cased iPhone were nestled into the inside pockets. At the bottom of the bag were pens, pencils, Dior mascara, and a spanking-new iPad. Emma raised her eyebrows. At least she’d finally find out what an iPad was like.
Mrs. Mercer opened the front door wide. “Get out of here.” Laurel strode to the porch, her car keys jingling in her hands. A silver RETURN TO TIFFANY & CO. keychain dangled from the ring. After shoving on her shoes, Emma followed. She had a feeling that if she didn’t, Mrs. Mercer would jab her out the door with the decorative rowing oar that stood in the corner of the foyer.
As soon as Emma stepped outside, sweat beaded at her forehead. Sprinklers hissed on the lawn across the street, and little kids in plaid school uniforms waited at the corner for the bus. Laurel glared at Emma over her shoulder as she walked across the driveway, her high heels making staccato clacks. “That was a lame way to try to get out of school.” She hit a button on the keychain remote. After two short bleeps, a black VW Jetta under the basketball hoop unlocked. “Your long-lost twin sister? Where’d you come up with that?”
Emma peered across the street again. She kept hoping to see Sutton saunter down the sidewalk, ready with an apology and an explanation. Bees swarmed impassively around the flowering bushes. A landscaping truck trundled past. The mountain range glowed in the rising sun, Sabino Canyon somewhere among it.
“Hello, space cadet?”
Emma flinched. Laurel walked toward her again, a small white envelope in her hands. SUTTON, it said on the front in tall capital letters. “It was under my wiper.” Laurel’s voice was tinged with bitterness. “Do you have another secret admirer?”
Emma considered the note for a moment. A few buds of pollen had stained the upper right corner. Should she open something that wasn’t hers? But Laurel kept staring, waiting, snapping her gum in Emma’s ear.
Finally Emma gave Laurel a look. “Do you mind giving me a little space?” It sounded like something Sutton might say.
Laurel sniffed and took one step away. Emma slid her finger under the flap on the envelope and pulled out a sheet of lined paper.
Sutton’s dead. Tell no one. Keep playing along . . . or you’re next.
Emma whipped around the yard, but the morning was eerily still. The school bus grumbled to the corner and picked up the little kids. As it pulled away, its squeaky brakes sounded like screams.
“What’s it say?” Laurel leaned over.
Emma quickly crumpled the note in her hand. “Nothing.” Her voice was barely audible.
Laurel’s lip curled in a snarl. Then she opened the passenger door and pointed to the seat. “Just get in.”
Emma did as she was told, dazedly slumping into the seat and staring straight ahead. Her heart pounded so hard she was afraid it might explode.
“You’re being so weird,” Laurel said, starting the car. “What’s wrong with you?”
As I watched, spots began to cloud my vision. A rushing sound whooshed in my ears. What’s wrong with you? I heard Laurel say again and again. The words rippled out in waves, growing louder and louder. Suddenly I saw Laurel sitting in a dark grotto. Light danced across her face. The corners of her mouth turned down. Tears dotted her eyes. What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with you? The words clanged in my head like a clapper in a bell.
A tiny flare erupted in the darkness of my mind. And then another flare, and then another. It was like a line of falling dominoes, cascading until I had a fully formed scene from my past. A memory.
All at once, I could distinctly remember where and when Laurel had asked, “What’s wrong with you?” before. And that wasn’t the only thing I saw. . . .
Chapter 9
IMITATION IS THE HIGHEST FORM OF FLATTERY
“The party has officially started,” I call, strutting out from behind a big boulder where I changed into a silver bikini. My legs are freshly waxed, my face is blemish-free, and my hair glows softly in the lights from the resort. All eyes are on me.
Garrett whistles. “You put the hot in hot springs.”
I grin. “You know it.”
Garrett beckons me closer. He’s submerged in the warm, swirling water of the hot springs at the Clayton resort, a secret spa in the shadows of the mountains. We aren’t technically allowed to be here—the spring is strictly for the wealthiest visitors—but that wasn’t about to stop my friends and me. We always find ways of getting what we want.