But there was nothing. Emma grabbed a water glass from the cabinet and tried the faucet. The water dribbled noisily into the sink. Just as she swallowed the last of the water and turned for the stairs again, she heard a creak. She halted and peered around. Her heart thudded. The clocks ticked from 2:06 to 2:07 in perfect synchronicity.
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’d lived 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.
Chapter 20
DEAR 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’S BIRTHDAY BASH, FRIDAY SEPT 10. GIFT OPTIONAL, FABULOUSNESS REQUIRED. There were at least fifty RSVP cards in the pile.