And then I hear another noise, another soft rustling in the bushes. I pause, my nerves singing. It doesn’t sound like an animal to me.
Someone is in the canyon with me.
“Hello?” I call. Maybe Becky came back to tell me more about my sister. Or maybe my dad came to pick me up.
But no one answers.
My blood picks up speed again, my pulse thudding in my ears. I save my draft and stand up from the bench, but I can’t see beyond the trees and boulders that circle the little clearing.
It could be Madeline—Thayer could have called her from the hospital. Maybe he asked her to come pick me up and she decided to mess with my head a little first, punish me for being out here with her brother. I deserve it.
“Is anyone there? Say something,” I yell. I sound braver than I feel. “Come on, it’s late, I’m not in the mood for this shit.”
I take a few steps toward the source of the sound, willing myself not to look scared. Someone might be videotaping me from the trees. In the Lying Game, you never know when one of your friends is getting footage of you looking like a moron, or setting you up for a fall. You’re always waiting for your comeuppance. It used to be fun. I used to crave that adrenaline rush, that feeling of being just a little out of control. But that was back when we had an emergency brake. Before I destroyed it.
Just a few weeks earlier, I’d pretended to stall my car on the train tracks. It was a good prank. But during that stunt I’d done the unforgivable: I’d said, Cross my heart and hope to die, the phrase we were only supposed to use if we were really in trouble. At the time it seemed like a great idea. Our pranks were starting to get predictable and stale. We’d gotten so used to each other’s tricks we could see one coming from a mile away and derail it before it had a chance to really get good. Breaking the safe-words’ hold on us was the only way to keep the game interesting.
But since then, the game has gotten a little too interesting. My friends fake-kidnapped me a week later and filmed my sister strangling me into unconsciousness with my own locket. It left a big bruise on my throat; I went through three bottles of concealer in a week trying to cover it up. Garrett caught sight of it one night when we were waiting to get a table at Cafe Poca Cosa and freaked out—he asked what had happened, but I just shrugged off his question. What happens in the Lying Game stays in the Lying Game.
Before that night we’d never actually gotten physical with each other. The stakes have gone up, and it’s not as fun as I expected—I’ve been twitchy since then, constantly waiting for the other shoe to fall. And now there’s no going back. Once you’ve broken a rule like that, you can’t fix it.
“Mads? Char?” I take another step toward the trees, squinting into the darkness. My mouth has gone dry. I think of the stranger in my car, bearing down on Thayer. Whoever hit him could still be out here, hiding in the shadows. I try to swallow but it’s like I’ve got a throat full of sand. A few yards away an owl gives a soft, chuckling hoot, making me jump.
“You guys?” My voice sounds too high. I clear my throat and try again. “Whatever, bitches. Your lame stalker act isn’t fooling anyone.” I turn back to the bench, my hands shaking as I throw the bag over my shoulder and start for the trail.
I’m tired of not being able to trust anyone—not even my best friends. Maybe it’s time to end the Lying Game. I try to imagine their reactions to that idea. Charlotte will go all alpha on me and tell me it’s not mine to end. Madeline will wheedle and coax. Laurel will get sullen and claim I’m only ending it to hurt her after she worked so hard to get in. But I hate that tonight of all nights, after all I’ve been through, I’m literally freaking out because I think my own friends are up to something. That’s not how friendship is supposed to work.
The path to the parking lot is steep and treacherous, covered in roots and rocks. I start down it slowly, leaning back to counterbalance myself as I go. When the moon disappears behind a dense cluster of clouds, I have to feel my way in the dark. That’s when I feel someone’s hand on my shoulder.
“Sutton,” growls a voice behind me, rough and angry. The smell of whiskey mingles sickeningly with that of spearmint.
But I know that voice. And as soon as I realize who it is, I know just how much trouble I’m in.
It’s Garrett.
8
THE GAME’S AFOOT
Emma’s lungs seized as if she’d had the wind knocked out of her, the breath frozen painfully in her chest. “My . . . my sister?”
Across the table, Mrs. Mercer stifled a sob, and Laurel put a comforting arm around her shoulders. Emma turned to look at Mr. Mercer, noticing for the first time the mud on the elbows of his lab coat, the twig snagged in his shoelaces.
“I’m sorry, Sutton,” he murmured. “Yes. It was Emma. I identified the body.”
The body. Someone had finally found my body. After so long, it almost didn’t feel real.
Emma’s breath kept catching in her throat so that she felt just a step away from hyperventilating. The world slid in and out of focus around her. Of course, she’d known all along that Sutton was dead . . . but somehow, hearing this made it feel more real.
“That is,” Mr. Mercer went on, his eyes haunted, “there wasn’t much to identify. Her body wasn’t . . . wasn’t in good shape. But they found her driver’s license in her bag.” His voice cracked. “The picture. God, Sutton, I just—it looked just like you.”
Emma’s gut wrenched violently. Her driver’s license? As in Emma’s driver’s license? Her wallet, along with her duffel bag, had been stolen on her first night in Tucson. If the police had found it with the body, that meant two things: one, that the murderer had been the one to steal her things—which she’d suspected but hadn’t been able to verify.