Emma recoiled at the harshness of Garrett’s voice—and at the mention of Madeline’s brother.
Thayer. Just hearing his name made his clear green eyes, high cheekbones, and mussed dark hair flicker across my mind. And then, I saw something else: an image of the two of us standing in the school courtyard. Tears streamed down my face as Thayer talked to me in urgent tones, as if he were trying to get me to understand something, but the memory flaked apart at my fingertips. Emma struggled to regain her voice. “I’m not sure what you think I—”
“I’d like my Grand Theft Auto game back,” Garrett interrupted, turning to face the Mercers’ impeccable lawn. A black lab lifted his leg on an ash tree. “It’s in your PS3.”
“I’l look for it,” Emma mumbled.
“And I guess I don’t need this either.” Garrett pul ed a long, thin ticket from his gear bag. halloween homecoming dance, it proclaimed in melting letters. He thrust it at her almost violently, then stepped closer to her until they were almost touching. His body shivered with what seemed like coiled, pent-up energy. Emma held her breath, acutely aware that she had no idea what he might do next.
“Have a nice life, Sutton,” Garrett whispered, his voice icy. His cleats made loud clacking sounds as he stalked across the driveway, mounted his bike, and cruised away.
“Goodbye,” I whispered to his receding back.
That went wel . Technical y, this had been Emma’s first breakup ever—al her previous relationships had either ended in mutual friendship or fizzled away. No wonder people said it sucked.
Shaken, Emma turned to head inside. As she walked across the porch for the front door, a white SUV on the street caught her eye. She squinted at the flash of blond hair through the windshield. But before she could make out a face, the car sped up, rocketing away in a plume of gray exhaust.
Emma found Laurel in the kitchen, slicing an apple into thin pieces. “Do we know anyone who drives a white SUV?” she asked.
Laurel stared at her. “Besides the Twitter Twins?”
Emma frowned. The twins lived al the way across town.
“So?” Laurel asked. “What happened with Garrett?”
There was a smug look on her face. Now she wants to talk, Emma thought bitterly.
Emma walked up to the island and popped a juicy apple slice into her mouth. “It’s over.”
Laurel’s expression softened just a bit. “Are you okay?”
Emma wiped her hands across her tennis shorts. “I’l be fine.” She looked at Laurel. “Do you think he’l be okay?”
Laurel crunched an apple slice and glanced out the French doors into the backyard. “I don’t know. Garrett always struck me as sort of an enigma,” she final y said. “I always wondered if there was something more lurking beneath the surface.”
Emma flinched, thinking of how Garrett had loomed over her on the porch. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Laurel waved her hand dismissively, as if she suddenly remembered she wasn’t speaking to Emma today. She slid a stack of mail across the kitchen table. “These are for you.”
Then she wheeled around and sauntered down the hal way. As Emma absentmindedly sorted through the catalogs, mul ing over Garrett’s visit and Laurel’s haunting words, an envelope with a bank logo in the upper corner caught her eye. AMEX BLUE, said the label. It was addressed to Sutton Mercer.
Emma’s breath caught in her throat as she tore it open. This was Sutton’s credit card statement, the one from the month leading up to her murder. With shaking fingers, she unfolded the paper and scanned the column of charges in August. BCBG . . . Sephora . . . Walgreens . . . AJ’s gourmet market. Then, her gaze landed on a charge on August 31. Eighty-eight dollars. Clique.
Nerves snapped inside of her. Clique. The word suddenly seemed ominous, like the sound of a safety latch releasing from a gun.
Emma yanked Sutton’s phone from her bag. Ethan answered on the second ring. “Clear your schedule for tonight,” Emma whispered. “I think I’ve got something.”
Chapter 5
Extreme Times Call for Extreme
Measures
Hours later, Emma and Ethan sat in Ethan’s beat-up, dark red Honda in the back parking lot of a series of shops near the University of Arizona. The smel of brick-oven pizza fil ed the air, and tipsy col ege students walked past, singing Taylor Swift songs off-key. There was a head shop cal ed Wonderland, a punk-rock beauty salon cal ed Pink Pony, and a place cal ed Wildcat Central, which sold University of Arizona sweatpants and shot glasses. On the very end was a boutique cal ed Clique.
Ethan pul ed down the brim of his red Arizona Diamondbacks bal cap. “Ready?”
Emma nodded, suppressing her nerves. She had to be ready.
As Ethan unlatched his seat belt, Emma felt a surge of gratitude rush through her. “Ethan?” She touched the soft spot behind his elbow, tiny pricks of heat shooting down her fingertips. “I just wanted to say thank you. Again.”
“Oh.” Ethan looked slightly embarrassed. “You don’t have to keep thanking me. I’m not Mother Teresa.” He pushed the car door open with his foot. “C’mon. It’s showtime.”
The mannequins in the Clique storefront wore avant-garde Hal oween masks. Luxurious cashmere coats, silk dresses, and diaphanous scarves draped their bodies. Their hol ow black eyes stared at Emma. Bel s dinged when she and Ethan pushed through the front door. I looked around the place, trying to get a tingle of recognition. A large table stuffed with skinny jeans, skinny chinos, skinny cargo pants, and even skinnier skinny leggings took up most of the real estate in the front of the store. Boots, flats, heels, and espadril es were lined up on the windowsil like soldiers readying for battle. But nothing stood out; it just looked like the normal sort of boutique I used to frequent.